The Countess of Monte-Cristo

Rome was agitated by a vague scandal, so vague, in fact, that nobody seemed to know the precise details. It had arisen from a newspaper account, given in the indefinite, unsatisfactory way characteristic of Roman journalism. One of the city journals had published the statement that a young and very handsome peasant girl, living with her father in the country beyond the Trastavere, had recently been abducted, report said, by a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy; that the reckless scion of nobility had courted and won her in the guise of a peasant, had carried her off to a bandit fastness and there had eventually deserted her. No names were given. Inquiry at the office of the journal elicited the fact that the proprietors had undoubted authority for the publication of the statement, but no further information could be gained from them. A few days later, however, the same newspaper gave the further particulars that the nobleman had been assisted in effecting the abduction by a young foreigner residing in Rome, and that the brother of the unfortunate girl had been killed in attempting to rescue her. That completed all the intelligence ever vouchsafed to the public in regard to the mysterious affair, and thereafter the journal maintained an unbroken silence respecting the matter. The rumor ran that its proprietors had been bribed by interested parties to say nothing further, but this rumor could not be traced to any reliable source and was, therefore, by many considered a fabrication. No steps were taken by the authorities in the premises, and it was evident that the affair was to be allowed to die out. Still Roman society was considerably excited, conjectures as to the identity of the guilty party and his accomplice being rife in all the fashionable and aristocratic quarters of the city. These conjectures, however, did not grow to positive statements, though insidious hints were thrown out that those who guessed the Viscount Giovanni Massetti to be the culprit were not far out of the way. Massetti, it was known, had been absent from Rome for several days about the period the abduction was supposed to have taken place, but he did not deign to notice the hints current in regard to himself and no one was hardy enough to question him. Nevertheless some color was given to the rumors concerning him by the fact that, immediately on his return to the city, after the absence above referred to, he became involved in a violent quarrel with a young Frenchman, generally supposed to be Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo, who at once challenged him to a duel, but the duel was not fought for some reason not made public, the difference between the two fiery youths having been arranged through the mediation of mutual friends. It was observed, however, and widely commented upon that, although the twain had previously been almost inseparable companions, Esperance after this quarrel studiously avoided the Viscount Massetti, refraining from even mentioning his name.

Meanwhile at Civita Vecchia another act in the drama of Annunziata Solara’s clouded life had been played. In that city was located a famous asylum for unfortunate women, founded and managed by a French lady of enormous wealth and corresponding benevolence, Madame Helena de Rancogne, the Countess of Monte-Cristo. This lady was untiring in her efforts to reclaim and rehabilitate the fallen of her sex. She was the Superior of the Order of Sisters of Refuge, the members of which were scattered throughout Europe, but made their headquarters at the asylum in Civita Vecchia, where a sufficient number of them constantly aided Madame de Rancogne in carrying out her good and philanthropic work.

The Refuge, as the asylum was called, was a vast edifice of gray stone with a sombre and cloister-like look. Over the huge entrance door on a tablet of polished metal this sentence was incrusted in conspicuous letters of black: “Be Not Led to Consider Any Unworthy!” It was an utterance of the Countess of Monte-Cristo in the past and had been adopted as the guiding rule and maxim of the Order of Sisters of Refuge. The interior of the building in no way corresponded with its gloomy, forbidding outside. Tall, wide windows freely admitted the ardent rays of the glowing Italian sun, flooding the corridors and apartments with cheerful light and warmth. Crimson hangings and magnificently wrought tapestry of fabulous price adorned the walls, while costly and beautiful statues and paintings, the work of old masters and contemporaneous artists, added to the attractiveness of the numerous salons and drawing-rooms. The great refectory and the dormitories possessed charms of their own, bright colors everywhere greeting the eye and nothing being allowed that could inspire or promote melancholy moods or painful thoughts. There was an immense library, to which all the inmates of the Refuge had free access. It was sumptuously furnished, and the floor was covered with a gorgeous Turkey carpet, so thick and soft that footsteps made no sound upon it, while the brilliant figures of tropical flowers profusely studding it gave the impression of eternal summer. Desks abundantly supplied with writing materials, tables loaded with the latest newspapers and periodicals in all the languages of Europe, luxurious sofas and inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances, volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture the thousand and one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.

The protegees of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her coquettish apartment of the Chaussee d’ Antin, for Nini had proved a most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to designing roues and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin; unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord, chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.

One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of Civita Vecchia, a timid knock at the entrance door of the Refuge aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown over her shoulders, and her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.

“What do you require, my poor child?” asked the portress, tenderly and sympathetically.

“Shelter, only shelter!” replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow, broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.

“The Superior must decide upon your case,” said the portress. “You shall go to her at once.”

The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls of silver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial, comforting smile.

“Sit down, my child,” she said, in a rich, melodious voice. “You are fatigued. Are you also hungry?”

Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her thin hands.

“Alas! signora,” she replied, faintly, “I have walked many weary miles and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!”

“Take the poor child to the refectory,” said the Countess to the Sister, who had remained standing near the door. “After her hunger has been appeased, I will see her again and question her.”

Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal, once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.

“My child,” said the latter, “what is your name?”

“Annunziata Solara.”

“You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?”

“I know it, signora; that is the reason I came.”

“Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?”

“I have repented bitterly,” answered the girl, bursting into a flood of tears, “oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can find to do.”

“It is well,” said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large, is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received and given an opportunity to share in the great work.”

“From the depths of my soul I thank you!” sobbed the girl. “I will try earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!”

“Tell me your story now,” said the Superior. “I cannot believe that the guilt was altogether yours.”

“I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men, of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!”

Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed her and she continued:

“One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself with, and Tonio, that was my admirer’s name, seemed sincerity itself. One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know what to do. That evening I received a letter from him I found it on the table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box telling me that everything was prepared for our flight that night, and asking me to be in readiness. I was terrified. I could not understand why he wished me to fly with him if everything was as it should be, as my father and brother would not have objected to any proper suitor for my hand on whom I had bestowed my heart. For the first time I was suspicious of Tonio, and I resolved to pay no attention to his letter. On the morrow I would see him and tell him to speak to my father and brother. Alas! that opportunity was not given me. Oh! that horrible, horrible night!”

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. When she looked up she was ghastly pale, and her voice quivered as she resumed:

“That dreadful night, as I lay upon my bed, wrapped in slumber, I was suddenly aroused by hearing some one in my chamber. It was very dark and I could not see the intruder. I started up in terror, but a hand was placed firmly over my mouth. I was torn from my bed and borne in a man’s arms from the cabin. I struggled to release myself, but in vain. My abductor appeared to possess the strength of a giant. There was no moon, but in the dim starlight I could see that the man was masked. He hastened with me into the neighboring forest. There he accidentally struck his right arm against the trunk of a tree and his hand dropped from my mouth. Instantly I uttered a loud, piercing cry, but the hand went back to its place again almost immediately, and I was unable to give vent to another sound. My cry, however, had been heard by my brother, who hastened to my assistance. He overtook my abductor in the forest, and, though unarmed, at once attacked him. The man dropped me and turned upon my brother. A fierce struggle ensued, during which the mask was struck from my abductor’s face and, to my horror, I thought I recognized Tonio. Suddenly there was a report of a pistol. I had watched the conflict, unable to move. I saw my brother stagger; blood was gushing from him. I could endure no more; I fell to the ground in a swoon.

“When I recovered my senses, I was in a strange hut. Savage looking men, whom I took to be bandits, were guarding me. How long I remained in the hut I do not know, but it must have been several days. At times a masked man came to me, telling me that he was Tonio and pressing his suit upon me. I refused to listen to him, upbraiding him for tearing me from my home and wounding my brother. I told him his conduct was not that of a lover, but of a villain. I implored him, if he possessed a spark of manhood, to set me free, to send me to my father. He informed me that I was his captive and should so remain until I yielded to his wishes. I repulsed him with scorn, with the energy of desperation. Ultimately he overpowered me by sheer force, and compelled me to yield. Then I saw him no more. I wandered about the hut like one demented. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. I was in despair. Shame and degradation were henceforth my portion.

“After my abductor’s departure, a new comer appeared among the brigands. He seemed to be their chief. He expressed pity for me, and told me that my abductor was not a peasant, but a young Roman nobleman, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti. I cared nothing for this revelation. I had no thought of vengeance; my sole desire was to hide myself from the gaze of the world, to avoid the pitiless finger of scorn. Eventually the bandit chief took me back to my home. There I found my father, learning from his lips that my brother was dead. This intelligence made my sorrow utterly unbearable. My father was moody and morose. For days at a time he did not speak to me. He appeared to have lost all paternal affection. Finally I left the cabin. I had heard of the Refuge and determined to seek its shelter. I walked to Civita Vecchia, and to-night found myself at your door. Such, signora, is my sad history. I have told you the whole truth. You see I am not altogether to blame.”

As Annunziata concluded, the Countess of Monte-Cristo drew her upon her bosom.

“My poor girl,” said she, in tender, pitying tones, “you have, indeed, tasted the bitterness of life and have been more sinned against than sinning. But you are my daughter now. The Sisterhood of the Order of Refuge has covered you with its protecting shield.”