When Albert finally got the Count of Monte Cristo alone, he grinned. "My dear Count, let show you what a bachelor pad looks like in this city. I know you’re used to fancy Italian mansions, but you can see how us young guys live in the capital. I’ll open the windows as we go. Fresh air, you know?"
Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast room and main salon downstairs. Albert first led him to his studio, his favorite room in the apartnt. The Count’s eyes swept over Albert’s collection: antique cabinets, Japanese porcelain, exotic fabrics, Venetian glass, and weapons from around the world. To Albert’s surprise, Monte Cristo recognized everything instantly, their origins, their ages, their histories. Albert had expected to play tour guide, but instead found himself being educated by his guest, learning about archaeology, minerals, and natural history as they moved through the room.
They descended to the first floor, entering the main salon. The walls displayed works by contemporary artists: Dupré’s landscapes with their towering trees and grazing cattle beneath spectacular skies; Delacroix’s desert warriors on horseback, their white robes flowing, their decorated weapons gleaming as their horses bit at each other while the riders clashed; watercolors of the famous cathedral with stunning detail; paintings where flowers blood more vibrantly than life and suns burned brighter than reality; sketches from travels in distant lands, drawn hastily on calback or beneath temple dos. The room showcased everything modern art could offer to replace the masterpieces lost to history.
Albert had been certain he’d impress his well-traveled guest with sothing new. Instead, to his amazent, Monte Cristo identified every artist without even checking signatures, many of which were just initials. It was obvious each na wasn’t just familiar to him; he’d studied their individual styles deeply.
From the salon, they entered the bedroom, a masterpiece of elegant simplicity. A single portrait hung in an ornate gilded fra, signed by Leopold Robert. The mont Monte Cristo noticed it, he took three quick steps forward and stopped abruptly.
The portrait showed a young woman in her mid-twenties with olive skin and bright, expressive eyes frad by long lashes. She wore the traditional costu of a fishing village, a red and black bodice with golden pins in her dark hair. She gazed toward the sea, her silhouette outlined against the blue ocean and sky. The room’s dim lighting hid how pale Monte Cristo had suddenly beco, or how his chest heaved with each breath. Silence was heavy as he stared intently at the painting.
"You have an absolutely charming mistress, Viscount," the Count finally said in a carefully controlled tone. "And that costu, a party dress, I assu? Suits her beautifully."
"Ah, sir!" Albert replied quickly. "I’d never forgive you for that mistake if you’d seen any other picture beside this one. You don’t know my mother, that’s her you’re looking at. She had this portrait painted six or eight years ago in a costu she fancied. The resemblance is so perfect I feel like I’m seeing her as she was fifteen years ago. Mother commissioned this while Father was away, probably intending it as a pleasant surprise. But strangely enough, Father seed to dislike it. Even though it’s clearly one of Leopold Robert’s finest works, he couldn’t get past his aversion to it.
"Between us," Albert continued, lowering his voice, "Father is one of those distinguished politicians more interested in theory than art. He’s a decorated general, sure, but when it cos to paintings? Not his thing. Mother’s different, she paints quite well herself. Since she couldn’t bear to part with such a valuable piece, she gave it to to hang here, where it’s less likely to bother Father. I’ll show you his official portrait too, by the way.
"Sorry for the family drama, but since I’m about to introduce you to him, I should warn you: don’t ntion this painting. It seems cursed sohow. Mother rarely visits my room without looking at it, and when she does, she almost always ends up in tears. This is literally the only thing my parents have ever disagreed about, and they’ve been happily married for over twenty years, still as devoted to each other as newlyweds."
Monte Cristo glanced sharply at Albert, as if searching for hidden aning in his words, but it was clear the young man spoke with complete sincerity.
"Now," Albert said brightly, "you’ve seen all my treasures. Consider them yours, consider this your ho. And to make you even more comfortable, let take you to et my father. I wrote him from my travels about how you saved , and told him about your promised visit. Both he and Mother are anxious to thank you personally. I know you’re probably jaded about family etings, you’ve seen so much of the world after all. But accept this as your introduction to life here: politeness, social calls, formal introductions. Just how things work in high society."
Monte Cristo bowed without answering. He accepted the invitation without enthusiasm but without reluctance either, like soone fulfilling a social obligation that all gentlen consider their duty. Albert summoned his servant to announce the Count of Monte Cristo’s arrival to his parents, then accompanied the Count himself.
When they reached the entrance hall, Albert pointed out a coat of arms mounted above the doorway, its rich ornantation matching the rest of the décor showed how much importance the owner placed on this family symbol. Monte Cristo stopped to examine it carefully.
"Seven golden birds on a blue background, arranged diagonally," he said. "These are your family arms, I assu? Apart from being able to read heraldry, I’m quite ignorant of all these noble traditions. My own title was recently created through a religious order, and I wouldn’t have bothered except people told it’s necessary when you travel extensively. Plus, you need sothing on your carriage to avoid being hassled by customs officials. Excuse my asking."
"It’s not intrusive at all," Morcerf replied with simple conviction. "You’re right, these are our arms. Well, my father’s arms. But as you can see, they’re joined with another shield showing a silver tower on red, which represents my mother’s family. Through her, I’m Spanish, but the Morcerf family is old nobility from southern regions of this country."
"Yes," Monte Cristo replied, "these symbols prove it. Nearly all the ard pilgrims who traveled to the Holy Lands centuries ago adopted crosses to honor their religious mission, or birds to symbolize the long journeys they hoped to complete on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors must have joined those expeditions. Even if we assu it was only the crusade from the 1200s, that traces your lineage back eight hundred years, quite ancient indeed."
"Possibly," said Morcerf. "Father has a family tree in his study that docunts all this. I used to make detailed notes on it that would have impressed the greatest genealogists. Now I don’t think about it much, though I should ntion we’re starting to care a lot more about these ancestral matters under our current popular governnt."
"Well then, your governnt should choose better historical symbols than what I’ve noticed on your monunts, which have no heraldic aning whatsoever. As for you, Viscount," Monte Cristo continued, "you’re more fortunate than the governnt, your arms are genuinely beautiful and speak to the imagination. You’re descended from both regions, which explains, if that portrait you showed is accurate, the dark complexion I so admired on your noble mother’s face."
Soone would have needed supernatural insight to detect the irony the Count concealed beneath these apparently polite words. Morcerf thanked him with a smile and pushed open the door beneath the family crest into the salon.
In the most prominent spot in the salon hung another portrait, this one of a man between thirty-five and forty-eight years old, wearing a general’s uniform. Heavy braided epaulettes indicated superior rank. A ribbon around his neck showed he was a commander in the national order of honor, and dals on his chest proved he’d served in foreign wars or diplomatic missions.
Monte Cristo studied this portrait as carefully as he’d examined the other when another door opened. He found himself face to face with the Count of Morcerf himself.
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