Chapter 108: The Visit: II
On the morning of May 21st, Albert de Morcerf’s luxurious home buzzed with preparations. He was hosting someone important today, the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo, and everything had to be perfect.
Albert lived in a stylish corner pavilion that was part of his family’s massive estate. His parents, the Count and Countess of Morcerf, occupied the main mansion. A grand, imposing structure built in that heavy, imperial style that screamed old money. Albert’s place, though? That was his own private kingdom.
The setup was genius, really. His mother had arranged it all. She couldn’t bear to be completely separated from her only son, but she also understood that a young man his age needed freedom. So Albert got his own building with two windows facing the street, perfect for people-watching, and others overlooking the courtyard and garden. High walls surrounded the entire property, topped with decorative flower vases and broken only by an ornate iron gate for carriages.
But the real treasure was the secret side door.
Officially, it looked like it hadn’t been opened in years, covered in dust and grime. But anyone who looked closer would notice the hinges and locks were suspiciously well-oiled. This little door bypassed the watchful eyes of the doorman entirely. With the right knock or whispered word, it would swing open for Albert’s... let’s call them "special visitors." The kind with sweet voices and delicate fingers.
Inside, the ground floor was laid out simply: a breakfast room on the right looking into the courtyard, and a salon on the left facing the garden. Climbing plants and shrubs covered the windows, giving these rooms complete privacy from prying eyes.
Upstairs was where things got interesting. There were three rooms, a salon, a sitting room, and a bedroom. The sitting room connected to the bedroom through a hidden door on the staircase. Clearly, someone had thought about discretion when designing this place.
But the crown jewel was the top floor, a massive studio space that Albert had expanded by knocking down walls. It was absolute chaos up there, a museum of his ever-changing hobbies. Hunting horns gathered dust next to bass viols and flutes, evidence of his brief passion for music. Easels, brushes, and paint palettes cluttered one corner where his painting phase had left its mark. Fencing foils, boxing gloves, and practice swords dominated another section, because unlike his fleeting artistic interests, Albert actually stuck with his combat training. He regularly trained with the best instructors money could buy.
The rest of the space was crammed with expensive antiques, ancient Chinese porcelain, Japanese vases, centuries-old chairs that might have once seated kings and prime ministers. Exotic fabrics from Persia and India were draped everywhere, their golden threads catching the light. A rosewood grand piano sat in the center, weighed down by sheet music from the greatest composers. Weapons decorated every surface, swords, daggers, axes, suits of armor, alongside taxidermied birds frozen mid-flight, their colorful wings spread forever.
This chaotic paradise was Albert’s favorite hangout spot.
But this morning, he’d set himself up in the downstairs salon. He’d personally arranged the room, or rather, artistically disarranged it, the way modern young men liked to do when hosting breakfast gatherings. A large, plush sofa surrounded a table covered with every type of tobacco imaginable: yellow blends from Petersburg, black varieties from Sinai, premium selections from Maryland, Porto Rico, and beyond. They sat in beautiful crackled ceramic pots. Nearby, fragrant wooden boxes held perfectly organized cigars of every size and quality. An open cabinet displayed an impressive collection of pipes from around the world, their amber mouthpieces decorated with coral, ready for whichever guest preferred what.
At quarter to ten, his valet Germain entered. Along with a young English groom named John, Germain made up Albert’s entire household staff, though the hotel’s cook and his father’s footman were available when needed. Germain, who had earned Albert’s complete trust, carried a stack of papers in one hand and letters in the other.
Albert barely glanced at most of them, but two caught his attention, small, elegant handwriting on scented paper. He opened and read these carefully.
"How did these arrive?" he asked.
"One through the post. Madame Danglars’ footman delivered the other."
"Tell Madame Danglars I accept her opera box invitation. And later today, let Rosa know I’ll join her for supper after the opera. Send her six bottles of wine, Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, plus a barrel of Ostend oysters. Get them from Borel’s, and make sure they know they’re for me."
"What time shall I serve breakfast, sir?"
"What time is it now?"
"Quarter to ten."
"Half past ten, then. Debray might need to leave early for a government meeting, and besides-" Albert checked his schedule, "-that’s when I told the Count to arrive. May 21st, half past ten. I don’t really expect him to show up, but I want to be ready. Is my mother awake yet?"
"Shall I check?"
"Yes. Ask her if I can borrow one of her liquor cabinets, mine’s incomplete. And tell her I’ll visit around three o’clock to introduce someone special."
After Germain left, Albert collapsed onto the sofa and idly flipped through newspapers. He grimaced at the theater listings, they were showing an opera, not a ballet. He couldn’t find an advertisement for some new tooth powder he’d heard about. After skimming the three major papers, he tossed them aside. "These things get more boring every day," he muttered.
Moments later, a carriage pulled up outside. The servant announced, "Monsieur Lucien Debray."
A tall young man entered with an air of practiced formality. He had light hair, clear gray eyes, and thin lips. His blue coat had beautifully carved gold buttons, and he wore a monocle on a silk thread that he kept fixed in place through sheer muscular effort. He didn’t smile or speak as he walked in, carrying himself like someone who worked in government.
"Good morning, Lucien!" Albert called out. "Your punctuality is actually alarming. You, the last person I expected on time, arrive five minutes early when I said half past ten! Did the government collapse or something?"
"No, my friend," Lucien replied, settling onto the sofa. "Don’t worry. The government’s always teetering but never quite falls. I’m starting to think we’re simply frozen in place. The Spanish situation should stabilize our position completely."
"Ah, right. You’re kicking Don Carlos out of Spain."
"No, no, don’t misunderstand the plan. We’re escorting him across the French border and offering him hospitality in Bourges."
"Bourges?"
"Yes. He can’t really complain, Bourges was once a royal capital. The whole city knew about it yesterday, and apparently the stock exchange knew the day before. That banker Danglars somehow gets information as fast as we do, and he made a million off it!"
"And you got another medal, I see. That’s a blue ribbon on your lapel."
"Yes, they awarded me the Order of Charles III," Lucien said casually.
"Come on, don’t pretend you’re not thrilled about it."
"Oh, it’s nice. Looks sharp on a black suit when it’s buttoned up."
"Makes you look like a prince or a duke."
"That’s why I’m here so early, actually."
"Because you got a medal and wanted to tell me?"
"No, because I was up all night writing twenty-five diplomatic dispatches. I got home at dawn and tried to sleep, but my head was pounding. So I went for a ride. While out, I realized I was both bored and starving, two problems that rarely happen together, like some weird political alliance forming against me. Then I remembered you were hosting breakfast this morning. So here I am. I’m hungry, feed me. I’m bored, entertain me."
"That’s what hosts are for," Albert said, ringing the bell. Lucien absently flipped through the newspapers with his gold-topped cane. "Germain, bring sherry and biscuits. Meanwhile, Lucien, try these cigars. They’re contraband, obviously. Try one and convince your minister to sell us quality stuff like this instead of the garbage they usually provide."
"Hell no! The moment something comes from the government, you’d all hate it anyway. Besides, that’s not my department, that’s the financial ministry. Try corridor A, office 26, indirect taxation section."
"I’m honestly amazed by how much you know," Albert said. "Have a cigar."
"Honestly, Albert," Lucien said, lighting an imported cigar with a rose-colored candle in an ornate holder, "you’re so lucky to have nothing to do. You don’t realize how good you have it!"
"And what would you do, my dear diplomat," Albert replied with slight sarcasm, "if you weren’t working? What is it you do exactly? You’re a private secretary to a minister, mixed up in political schemes across Europe and scandals across the city. You protect kings, better yet, queens. You unite political parties, influence elections. You wield more power with your pen and telegraph than emperors did with armies and victories. You earn twenty-five thousand a year plus benefits. You own a horse worth a fortune that you refuse to sell. You have a tailor who never disappoints. You have the opera, exclusive clubs, endless entertainment. Can’t you amuse yourself? Well, I’ll amuse you."
"How?"
"By introducing you to someone new."
"A man or a woman?"
"A man."
"I already know too many men."
"You don’t know this one."
"Where’s he from, the edge of the world?"
"Even farther, maybe."
"Good grief! I hope he’s not bringing breakfast with him."
"No, breakfast is coming from my father’s kitchen. Are you actually hungry?"
"Embarrassing as it is to admit, yes. But I had dinner at the prosecutor’s house last night, and lawyers always serve terrible food. It’s like they feel guilty about something, you know?"
"Ha! You criticize other people’s dinners, but you government ministers throw such lavish parties."
"Sure, but we don’t invite fashionable people. If we weren’t forced to entertain country politicians because we need their votes, we’d never eat at home, I swear."
"Well, have another glass of sherry and another biscuit."
"Gladly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. See? We were right to stabilize that country."
"But what about Don Carlos?"
"Don Carlos will drink French wine, and in ten years we’ll marry his son to the young queen."
"You’ll get a medal for that too, if you’re still in government."
"Albert, I think you’re literally trying to feed me hot air this morning."
"Hey, it’s good for digestion! But I hear Beauchamp arriving. You two can argue, and that’ll pass the time."
"Argue about what?"
"About the newspapers."
"My dear friend," Lucien said with supreme contempt, "do I ever read newspapers?"
"Then you can argue even more freely."
"Monsieur Beauchamp," the servant announced.
"Come in, come in!" Albert said, standing to greet the newcomer. "Here’s Debray, who hates you without even reading your work."
"He’s absolutely right," Beauchamp replied. "I criticize him without knowing what he actually does. Good morning, Commander!"
"Ah, you already heard?" the secretary said, smiling and shaking hands.
"Of course!"
"What are people saying about it?"
"Which people? There are so many different social circles these days."
"The entire political world, of which you’re a leader."
"They’re saying it’s fair. You planted so much red, you deserve to harvest some blue."
"Not bad!" Lucien laughed. "Why don’t you join our side, Beauchamp? With your talents, you’d make a fortune in three or four years."
"I’m waiting for just one thing before taking your advice, a minister who stays in office for six months. Anyway, Albert, quick question because I need to give poor Lucien a break. Are we having breakfast or dinner? I need to get to the assembly. Our lives aren’t exactly leisurely."
"Just breakfast. I’m waiting for two people, and the moment they arrive, we eat."