MISS CLARY
Mercedes trembled and shrunk away, although the possessor of the small
white hand was a charming young girl.
A pretty little head with ash-blond hair, deep blue eyes and fresh red
lips made Miss Clary Ellis--that was the name of the eighteen-year-old
girl--a very beautiful picture, and the sergeant drew back respectfully,
while Mercedes said:
"Good-day, my darling--always joyful, always happy."
"And you are always sorrowful, and have tears in your eyes. Better take
me for a model, who, as a consumptive, have far more reason to be
melancholy than you have."
"I am waiting," said Mercedes, sorrowfully, "for him, and he will surely
come if he lives."
"And who is he?"
"He is a faithful friend in need," replied Mercedes, solemnly, "and I
love him as if he were divine. But tell me what brought you here to-day?
Curiosity?"
"Ungrateful woman," pouted the English girl, "as if I did not like to
come here. But if you are so solemn, why--"
"Oh, Clary, I am not solemn--I am melancholy, and at times desperate."
"Desperate? How can you say such a thing?"
"If you had lost everything, as I have, you would understand me," said
Mercedes, gently. "Ah, Clary, I have seen everything about me tumble,
but I remained easy so long as my son was with me! Since he has left me
the world has no pleasures for me, and should I never see him again--"
"But, madam," interrupted Coucou, "how can you talk that way! Why should
you not see my brave captain again? My captain is not one of those who
are eaten by Kabyles for supper. He defends his life, and if he should
be in the bowels of the earth I will find him. I--"
"Brave sergeant!" exclaimed Clary, and turning to Mercedes, she said:
"You must not despair, little woman. As far back as I can remember
people always said about me: 'Ah, the poor child, to have to die so
young--it is terrible--she must go to the south!' My father and brother
made me sign all kinds of documents in case of my death. What was the
use of my fortune if I died, and it was a settled fact I was to die?"
With a gay laugh Clary arose, and, bidding Mercedes a cordial farewell,
left the house. The light-hearted girl's full name was Clara Ellis, and
three months before, she, and her French governess, the widow of a
police sergeant, had settled down in Nice. Madame Caraman, or, as Clary
called her, Mamma Caraman, was of sound health, while her young ward,
according to the opinion of eminent English physicians, was in an
indifferent state of health. They sent her, because she suffered from a
slight cough, and as being incurable and consumptive, to the south. Nice
was the Eldorado of all chest complaints, and thus the ladies took up
their residence in that place.
Lord Ellis, Clary's father, had inherited from his parents a large
fortune, which, however, he squandered in noble passions, and it was
feared that his son Sir Edward, the heir-at-law, would one day inherit
only the empty title. But it happened that owing to the sudden death of
a rich aunt residing in India, Sir Edward's sister, Miss Clary Ellis,
inherited an immense fortune, and from that day Lord Ellis began to pay
attention and took care of his daughter to a much greater extent than he
used to do. Clary since her eighth year had lived in a world of her own
imagination; fantastic ideas and representations were the fruits of her
education, which pompous governesses had inculcated at an early age, and
the education recommended to Clary was for the sole purpose of
increasing her romantic inclinations. The heroines of Byron and
Lamartine were enviously looked upon by Clary--the "Sorrows of Werther"
were continually lying upon her desk ready for perusal, and the young
enthusiast was soon convinced that there was no nicer death than that of
Marie Beaumarchais.
Almost with joy she welcomed her sickness, looking upon it as a
forerunner of approaching dissolution. Wrapped in furs, she spent her
days upon her couch, and from an "imaginary patient" she was becoming a
real sick person; inasmuch as the want of exercise, as well as the
continual strain on the whole nervous system, did not fail to have its
effect.
Lord Ellis faced with manly courage the hard lot of losing his daughter
at an early age. It was indeed a great pity that Clary could not make
use of and enjoy her wealth, but what else could be done? As a careful
father the lord prepared for any emergency; he urged Clary to sign
various papers, which entitled him and his sons to make use of her
immense wealth. The sum thus turned over for his use amounted to above
one million sterling--but what good did it do? If Clary died, she could
not, after all, take away her great wealth; and the million sterling was
only a share of the still larger sum thus to be expected in case of her
demise.
The physicians all agreed that Clary should at least hold out and die in
the south, and a companion had to be procured. She soon found one in the
person of Madame Caraman, a lady of about forty-five years, who showed a
sincere interest in her suffering ward, and thus they entered on their
journey. But soon Madame Caraman found reason to doubt the incurability
of her patient--she noticed that Clary, when leaving her carriage, or
performing any other movement of the body, usually painful for chest
complaints, never felt pain or the slightest inconvenience.
This lasted for some time, and then Madame Caraman one day said quite
earnestly:
"My dear child--now it is enough--you are as much sick as I am! You will
be kind enough from this day to try to eat heartily, in order to regain
your strength; you will drink daily a glass of Bordeaux and take a walk
with me, and not, like a sick bird in its cage, remain wrapped up in the
corner of a carriage. No--no objections. You will also never cough again
as you get accustomed to it; and after the lapse of a month we will see
what further to do."
Clary sighed and sobbed, but it was no use--Madame Caraman stuck to her
will, and, trembling and hesitating, the young lady was persuaded to eat
her first beefsteak, and to her great surprise she was not suffocated by
the unaccustomed food; the wine she found excellent, and Madame Caraman
triumphed.
An accident happened which also brought help. One night some robbers
tried to enter their villa; the servants slept in a building close by,
and in this emergency Madame Caraman took to arms as soon as she heard a
suspicious noise. With a heavy silver candlestick in her hand she
entered the parlor from whence the noise proceeded. She knocked a person
down, but ere she could pick up the heavy candlestick the second one had
got hold of her throat and she would have been lost had not a shot been
fired at the same moment, and her assailant with a loud shriek fell to
the ground.
When Madame Caraman turned around she saw Clary, pale, but with a pair
of beaming eyes, standing at the entrance of the room, and in her tiny
white hand the yet smoking pistol.
The servants rushed in--the wounded were made prisoners, and Madame
Caraman had to thank Clary with tears in her eyes for her assistance.
"Well, for one already half dead you certainly possess a great deal of
strength and energy," she said afterward, with cunning look; "only
courage, dear child--we will soon see who is in the right."
Clary was, to all appearance, from this day continually becoming more
cheerful, and her strength increased gradually. It is no wonder that
sometimes she still clung to her painful ideas, and thought it not worth
while to live, while Madame Caraman tried hard to teach her better
principles.
"You must have some kind of occupation," she said; "you must give your
life some aim, some purpose."
"But how? Nobody stands in need of me," sobbed Clary.
"Oh, that is only your own belief, but it is not so. There is much
sorrow and misery in the world, but in large and fine streets you cannot
meet with it, and only in narrow streets and lanes and alleys can you
find it. I am, for instance, a native of Paris, and I know that in the
beautiful town every day many die of hunger, if not in the Rue de la
Paix and on the Boulevard des Italiens."
"Alas," sobbed Clary; "if I could help them!"
"And why should it be impossible?" said Madame Caraman, in an amiable
voice; "misery is easily found--one must only look for it."
"Madame Caraman, I should like to call you Mamma Caraman; will you allow
me?"
"With pleasure, dear child."
"Well, then, Mamma Caraman, I am getting tired of Nice."
"I am also tired of it," nodded the companion.
"How should you like to go to Marseilles?"
"With pleasure, my dear child."
"And, Mamma Caraman, I should like to do the journey on horseback,"
added Clary, in a hesitating voice.
"Still better, dear child--when we reach Marseilles you will be sound in
health."
Eight days later we find Clary and her companion settled down in
Marseilles. Madame Caraman was in the right--the young patient got round
gradually now, as she felt a real desire to get better, and whoever saw
the fresh, blooming girl on horseback thought her rather to be anything
else than a sufferer from consumption.
In Marseilles Clary got to know misery and sickness in every form and
shape, and now she began to see the blessing of being wealthy. She gave
with full hands, and Madame Caraman was proud of her conquests since her
first journey undertaken under such discouraging circumstances.
Upon a walk in the Meillan alley Clary noticed Mercedes--that beautiful
pale face, with its dark, deep-set, sorrowful eyes, which attracted the
young girl's attention in an irresistible manner, and a
pocket-handkerchief which Mercedes dropped offered her ample and good
opportunity to enter upon a conversation with the owner.
Mercedes admired the lovely young girl, whose mirth showed nothing of
the rudeness which, especially to mourners, becomes very disagreeable.
They often met, and after a few days Clary was quite at home in the
little house in which Mercedes resided.
Mercedes very soon became acquainted with the past life of the young
English lady--she assisted Madame Caraman in all her work to give to
Clary's life, up to now aimless, a fixed object and satisfaction, and it
stands to reason that the young girl also felt great interest for
Mercedes. Mercedes was only too happy to find an opportunity to speak
about Albert--during the ten years he sojourned in Algiers, his letters
had been the joy of his mother. Albert called himself Joliette--the
name of Morcerf contained for him, the same as for Mercedes, terrible
recollections--and soon Clary admired and looked upon Captain Joliette
as something of a higher being.
Albert's letters, which, up to now, had always regularly reached
Marseilles, now remained away altogether, and a time of indescribable
anguish commenced for Mercedes--the arrival of the Jackal Coucou only
increased her troubles, for the news which he brought was
unsatisfactory, and thus the mother resolved at length to send that call
for help to Monte-Cristo.
While Mercedes spoke to Clary the sergeant stood at the window, and he
called out suddenly:
"Just now a beautiful yacht, in full sail, is entering the harbor--ah,
now I can read the inscription on the vessel; it is the Ice Bird."
"God be blessed," sobbed Mercedes, falling on her knees. "Ah, I was
aware that he would come!"
"I shall go, dear mother," said Clary, rising, "but mind, if anything of
importance happens, I hope I shall also know of it?"
"At once," nodded Mercedes, "Monsieur Coucou, pray accompany
Mademoiselle Clary, and return immediately in case you are wanted."
The sergeant nodded and both went away.
Soon after a carriage stopped before the door. A man got out and
hastened up the narrow staircase.
"Mercedes," he called aloud, with faltering voice; it resounded upon
him--"Edmond, Edmond!"