ESPERANCE.

The youthful son of Monte-Cristo was twenty-two years of age, and wonderfully handsome. His dark curls shaded a fair, white brow, and his eyes were haughty like his father’s. His slender white hands were womanly in their delicacy. But we will examine his surroundings.

Whenever Monte-Cristo established himself in a new home, the house became transformed as if a magician of the Arabian Nights had touched it with his wand. There was not a dark or gloomy corner to be seen. Lights blazed everywhere. The rarest pictures and choicest furniture were to be seen. Everything was magnificent and harmonious. The tall stature of the Count, his excessive pallor and the exaggerated attention he paid to his dress, added to this effect, as did the dark face of Ali, who, invariably draped in soft, white folds, stood like a bronze statue near the many colored portieres. With the Vicomte, however, all colors were softer than with his father. The cabinet, for example, where we find him, was hung with gray and black velvet, and the rugs were fur, of the same soft gray.

The Vicomte’s dress was in no ways peculiar, though careful. He disliked anything that made him conspicuous. His face and his voice had a certain sadness that contrasted strangely with his name of Esperance. Books lay open on the table before him; they were on philosophical subjects, heat and cold. Imagination had never touched him with her golden wand.

Esperance means Hope.

Esperance was very pale as he read his father’s letter. He extended his hand and rang the bell.

Coucon entered, looking very differently from those old days in Africa. Not that he wore a livery, but his brown suit was simple and well cut. In his eyes, however, was much of the old fire.

“Has my father gone?” asked Esperance.

“Yes, sir, while you were asleep.”

“Why was not I awakened?”

“Because the Count forbade it. He simply said, as he went away, that a letter was to be given to you.”

“Was Bertuccio with my father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In what direction did he go?”

“I know not, and I assure you that no one in the hotel knows more than I.”

Coucon was glad when this examination was over. Esperance was never harsh or severe with his people, but they never felt at ease with him as with his father. But in fact Bertuccio had given no hint of where the Count was going, and when Esperance was fully convinced of this he dismissed Coucon; but as the Zouave was leaving the room, the young master stopped him.

“I want to say to you, Coucon, that I am fully aware of your fidelity, and that I trust you implicitly. You once assisted my father to save my life.”

“Never mind that, sir.”

“And if my manner is cold toward you, my heart is not. Shake hands with me.”

Coucon, greatly pleased, laid his huge hand into the delicate one of the Vicomte, who pressed it warmly.

The Zouave uttered an exclamation.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing only ”

“Only what?”

“Well, sir, you have a tremendous squeeze, I must say. Your fingers felt as if they were made of steel.”

Esperance looked at his hands in some surprise.

“Yes,” he said, in a dreamy voice, “I am strong, I believe.”

“Strong! I should say you were.”

“I did not hurt you, I trust?” and Esperance still gazed at his hands in a troubled sort of way.

“Where will you breakfast, sir?” asked Coucon.

“In the gallery, I think.”

“And alone?”

“I don’t know; I do not remember inviting any one.”

Coucon departed, proud of the shake of the hand he had received, although he still rubbed his fingers to restore the circulation.