Master

The Return

Four months later
Paris
“Maman! I am so glad to be home,” Albert said as Mercedes pulled him into her
embrace. Instead of waiting in the parlor for him to be brought to her, she’d rushed to
meet him in the foyer of their home on rue du Helder.
“At last,” she said, burying her face into his neck, smelling the scent that had been her
comfort since he was but an infant. She barely managed to keep the tears of joy from
turning into ones of fear. Fear that she had almost lost the one that she loved above all
else in the world. “Those bandits, they didn’t hurt you?”
She stepped back to look at him, just to make certain. He certainly appeared unchanged,
except for a more worldly, experienced air. His dark hair was combed neatly, his clothing
was fashionable and pressed, and if his face looked a bit more mature . . . well, that
wouldn’t be particularly unusual after his experience.
“No, maman. They were unfailingly polite and even apologetic once it was made known
to them that they had made a mistake.”
It was March, four months after Albert had left to tour Switzerland and Italy. While in
Rome for the Carnivale in February, he had been lured away from the festivities by an
attractive woman, and then captured and held for ransom by her associates, a gang of
brigands.
But by the time Mercedes and Fernand had received word of the demand, Albert had
been set free, unharmed, and without his parents having paid the ransom. And then, to
Mercedes’ distress, an unconcerned Albert had continued his tour of Italy for another
three weeks before returning to Paris. “A mistake?” Mercedes asked. She knew her son
would prefer to protect her from the sordid details, but she would not be stopped from
knowing all of them. Could it be a coincidence that Sinbad had imagined the possibility
of her son being attacked by brigands, and then for it to actually happen?
Albert seemed to realize how disconcerted she was, and holding her hands, he drew her
to one of the pink-and-gold brocade sofas in the small parlor, settling himself next to her
on a plump cushion. He even helped her to arrange her wide skirts so that they wouldn’t
be crushed, and he continued to clasp her fingers. “Mama, it was a mistake. Once the
bandit realized I was a friend of the Count of Monte Cristo—“
“Monte Cristo?” Mercedes breathed, feeling the color drain from her face and then return
with such a force that her cheeks felt very warm.
The name of the very island on which she’d been taken and t in such a decadent, lush
state by Sinbad the Sailor . . . and then abruptly and unceremoniously banished the day
after her arrival. Indeed, Mercedes remembered only vague details from her time on Monte Cristo, deep beneath the rough, rocky surface—but what she did remember was
enough to make her face flush even now. And to filter into her dreams in the night,
waking her and leaving her hot and restless and confused.
“Yes, Mama. Franz and I had the pleasure of meeting the great Count of Monte Cristo
while we were staying in Rome during Carnivale. In fact, if it weren’t for him, we would
never have had such a fine time, for he allowed us to use his carriage while we were
there. He was staying in the same hotel, and learned that we had not—well, Mama, you
know that Franz and I do not always make our plans in advance,” he said sheepishly.
“When he learned that we had not found a carriage to rent, he offered us the use of his.
What a grand gentleman he is, Mama! So learned and intelligent and very well-dressed
and very, very rich. I have never seen such grandeur.” “And how did it come about that
the Count of Monte Cristo saved you from the bandits?” she asked, her face having
cooled to its normal temperature. “Surely we must pay him back for your ransom.”
“But no, mama. You see, this bandit leader is indebted to
His Excellency the count. When Franz learned that I had been taken, he was trying to find
the money for my ransom, for we didn’t have enough between the two of us, and there
was no time to send to Father for it. He had to do it quickly, for the bandits insisted that if
the ransom was not produced by the second day, I would be—well, Mama, it is of no
consequence now.” “What? He would have killed you, wouldn’t he?” Mercedes’ fingers
convulsed over Albert’s, and her stomach squeezed anew.
Thank God. Thank God, her son had been spared. “Well, that is what he threatened—but
it did not happen, so there is nothing to be worried about now, Mama. When the count
learned of my situation, for he was staying at the same hotel, and the news reached him
easily, and he learned that the bandit’s name was Luigi Vampa”—here Mercedes was
forced to smother another gasp—“he immediately intervened. Not only did the count
intervene,” Albert said, his young eyes shining with admiration, “but he actually rode to
the hideout of Signor Vampa and insisted that he release me at once.” “And you were
released? And there was no ransom paid? And they didn’t hurt you?” Mercedes couldn’t
stop herself from reaching to touch his handsome, beloved face. Albert was all she had
left in the world that she cared for.
“No, Mama, as you can see, they didn’t hurt me.” “And this Signor Vampa, he knows the
man you speak of, this Count of Monte Cristo? What else do you know about this
count?”
Albert’s eyes were still shining. “As I said, Mama, I have never seen such power and
wealth. He is a fine fellow, very accommodating and agreeable, and quite magnificent
when he came bursting into the hideaway where the bandits had kept me. This Signor
Vampa is an infamous brigand who strikes fear into the hearts of many in Rome and
along the coast, for when he calls for a ransom, it must be produced or he will execute his
victim,” he said, seemingly unaware that he had just negated his earlier assurances. “But
Monte Cristo had no fear of him at all, and there was no hesitation on Vampas part when
the count told him that I was a friend of his. In fact, as I have said, he was most
apologetic for offending the count.” “What a debt we owe to this grand man,” she said, real gratitude swelling in her chest, “for if not for him, you would not have returned to
me.”
“Indeed, Mama, I knew you would feel this way. And Papa too. And so I have invited
him to come to Paris, and agreed to show him around the city, for he has never been
here.” “Then Morcerf and I will be able to thank him ourselves. How splendid!”
Mercedes spoke with heartfelt enthusiasm. The man who had saved her son’s life would
be more than welcome into her home, into her society, and she would show her gratitude
in any way possible.
But she was still disconcerted about the connection with her own experience, of which
Albert and Fernand knew nothing.
Could this Count of Monte Cristo have known that she was Alberts mother, and
somehow interfered in Signor Vampas plans for her as well?
For when he first abducted her, Jacopo had warned her it would take several days before
the ransom request would reach Fernand, and then more days before the money could be
delivered . . . and yet, she had been returned to Marseille a total of only five days after
she had been kidnapped. She had spent a single night on the island of Monte Cristo, and
when she awoke the next morning, she was already on the Nemesis being returned to
Marseille. She hadn’t seen Sinbad again. There were days when Mercedes truly
wondered if it had all been a dream.
Julie Morrel hadn’t even known she’d been gone, for a message had been sent to her that
Mercedes had decided to travel back to Paris for a short time, and so her friend hadn’t
worried about her absence.
But, no, this Count of Monte Cristo couldn’t have known of the connection between
Mercedes and Albert, for he had not even met her son until February . . . and her
abduction had occurred in November.
And she had never met a count called Monte Cristo; she had only been incarcerated on an
island with the same name. Neither Sinbad nor Jacopo had spoken such a name either.
Perhaps it was simply a wild coincidence. After all, how could anyone be lord over such
a piece of rock?
Mercedes realized that Albert had continued to describe his plans for meeting the count
here in Paris, and she said, “When he arrives, you must tell me so that your papa and I
might invite him to dinner.”
“But, Mama, I already know when he is to arrive. On May the twentieth, exactly three
months after we left each other in Rome. He will take breakfast with me here at ten
o’clock in the morning.”
Mercedes looked at him. “And you believe that he will be here for this appointment?”
“Mama, if you had met this amazing gentleman, you would have no question in your
mind. He will be here. And you will meet him then.”
She nodded, keeping her skepticism hidden. “An event I greatly anticipate.” On the twentieth of May, just past dawn, a magnificent carriage rolled along the most
famous street of Paris, and stopped in front of the grand residence at number 30 ChampsElysees.
The Count of Monte Cristo waited until the door of the well-sprung black velvet interior
barouche was opened before taking his first steps onto a street of the famed city. He
sniffed the air, noted that it smelled far cleaner than that of Singapore, but not nearly as
crisp and pleasant as he’d expected for springtime, and nodded to the man who’d opened
the door for him.
“Be prepared to leave again at precisely nine forty-five,” he told him, and then strode up
the walkway of his new residence. Before he even considered raising his hand to knock,
the door opened. With a flourish, a rather stout man with thinning brown hair and small,
sharp eyes, very correctly attired and standing quite erectly, bowed. “Welcome, Your
Excellency. I hope that you will find everything as you desire.” Monte Cristo nodded to
his majordomo. “I am quite sure I shall, Bertuccio. You have never disappointed me.”
“Your chamber has been prepared if you wish to freshen your toilette.”
Although anyone who might have seen the count would have considered him more
fashionably appointed than even the most fastidious of courtiers, Monte Cristo fully
intended to attend to his appearance and preparation in the four hours before he renewed
his acquaintance with young Albert de Morcerf.
“Haydee and Ali and the others shall be arriving shortly,” Monte Cristo informed
Bertuccio.
The other man bowed. “I shall see that the lady is made comfortable, Your Excellency. If
you wish, I’ll have a hot bath drawn for you. And perhaps a shave, if you require it.”
Even though Monte Cristo would have shaved already this morning, Bertuccio was aware
of his masters meticulousness when it came to his appearance and grooming.
“I will bathe in one hour. Now I require some time alone.”
By now the two had reached the massive chamber that would serve as the master’s
private apartments in the Paris mansion.Monte Cristo did not expect to be here above
three or four months, at the very longest. And then he would leave Paris, leave all of this
behind, and never return to France again. Once Bertuccio closed the door and left him
alone, Monte Cristo allowed himself to relax—something he did only in the presence of
one other person on this earth, and even then, with some caution.
He examined the chamber, wandering through the spacious six-room suite appointed with
a tasteful and luxurious combination of European and Oriental furnishings. Red-andsapphire velvet brocade, edged with gold fringe, hung on the walls. Gold-and-silver
brocade drapes were pulled away from tall floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the
Champs-Elysees, as well as the colorful gardens that wrapped around the side and back
of the mansion. The furnishings were similar to that which he’d become accustomed to
during his decade traveling the Orient: low, flush with cushions, and sparing on wooden
arms, legs, and headboards.
There was a spacious dressing room, an adjoining room with one of the largest tubs Paris
had ever seen, along with running water, and in a third chamber, the massive round bed
piled high with tasseled pillows and silk cushions. A large mahogany table, complete
with two lamps, ink pens, papers, blotter and ink, dominated one of the rooms. Potted
plants and tall, formal flower arrangements brought the gardens into the apartments—a
characteristic that, along with many windows and lots of light, Monte Cristo required of
his living space. Bowls of fresh fruit, along with water, wine, and brandy, adorned at least
one surface in each room as well.
Monte Cristo walked out onto the private balcony of his suite. Paris lay beyond, with its
pale blond buildings like decorative cubes of Montrachet in the early-morning light, and
the fountains and walkways of Marie de’ Medici’s famous avenue below. The Seine
sparkled some few streets away, and the rising sun cast long dark brown shadows as it
lifted over the city. To his right, away from the river, rose the Arc de Triomphe, that
massive archway celebrating the arrival of Napoleon in the city. Only four years since its
completion, it blazed new and white in the bright sun as Monte Cristos mouth firmed and
his eyes narrowed. Any reminder of the emperor and politics—either that of the dead
ruler or that of the Royals—lit a deep burn in his chest. Politics and greed and jealousy
had destroyed the life of an innocent man. And now all of Paris was awash with talk
about the possible return of the mans ashes to his city. Monte Cristo could care less, for
he was concerned with another mans arrival: his own.
He was here, in Paris.
At last.
Monte Cristo grasped the wrought-iron balcony rail, marveling at the array of sins and
miracles it had taken to get him here. Paris, the location in which he would wreak his
holy vengeance on the four men who had betrayed Edmond Dantes and sent an innocent
man to prison for fourteen years. Twenty-four years ago, Dantes had everything to live
for. Now the young, uneducated man who’d once made love to his woman under an
olive tree no longer existed. He fingered the large onyx pin he always wore to remind
himself of his duty—the duty he’d accepted in exchange for the miracles that brought
him here. Inside was a list of names. Monte Cristo didn’t need to open the pin’s secret
catch in order to review them, but he did, now, as he stood looking over the city. It
seemed fitting, a necessary ritual. The paper shuffled gently in the light morning breeze
as he looked down at the small scrap and the names written on it. There were five.
Cadecrousse

Danglars

Villefort

Morcerf

The first four names were scribed neatly, with well-formed letters and without ink
blotches. The last one was not. Though written with the same hand, the final name was
scrawled so hard that the pen nib had scraped the paper.
His heart beating rapidly, his fingers trembling, Monte Cristo folded the paper along its
well-worn creases and replaced it in the black brooch.