The Count of Monte Cristo’s new friends, or rather, old acquaintances, lived on Rue Meslay street. They were Maximilian, his sister Julie, and her husband Emmanuel. Just thinking about visiting them brought a rare smile to the Count’s usually stern face. After the intense confrontation with Villefort earlier that day, the prospect of spending time with these kind people felt like a breath of fresh air in the middle of a storm. Even Ali, the Count’s faithful servant, noticed the change. As he left his master’s presence, Ali walked on tiptoe toward the door, hardly daring to breathe. He didn’t want to disturb whatever pleasant thoughts were making the Count look so unexpectedly happy. It was noon. Before visiting the Morrel family, Monte Cristo had set aside an hour to spend with Haydée, the young woman under his protection. His troubled mind couldn’t handle pure joy all at once, he needed to ease into happiness gradually, like someone slowly adjusting to bright light after being in darkness. Haydée lived in a completely separate wing of the mansion. Her rooms were decorated in the luxurious style of the East, rich carpets covered the floors, silk hangings adorned the walls, and soft cushions were piled on low couches throughout. She had three French maids and one Greek attendant who served as a translator, passing along Haydée’s wishes to the others. The Count had given strict orders that Haydée should be treated like royalty. The young woman usually spent her time in a circular room at the far end of her apartments. Light filtered through a rose-colored glass ceiling, bathing everything in a soft pink glow. When the Count arrived, he found her reclining on blue satin cushions embroidered with silver, smoking a water pipe, a narghile, in the traditional manner of her homeland. Haydée wore the costume of her native region: white satin trousers embroidered with pink roses, a blue and white striped vest with pearl buttons, and a bodice fastened with three magnificent diamond clasps. A colorful silk scarf wrapped around her waist, and a small golden cap adorned with pearls sat atop her lustrous black hair. A purple rose was tucked behind her ear. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with the classic features of ancient Greece. Large dark eyes, a perfectly formed nose, coral lips, and a radiant smile. She was only nineteen or twenty years old. The Count sent word asking if she would receive him. In response, Haydée had her servant pull back the tapestried curtain that hung over her doorway. When Monte Cristo entered, she extended her hand with a captivating smile and spoke in her native Greek: "Why ask permission to enter? Are you no longer my master, or have I ceased to be your slave?" The Count returned her smile. "Haydée, you know-" "Why do you speak to me so formally, so coldly?" the young woman interrupted, looking hurt. "Have I displeased you? If so, punish me, but please don’t talk to me like a stranger." "Haydée," the Count replied gently, "you know that you’re in France now, and you’re free." "Leave you? Why would I leave you?" "Well, we’re about to enter society, to visit people and receive visitors." "I don’t want to see anyone but you." "But what if you meet someone you prefer? I wouldn’t want to stand in your way-" "I’ve never seen anyone I preferred to you," Haydée said firmly. "I’ve never loved anyone except you and my father." "My dear child," Monte Cristo said sadly, "that’s only because your father and I are the only men who have ever spoken with you." "I don’t want anyone else to speak to me. My father called me his ’joy.’ You call me your ’love.’ Both of you have called me ’my child.’ That’s enough for me." "Do you remember your father, Haydée?" The young Greek woman smiled and touched her eyes and her heart. "He is here, and here." "And where am I?" Monte Cristo asked with a slight laugh. "You?" she cried, her voice trembling with tenderness. "You are everywhere!" Monte Cristo took her delicate hand in his, about to raise it to his lips, but the innocent young woman pulled it back and offered her cheek instead. "Listen, Haydée," the Count said. "From this moment on, you’re completely free. You’re the mistress of this house. You can wear whatever clothes you like, your traditional costumes or French fashion. You can go out or stay in your rooms as you wish. A carriage is at your disposal, and Ali and Myrto will accompany you wherever you want to go. I ask only one favor." "What is it?" Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝓷𝓮𝓽 "Guard the secret of your birth carefully. Don’t speak of the past, and never mention the names of your father or mother." "I’ve already told you, my lord, I don’t want to see anyone." "Haydée, complete isolation might work in the East, but it may not be practical in Paris. Try to get used to our way of life here, just as you adapted to Rome, Florence, Milan, and Madrid. It may prove useful someday, whether you stay here or return to the East." Tears filled Haydée’s eyes. "You mean whether we return to the East, don’t you, my lord?" "My child," Monte Cristo said softly, "you know that if we ever part, it won’t be my choice. The tree doesn’t abandon the flower, the flower falls from the tree." "My lord, I will never leave you. I’m certain I couldn’t survive without you." "My poor girl, in ten years I’ll be old, and you’ll still be young." "My father had a long white beard, but I loved him. He was sixty years old, but to me he was more handsome than all the young men I ever saw." "Then tell me, do you think you can adjust to life here?" "Then what is there to fear, my lord?" "You might find it boring." "No, my lord. In the morning, I’ll look forward to your visit. In the evening, I’ll relive the happiness of your presence. When I’m alone, I can summon memories of the past, vast horizons bounded by the mountains of my homeland. When a heart is filled with three great passions, sorrow, love, and gratitude, there’s no room for boredom." "You’re a worthy daughter of your country, Haydée. Your poetic spirit proves your noble heritage. I promise to ensure that your youth isn’t wasted in loneliness. And know this: if you love me as a father, I love you as a child." "You’re wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from the love I had for my father. My father died, but I didn’t die. If you were to die, I would die too." With a smile of profound tenderness, the Count extended his hand. She pressed it to her lips. Monte Cristo left, murmuring a quote from an ancient poet, "Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who, after watching its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call it his own." The carriage was ready, and the Count set off at his usual rapid pace. Within minutes, the Count reached number 7, Rue Meslay. The white stone house stood in a small courtyard decorated with two flower beds bursting with blooms. The gatekeeper who opened the gate was Cocles, an old sailor with only one eye. Nine years had dimmed his vision, and he didn’t recognize the Count. Carriages entering had to navigate around a fountain that played in a basin of decorative rockwork, a feature that had made the neighbors jealous and earned the house the nickname "The Little Versailles." Naturally, there were goldfish swimming in the basin. The house had kitchens and cellars below ground, two stories above, and attics at the top. Emmanuel had purchased the entire property, including a large workshop, two pavilions at the back of the garden, and the garden itself, recognizing it as a profitable investment. He’d kept the house and half the garden for himself, built a wall to separate it from the workshop area, and leased out the workshop space and pavilions. For a modest sum, he was as well-housed and as private as the inhabitants of the finest mansions in the most expensive neighborhoods.