Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 263: Farewell to Paris: II

They traveled for hours, covering league after league, without exchanging a single word. Morrel sat lost in his grief while Monte Cristo watched him.

Finally, the Count spoke. "Morrel, do you regret coming with me?"

"No, Count. But leaving Paris..."

"If I thought you could find happiness in Paris, I would have left you there."

"Valentine rests within those city walls. Leaving Paris feels like losing her all over again."

"Maximilian," the Count said gently, "the friends we lose don’t lie buried in the earth. They’re buried in our hearts, and they travel with us wherever we go. I carry two such friends always, the one who gave me life, and the one who gave me knowledge. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when I’m uncertain, and any good I do comes from their guidance. Listen to your own heart, Morrel. Ask it whether you should stay so gloomy and distant around me."

"My friend," Maximilian replied heavily, "my heart is full of sorrow and promises me nothing but more pain."

"That’s how a weakened mind sees everything, through dark clouds. Your soul creates its own world, and right now yours is so darkened that the future looks nothing but bleak."

"Perhaps you’re right," Maximilian conceded, falling back into brooding silence.

They traveled with incredible speed. The Count’s unlimited resources made such rapid transit possible. Towns flew past them like shadows. Trees, shaken by the early autumn winds, seemed like giants rushing toward them before retreating just as quickly.

The next morning they arrived at Châlons, where the Count’s personal steamboat waited. Without wasting a moment, the carriage was loaded aboard and they embarked immediately. The boat was built for speed, its two paddle-wheels cutting through the water like wings.

Despite his depression, Morrel couldn’t help but feel a small thrill from traveling so fast. The wind whipping through his hair seemed to temporarily clear some of the darkness from his mind.

As they put more distance between themselves and Paris, Monte Cristo seemed to glow with an almost supernatural calm. He looked like an exile finally returning home after years away.

Soon Marseilles came into view, white, vibrant, full of energy and life. Marseilles, the great Mediterranean port that had succeeded ancient cities like Tyre and Carthage in controlling sea trade. Old but eternally young.

Powerful memories stirred in both men as they recognized landmarks from their youth: the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the magnificent City Hall, the harbor with its brick docks where they’d both played as children. Without discussing it, they both asked to stop at the Canebière, the city’s main boulevard.

A ship was preparing to depart for Algeria. The dock was crowded with passengers and their families, some crying, others loud in their grief, friends saying tender but sorrowful goodbyes. It was the kind of scene that might move even those who witnessed such departures daily, but Maximilian was too lost in his own thoughts to notice.

"Here," he said, leaning heavily on Monte Cristo’s arm. "Right here is where my father stood when my ship, the Pharaon, entered the port. This is where that good old man, the one you saved from death and dishonor, threw his arms around me. I can still feel his warm tears on my face. And he wasn’t the only one crying. Many people who saw us wept too."

Monte Cristo smiled faintly. "I was there," he said, pointing to a street corner.

As he spoke, a heartbroken sob echoed from that very direction. A woman stood waving goodbye to a passenger on the departing ship.

Monte Cristo looked at her with obvious emotion, but Morrel’s eyes remained fixed on the vessel.

"My God!" Morrel suddenly exclaimed. "I’m not mistaken, that young man waving his hat, the one in the lieutenant’s uniform, that’s Albert de Morcerf!"

"Yes," Monte Cristo confirmed. "I recognized him."

"How could you? You were looking the other way."

The Count smiled mysteriously, the way he did when he didn’t want to answer. He turned back toward the veiled woman, who soon disappeared around a street corner.

"Dear Maximilian," the Count said, "do you have anything you need to do here?"

"I need to visit my father’s grave," Morrel said, his voice breaking.

"Then go. I’ll meet you there soon."

"You’re leaving me?"

"Yes. I also have a visit to pay, a duty to fulfill."

Morrel let his hand fall into the Count’s extended one. With an expression of deep sorrow, he nodded and walked toward the eastern part of the city.

Monte Cristo remained where he was until Maximilian disappeared from view. Then he walked slowly toward the Allées de Meillan, searching for a small house that had once been very important in this story.

The house still stood in the shade of beautiful lime trees, covered by an ancient, sprawling grapevine with blackened branches that spread across the sun-yellowed stone front. Two worn stone steps led to a door made of three rough planks. The door had never been painted, and deep cracks opened in it during dry weather, closing again when the rains came. Despite its crumbling appearance and obvious poverty, the house had a certain cheerful, picturesque quality.

This was the house where old Dantès had once lived. The only difference now was that while the old man had occupied only the attic room, the Count had given the entire house to Mercédès.

The woman Monte Cristo had seen leaving the ship with such sorrow entered this house. She’d barely closed the door when Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of the street. He found her and lost her again in almost the same instant.

The worn steps were old friends to him. He knew better than anyone how to open that weather-beaten door with its large-headed nail that served as a latch. He entered without knocking, as comfortable as if he owned the place.

A brick-paved passage led to a small garden bathed in sunshine. This was where Mercédès had found the money the Count had hidden there twenty-four years earlier, money he’d delicately claimed had been left long ago.

As Monte Cristo stepped into the house, he heard a sound, a sigh that was almost a sob. He looked in the direction it came from and saw Mercédès sitting under an arbor covered in Virginia jasmine with its thick leaves and beautiful purple flowers. Her head was bowed, and she was crying bitterly. She’d lifted her veil, and with her face hidden in her hands, she was finally releasing all the tears she’d held back in front of her son.

Monte Cristo’s footsteps crunched on the gravel path. Mercédès looked up and cried out in terror at seeing a man before her.

"Madame," the Count said gently, "I can’t restore your happiness, that’s beyond my power now. But I can offer you consolation, if you’ll accept it from a friend."

"I’m so wretched," Mercédès replied. "I’m alone in the world. I had only my son, and now he’s left me too."

"He has a noble heart," the Count said. "And he did the right thing. Every man owes something to his country. Some contribute their talents, others their labor, others their blood. If he’d stayed with you, his life would have become unbearable. He couldn’t have helped carry your grief. By struggling with hardship, he’ll grow stronger and build a better future for you both. Trust him to create that future. I believe you can safely place your hope in him."

"Oh," the miserable woman said, shaking her head, "whatever prosperity you speak of, and I do pray God grants it to him, I’ll never enjoy it. I’ve drained the cup of suffering to its dregs. I feel that death isn’t far away. You were kind, Count, to bring me back to this place where I once knew such happiness. I should die in the same place where I was once so blessed."

"Your words wound me deeply," Monte Cristo said, his voice pained, "especially because you have every reason to hate me. I’ve caused all your misfortunes. Yet you pity me instead of blaming me, which only makes me feel worse."

"Hate you? Blame you? You, Edmond?" Mercédès’s voice rose with emotion. "How could I hate or reproach the man who spared my son’s life? Your plan was to destroy him, wasn’t it? That son M. de Morcerf was so proud of? Look at me closely and tell me if you see any trace of blame in my eyes."

The Count raised his eyes to meet hers. Mercédès rose partially from her seat and reached both hands toward him.