Mercedes trembled and shrunk away, although the possessor of the small white hand was a charming young girl.

A pretty little head with ash-blond hair, deep blue eyes and fresh red lips made Miss Clary Ellis—that was the name of the eighteen-year-old girl—a very beautiful picture, and the sergeant drew back respectfully, while Mercedes said:

"Good-day, my darling—always joyful, always happy."

"And you are always sorrowful, and have tears in your eyes. Better take me for a model, who, as a consumptive, have far more reason to be melancholy than you have."

"I am waiting," said Mercedes, sorrowfully, "for him, and he will surely come if he lives."

"And who is he?"

"He is a faithful friend in need," replied Mercedes, solemnly, "and I love him as if he were divine. But tell me what brought you here to-day? Curiosity?"

"Ungrateful woman," pouted the English girl, "as if I did not like to come here. But if you are so solemn, why—"

"Oh, Clary, I am not solemn—I am melancholy, and at times desperate."

"Desperate? How can you say such a thing?"

"If you had lost everything, as I have, you would understand me," said Mercedes, gently. "Ah, Clary, I have seen everything about me tumble, but I remained easy so long as my son was with me! Since he has left me the world has no pleasures for me, and should I never see him again—"

"But, madam," interrupted Coucou, "how can you talk that way! Why should you not see my brave captain again? My captain is not one of those who are eaten by Kabyles for supper. He defends his life, and if he should be in the bowels of the earth I will find him. I—"

"Brave sergeant!" exclaimed Clary, and turning to Mercedes, she said:

"You must not despair, little woman. As far back as I can remember people always said about me: 'Ah, the poor child, to have to die so young—it is terrible—she must go to the south!' My father and brother made me sign all kinds of documents in case of my death. What was the use of my fortune if I died, and it was a settled fact I was to die?"

With a gay laugh Clary arose, and, bidding Mercedes a cordial farewell, left the house. The light-hearted girl's full name was Clara Ellis, and three months before, she, and her French governess, the widow of a police sergeant, had settled down in Nice. Madame Caraman, or, as Clary called her, Mamma Caraman, was of sound health, while her young ward, according to the opinion of eminent English physicians, was in an indifferent state of health. They sent her, because she suffered from a slight cough, and as being incurable and consumptive, to the south. Nice was the Eldorado of all chest complaints, and thus the ladies took up their residence in that place.

Lord Ellis, Clary's father, had inherited from his parents a large fortune, which, however, he squandered in noble passions, and it was feared that his son Sir Edward, the heir-at-law, would one day inherit only the empty title. But it happened that owing to the sudden death of a rich aunt residing in India, Sir Edward's sister, Miss Clary Ellis, inherited an immense fortune, and from that day Lord Ellis began to pay attention and took care of his daughter to a much greater extent than he used to do. Clary since her eighth year had lived in a world of her own imagination; fantastic ideas and representations were the fruits of her education, which pompous governesses had inculcated at an early age, and the education recommended to Clary was for the sole purpose of increasing her romantic inclinations. The heroines of Byron and Lamartine were enviously looked upon by Clary—the "Sorrows of Werther" were continually lying upon her desk ready for perusal, and the young enthusiast was soon convinced that there was no nicer death than that of Marie Beaumarchais.

Almost with joy she welcomed her sickness, looking upon it as a forerunner of approaching dissolution. Wrapped in furs, she spent her days upon her couch, and from an "imaginary patient" she was becoming a real sick person; inasmuch as the want of exercise, as well as the continual strain on the whole nervous system, did not fail to have its effect.

Lord Ellis faced with manly courage the hard lot of losing his daughter at an early age. It was indeed a great pity that Clary could not make use of and enjoy her wealth, but what else could be done? As a careful father the lord prepared for any emergency; he urged Clary to sign various papers, which entitled him and his sons to make use of her immense wealth. The sum thus turned over for his use amounted to above one million sterling—but what good did it do? If Clary died, she could not, after all, take away her great wealth; and the million sterling was only a share of the still larger sum thus to be expected in case of her demise.

The physicians all agreed that Clary should at least hold out and die in the south, and a companion had to be procured. She soon found one in the person of Madame Caraman, a lady of about forty-five years, who showed a sincere interest in her suffering ward, and thus they entered on their journey. But soon Madame Caraman found reason to doubt the incurability of her patient—she noticed that Clary, when leaving her carriage, or performing any other movement of the body, usually painful for chest complaints, never felt pain or the slightest inconvenience.

This lasted for some time, and then Madame Caraman one day said quite earnestly:

"My dear child—now it is enough—you are as much sick as I am! You will be kind enough from this day to try to eat heartily, in order to regain your strength; you will drink daily a glass of Bordeaux and take a walk with me, and not, like a sick bird in its cage, remain wrapped up in the corner of a carriage. No—no objections. You will also never cough again as you get accustomed to it; and after the lapse of a month we will see what further to do."

Clary sighed and sobbed, but it was no use—Madame Caraman stuck to her will, and, trembling and hesitating, the young lady was persuaded to eat her first beefsteak, and to her great surprise she was not suffocated by the unaccustomed food; the wine she found excellent, and Madame Caraman triumphed.

An accident happened which also brought help. One night some robbers tried to enter their villa; the servants slept in a building close by, and in this emergency Madame Caraman took to arms as soon as she heard a suspicious noise. With a heavy silver candlestick in her hand she entered the parlor from whence the noise proceeded. She knocked a person down, but ere she could pick up the heavy candlestick the second one had got hold of her throat and she would have been lost had not a shot been fired at the same moment, and her assailant with a loud shriek fell to the ground.

When Madame Caraman turned around she saw Clary, pale, but with a pair of beaming eyes, standing at the entrance of the room, and in her tiny white hand the yet smoking pistol.

The servants rushed in—the wounded were made prisoners, and Madame Caraman had to thank Clary with tears in her eyes for her assistance.

"Well, for one already half dead you certainly possess a great deal of strength and energy," she said afterward, with cunning look; "only courage, dear child—we will soon see who is in the right."

Clary was, to all appearance, from this day continually becoming more cheerful, and her strength increased gradually. It is no wonder that sometimes she still clung to her painful ideas, and thought it not worth while to live, while Madame Caraman tried hard to teach her better principles.

"You must have some kind of occupation," she said; "you must give your life some aim, some purpose."

"But how? Nobody stands in need of me," sobbed Clary.

"Oh, that is only your own belief, but it is not so. There is much sorrow and misery in the world, but in large and fine streets you cannot meet with it, and only in narrow streets and lanes and alleys can you find it. I am, for instance, a native of Paris, and I know that in the beautiful town every day many die of hunger, if not in the Rue de la Paix and on the Boulevard des Italiens."

"Alas," sobbed Clary; "if I could help them!"

"And why should it be impossible?" said Madame Caraman, in an amiable voice; "misery is easily found—one must only look for it."

"Madame Caraman, I should like to call you Mamma Caraman; will you allow me?"

"With pleasure, dear child."

"Well, then, Mamma Caraman, I am getting tired of Nice."

"I am also tired of it," nodded the companion.

"How should you like to go to Marseilles?"

"With pleasure, my dear child."

"And, Mamma Caraman, I should like to do the journey on horseback," added Clary, in a hesitating voice.

"Still better, dear child—when we reach Marseilles you will be sound in health."

Eight days later we find Clary and her companion settled down in Marseilles. Madame Caraman was in the right—the young patient got round gradually now, as she felt a real desire to get better, and whoever saw the fresh, blooming girl on horseback thought her rather to be anything else than a sufferer from consumption.

In Marseilles Clary got to know misery and sickness in every form and shape, and now she began to see the blessing of being wealthy. She gave with full hands, and Madame Caraman was proud of her conquests since her first journey undertaken under such discouraging circumstances.

Upon a walk in the Meillan alley Clary noticed Mercedes—that beautiful pale face, with its dark, deep-set, sorrowful eyes, which attracted the young girl's attention in an irresistible manner, and a pocket-handkerchief which Mercedes dropped offered her ample and good opportunity to enter upon a conversation with the owner.

Mercedes admired the lovely young girl, whose mirth showed nothing of the rudeness which, especially to mourners, becomes very disagreeable. They often met, and after a few days Clary was quite at home in the little house in which Mercedes resided.

Mercedes very soon became acquainted with the past life of the young English lady—she assisted Madame Caraman in all her work to give to Clary's life, up to now aimless, a fixed object and satisfaction, and it stands to reason that the young girl also felt great interest for Mercedes. Mercedes was only too happy to find an opportunity to speak about Albert—during the ten years he sojourned in Algiers, his letters had been the joy of his mother. Albert called himself Joliette—the name of Morcerf contained for him, the same as for Mercedes, terrible recollections—and soon Clary admired and looked upon Captain Joliette as something of a higher being.

Albert's letters, which, up to now, had always regularly reached Marseilles, now remained away altogether, and a time of indescribable anguish commenced for Mercedes—the arrival of the Jackal Coucou only increased her troubles, for the news which he brought was unsatisfactory, and thus the mother resolved at length to send that call for help to Monte-Cristo.

While Mercedes spoke to Clary the sergeant stood at the window, and he called out suddenly:

"Just now a beautiful yacht, in full sail, is entering the harbor—ah, now I can read the inscription on the vessel; it is the Ice Bird."

"God be blessed," sobbed Mercedes, falling on her knees. "Ah, I was aware that he would come!"

"I shall go, dear mother," said Clary, rising, "but mind, if anything of importance happens, I hope I shall also know of it?"

"At once," nodded Mercedes, "Monsieur Coucou, pray accompany Mademoiselle Clary, and return immediately in case you are wanted."

The sergeant nodded and both went away.

Soon after a carriage stopped before the door. A man got out and hastened up the narrow staircase.

"Mercedes," he called aloud, with faltering voice; it resounded upon him—"Edmond, Edmond!"