“Oh,” said Albert, “it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if one converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak to her of the East.”
“Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the most agreeable to her taste.” Albert turned towards Haidee. “At what age did you leave Greece, signora?” asked he.
“I left it when I was but five years old,” replied Haidee.
“And have you any recollection of your country?”
“When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind can see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes — but the mind never forgets.”
“And how far back into the past do your recollections extend?”
“I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which means royal,” said the young girl, tossing her head proudly, “took me by the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed, we went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the prisoners, saying, ‘He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’ Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without saying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was divided amongst the prisoners.”
“And how old were you at that time?”
“I was three years old,” said Haidee.
“Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when you were three years old?” said Albert.
“Everything.”
“Count,” said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo, “do allow the signora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my mentioning my father’s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him of her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea how delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful lips.” Monte Cristo turned to Haidee, and with an expression of countenance which commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he said in Greek, —“Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the name of the traitor nor the treason.” Haidee sighed deeply, and a shade of sadness clouded her beautiful brow.
“What are you saying to her?” said Morcerf in an undertone.
“I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not conceal anything from you.”
“Then,” said Albert, “this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners was your first remembrance; what is the next?”
“Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters of which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the oldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my father; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from time to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which I paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of voice, either ‘Kill,’ or ‘Pardon.’”
“It is very strange,” said Albert, “to hear such words proceed from the mouth of any one but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly to be saying to one’s self, ‘This is no fiction, it is all reality,’ in order to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes, accustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?”
“I think it is a fine country,” said Haidee, “but I see France as it really is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my own country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on my childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which is luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or joyous.”
“So young,” said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count’s command that he should ask no questions of the slave herself, “is it possible that you can have known what suffering is except by name?”