"Those born to wealth, who can gratify every wish," Emmanuel said, "don’t know what real happiness is, just as only those who have been tossed on stormy seas can truly appreciate fair weather."
Monte Cristo stood and walked slowly up and down the room without answering, afraid his trembling voice would betray his emotion.
"Does our modest ho make you smile, Count?" Maximilian asked, watching him.
"No, no," Monte Cristo replied, pale as death. He pressed one hand to his heart to still its racing while pointing with the other to a crystal case containing a silk purse resting on a black velvet cushion. "I was wondering about the significance of this purse, with a paper at one end and a large diamond at the other."
"Count," Maximilian replied gravely, "those are our most precious family treasures."
"The diamond appears quite brilliant," the Count observed.
"Oh, my brother doesn’t an its monetary value, though it’s been valued at one hundred thousand francs. He ans that the items in this purse are relics of the angel I ntioned."
"I don’t understand, and yet I shouldn’t ask for an explanation, mada," Monte Cristo said, bowing. "Forgive , I didn’t an to pry."
"Pry? Oh, you make us happy by giving us a reason to talk about this! If we wanted to conceal the noble deed this purse commorates, we wouldn’t display it so openly. We wish we could tell everyone, everywhere, so that our unknown benefactor’s emotions might reveal his presence."
"Ah, really," Monte Cristo said in a half-strangled voice.
"Monsieur," Maximilian said, lifting the glass cover and respectfully kissing the silk purse, "this was touched by the hand of a man who saved my father from suicide, saved us from ruin, and saved our family na from sha and disgrace. Through his matchless generosity, we poor children, who were dood to poverty and misery, now have a happy life that makes others envious."
He drew a letter from the purse and handed it to the Count. "This letter was written by him on the day my father had decided on a desperate course of action, and this diamond was given by this generous stranger to my sister as her dowry."
Monte Cristo opened the letter and read it with indescribable emotion. It was the letter signed "Sinbad the Sailor."
"Unknown, you say? This man who helped you is unknown to you?"
"Yes. We’ve never had the happiness of shaking his hand," Maximilian continued. "We’ve prayed to heaven to grant us this favor, but the whole affair has been shrouded in mystery. We’ve been guided by an invisible hand, a hand as powerful as that of a magician."
"Oh," Julie exclaid, "I haven’t given up hope of soday kissing that hand, just as I now kiss this purse he touched! Four years ago, Penelon was in Trieste, Penelon is the old sailor you saw in the garden, who went from being a ship’s officer to being our gardener. When he was in Trieste, he saw an Englishman on the quay who was about to board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who visited my father on June fifth, 1829, and who wrote this letter on September fifth. He was convinced it was the sa man, but he didn’t dare approach him."
"An Englishman?" Monte Cristo said, growing uneasy at how intently Julie was looking at him. "You say an Englishman?"
"Yes," Maximilian replied. "An Englishman who claid to be a confidential clerk for the banking house of Thomson and French in Ro. That’s why I was startled when you ntioned the other day at Monsieur de Morcerf’s house that Thomson and French were your bankers. This happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell , did you know this Englishman?"
"But you also say that Thomson and French have consistently denied providing you this service?"
"Yes."
"Then isn’t it possible that this Englishman was soone who was grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, sothing your father had forgotten, and took this way of repaying the debt?"
"Everything is possible in this situation, even a miracle."
"What was his na?" Monte Cristo asked.
"He gave no other na," Julie answered, looking earnestly at the Count, "than the one at the end of his letter: ’Sinbad the Sailor.’"
"Which is obviously not his real na, but a fictional one."
Noticing that Julie seed struck by the sound of his voice, he continued: "Tell , wasn’t he about my height, perhaps a little taller, with his chin wrapped in a high collar, his coat buttoned tightly, constantly taking out his pencil?"
"Oh, do you know him then?" Julie cried, her eyes sparkling with joy.
"No," Monte Cristo replied. "I was only guessing. I knew a Lord Wilmore who was always doing this kind of thing."
"Without revealing himself?"
"He was an eccentric man who didn’t believe in the existence of gratitude."
"Oh, heaven!" Julie exclaid, clasping her hands. "What did he believe in, then?"
"He didn’t believe in it when I knew him," Monte Cristo said, moved by the emotion in Julie’s voice. "But perhaps since then, he’s had proof that gratitude does exist."
"Do you know this gentleman, monsieur?" Emmanuel asked.
"Oh, if you know him," Julie cried, "can you tell us where he is? Where we can find him? Maximilian, Emmanuel, if we can just find him, he’ll have to believe in gratitude!"
Monte Cristo felt tears spring to his eyes, and he walked rapidly up and down the room again.
"In heaven’s na," Maximilian said, "if you know anything about him, please tell us."
"Alas," Monte Cristo said, struggling to control his emotions, "if Lord Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I’m afraid you’ll never see him again. I parted from him two years ago in Palermo, and he was about to set out for the most remote regions of the world. I fear he’ll never return."
"Oh, monsieur, how cruel!" Julie said, deeply affected, tears filling her eyes.
"Mada," Monte Cristo replied gravely, gazing intently at the tears rolling down Julie’s cheeks, "if Lord Wilmore had seen what I now see, he would have beco attached to life again. The tears you’re shedding would reconcile him to humanity."
He extended his hand to Julie, who gave him hers, moved by his expression and tone.
"But," she continued, "Lord Wilmore must have had family or friends. He must have known soone. Can’t we-"
"Oh, it’s useless to inquire," the Count interrupted. "Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t the man you’re looking for. He was my friend and had no secrets from . If this had been true, he would have confided in ."
"And he told you nothing?"
"Not a word."
"Nothing that might suggest-"
"Nothing."
"And yet you ntioned him imdiately."
"Ah, in such a case, one naturally assus-"
"Sister, sister," Maximilian said, coming to the Count’s aid. "Monsieur is right. Rember what our father so often told us, ’It wasn’t an Englishman who saved us.’"
Monte Cristo flinched. "What did your father tell you, Monsieur Morrel?" he asked urgently.
"My father believed this deed was perford miraculously. He believed a benefactor had risen from the grave to save us. Oh, it was a touching belief, monsieur, and though I didn’t share it, I wouldn’t have destroyed my father’s faith for anything. How often he would reflect on it and speak the na of a dear friend, a friend lost to him forever. On his deathbed, when the approach of death seed to illuminate his mind with supernatural clarity, this thought, which had been only a suspicion, beca a conviction. His last words were: ’Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantès!’"
At these words, the Count’s alarming paleness increased. He couldn’t speak. He glanced at his watch like soone who had forgotten the ti, spoke a few hurried words to Mada Herbault, and pressed the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian.
"Mada," he said, "I hope you’ll allow to visit you occasionally. I value your friendship and am grateful for your welco. This is the first ti in many years that I’ve allowed myself to yield to my feelings like this."
And he hastily left the apartnt.
"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man," Emmanuel observed.
"Yes," Maximilian agreed, "but I’m sure he has an excellent heart and genuinely likes us."
"His voice touched my heart," Julie said thoughtfully. "And two or three tis, I thought I’d heard it sowhere before."
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