Chapter 211: Chapter 211

Albert arrived right on time. The journey quickly became thrilling due to its incredible speed, something Morcerf had never experienced before.

"Honestly," Monte Cristo said, "with regular postal horses going barely fifteen kilometers an hour, and that absurd law preventing one traveler from passing another without permission, so that some sick or grumpy traveler can delay everyone healthy and active, it’s impossible to make good time. I bypass this annoyance by traveling with my own driver and horses. Right, Ali?"

The Count stuck his head out the window and whistled. The horses surged forward like they were flying. The carriage thundered over the pavement, and everyone turned to watch the dazzling spectacle. Ali smiled, whistled again, gripped the reins firmly, and spurred the horses whose magnificent manes streamed in the wind. This son of the desert was in his element, and with his dark face and flashing eyes, visible through the cloud of dust he raised, he looked like a spirit of the sandstorm and a god of hurricanes.

"I never knew speed could feel this amazing," Morcerf said, his earlier gloom completely vanishing. "But where on earth do you get horses like these? Are they custom-made?" Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on NoveI(F)ire.net

"Exactly," the Count replied. "Six years ago, I bought a horse in Hungary famous for its speed. These thirty-two horses we’re using tonight are all its offspring. They’re completely black except for a star on their foreheads."

"That’s absolutely incredible. But what do you do with all these horses?"

"You see, I travel with them."

"But you’re not always traveling."

"When I no longer need them, Bertuccio will sell them. He expects to make three or four hundred thousand from the sale."

"No king in Europe could afford to buy them."

"Then he’ll sell them to some wealthy Eastern ruler who’ll empty his treasury to buy them, then refill it by taxing his people."

"Count, can I suggest something?"

"After you, Bertuccio must be the richest man in Europe."

"You’re mistaken, Viscount. I believe he doesn’t have a single dollar to his name."

"Then he must be extraordinary. My dear Count, if you tell me many more incredible things, I’ll stop believing you."

"I don’t encourage belief in miracles, Albert. Tell me, why does a steward steal from his master?"

"Because he’s naturally inclined to theft, I suppose. For love of money."

"Wrong. It’s because he has a wife and family with expensive tastes. Because he’s not sure he’ll keep his job forever and wants to secure his future. Now, Bertuccio is alone in the world. He uses my property without having to account for it. He knows he’ll never lose his position with me."

"Because I’ll never find anyone better."

"That seems uncertain."

"But I deal in certainties. The best servant is one over whom you have the power of life and death."

"Do you have that power over Bertuccio?"

Certain words slam a conversation shut like an iron door, the Count’s "yes" was one of them.

The entire journey continued at the same incredible speed. Thirty-two horses distributed across seven relay stations brought them to their destination in eight hours. At midnight, they arrived at the gates of a beautiful estate. The gatekeeper was already waiting, he’d been alerted by the groom from the last station.

At two-thirty in the morning, Morcerf was shown to his suite where a bath and late-night meal were prepared. The servant who’d ridden behind the carriage attended to him, while Baptistin, who’d ridden in front, served the Count.

Albert bathed, ate his supper, and went to bed. All night, he was lulled by the melancholy sound of crashing waves.

When he woke and went to his window, he found it opened onto a terrace with an ocean view in front and a charming park backed by a small forest behind.

In a small bay, a sleek sailboat bobbed in the water, flying Monte Cristo’s flag, a mountain rising from an azure sea, with a red cross at the top. The symbol might reference his name, which recalled Calvary, the mountain made more precious than gold by their Lord’s suffering, and the degrading cross that His blood had made holy. Or it might represent some personal memory of suffering and redemption buried in this mysterious man’s hidden past.

Around the boat floated several small fishing vessels belonging to local fishermen, like humble subjects awaiting orders from their queen. Here, as everywhere Monte Cristo stayed, even for just two days, luxury abounded and life flowed effortlessly.

In his entrance room, Albert found two hunting rifles with all necessary equipment. A large ground-floor room contained all the ingenious tools that the English, masters of patience in fishing, had invented for the sport.

The day passed pursuing activities at which Monte Cristo excelled. They shot a dozen pheasants in the park, caught as many trout in the stream, dined in a gazebo overlooking the ocean, and had tea in the library.

Toward evening on the third day, Albert, completely exhausted by exercise that only energized Monte Cristo, was dozing in an armchair by the window. The Count was discussing greenhouse designs with his architect when the sound of a horse galloping on the main road made Albert look up.

He was unpleasantly surprised to see his own valet, whom he hadn’t brought to avoid inconveniencing Monte Cristo.

"Florentin!" he cried, jumping up. "Is my mother ill?" He rushed to the door.

Monte Cristo watched as Albert approached the servant, who pulled a small sealed package from his pocket containing a newspaper and a letter.

"Who’s this from?" Albert asked urgently.

"From Mr. Beauchamp," Florentin replied.

"Yes, sir. He summoned me to his house, gave me travel money, arranged a horse, and made me promise not to stop until I reached you. I’ve been riding for fifteen hours straight."

Albert opened the letter with trembling hands, cried out after reading the first line, and grabbed the newspaper. His vision blurred, his legs buckled, and he would have collapsed if Florentin hadn’t caught him.

"Poor young man," Monte Cristo murmured. "So it’s true, the sins of the father are visited upon the children for generations."

Meanwhile, Albert had recovered. Continuing to read, he looked up sharply. "Florentin, can your horse return immediately?"

"It’s an exhausted rental horse."

"What was happening at home when you left?"

"Everything was quiet. But when I returned from Mr. Beauchamp’s, I found your mother in tears. She’d sent for me to ask when you’d return. I told her about Mr. Beauchamp’s orders. At first, she reached out to stop me, but after a moment’s thought, she said, ’Yes, go, Florentin. May he come quickly.’"

"Yes, Mother," Albert said. "I’ll return. And woe to the despicable wretch responsible! But first I have to get there."

He returned to where he’d left Monte Cristo. Five minutes had been enough to completely transform his appearance. His voice had become rough and hoarse, his face was etched with deep lines, his eyes burned with fury, and he swayed like a drunk.

"Count," he said, "thank you for your hospitality. I wish I could have stayed longer, but I must return to Paris immediately."

"A catastrophe, more important to me than life itself. Please don’t ask questions. Just lend me a horse."

"My stables are at your disposal, Viscount. But you’ll kill yourself riding a horse in this condition. Take a carriage."

"No, that would slow me down. I need the exhaustion you’re warning me about, it’ll help clear my head."

Albert reeled as if shot and collapsed into a chair near the door. Monte Cristo didn’t see this second display of physical collapse, he was at the window calling out.

"Ali! A horse for Mr. de Morcerf, quickly! He’s in a hurry!"

These words revived Albert. He bolted from the room with the Count following.

"Thank you!" he cried, throwing himself onto the horse. "Florentin, return as soon as possible. Do I need a password to get fresh horses?"

"Just dismount. Another will be immediately saddled."

Albert hesitated a moment. "You probably think my departure is strange and rash," he said. "You can’t understand how a single newspaper article can drive someone crazy. Read this after I’m gone, so you won’t have to witness my rage."

As the Count picked up the newspaper, Albert spurred his horse. The animal leaped in shock at the unusual treatment and shot away like an arrow.

The Count watched him with compassion. When Albert had completely disappeared, he read the following:

"The French officer in the service of the foreign leader Ali Pasha, mentioned three weeks ago in our publication, who not only surrendered a strategic castle but also betrayed his benefactor to enemy forces, was indeed named Fernand at that time, as previously reported. However, he has since added a noble title and family name to his identity. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf and holds a position among the nation’s elite."

The terrible secret that Beauchamp had so generously destroyed had risen again like an armed ghost. Another newspaper, drawing from some malicious source, had published these few lines two days after Albert’s departure for Normandy, lines that had driven the unfortunate young man nearly insane with anguish.