Chapter 113: The Collection: I
When Albert finally got the Count of Monte Cristo alone, he grinned. "My dear Count, let me 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 apartment. 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 bloomed more vibrantly than life and suns burned brighter than reality; sketches from travels in distant lands, drawn hastily on camelback or beneath temple domes. 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 something new. Instead, to his amazement, Monte Cristo identified every artist without even checking signatures, many of which were just initials. It was obvious each name 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 frame, signed by Leopold Robert. The moment 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 framed by long lashes. She wore the traditional costume 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 become, 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 costume, a party dress, I assume? 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 costume 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 seemed 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 comes 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 me 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 mention this painting. It seems cursed somehow. 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 meaning 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 home. And to make you even more comfortable, let me take you to meet my father. I wrote him from my travels about how you saved me, 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 meetings, 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 someone fulfilling a social obligation that all gentlemen 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 ornamentation 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 assume? 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 me it’s necessary when you travel extensively. Plus, you need something 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 armed 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 assume 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 documents 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 mention we’re starting to care a lot more about these ancestral matters under our current popular government."
"Well then, your government should choose better historical symbols than what I’ve noticed on your monuments, which have no heraldic meaning whatsoever. As for you, Viscount," Monte Cristo continued, "you’re more fortunate than the government, your arms are genuinely beautiful and speak to the imagination. You’re descended from both regions, which explains, if that portrait you showed me is accurate, the dark complexion I so admired on your noble mother’s face."
Someone 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 medals 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.