On February 24, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame de la Garde signaled the arrival of

the Pharaon, a three-masted ship returning to Marseilles from Smyrna by way of

Trieste and Naples.

​

As usual, a pilot immediately set out to meet her. He rounded the Château d’If—

the island fortress and prison standing just offshore from Marseilles—and boarded

the ship between Cape Morgiou and the island of Rion.

​

Soon the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean filled with spectators. The arrival of a ship

was always an event in Marseilles, particularly when the vessel had been built,

fitted, and loaded in the city’s own docks and belonged to a local merchant.

​

The Pharaon continued toward the harbor. She slipped through the narrow

channel between the islands of Calasareigne and Jaros, rounded Pomègue, and

approached under sail.

 

Yet there was something unusually solemn in her progress.

 

She moved so slowly that uneasiness began to spread among the people watching from shore. Something, they thought, must have happened during the voyage.

 

Experienced sailors could see that nothing had happened to the ship herself. She was being handled with obvious skill, every preparation for entering port already underway.

 

Beside the pilot stood a young sailor who followed every movement of the ship with a sharp, attentive eye. He repeated the pilot’s orders and made certain they were carried out quickly.

 

Still uneasy, one man among the spectators could not bring himself to wait for the Pharaon to reach the harbor. He climbed into a small boat and ordered the rowers to take him out to meet her as she entered the basin of La Réserve.

 

When the young sailor aboard the Pharaon saw the boat approaching, he left the pilot’s side. Removing his hat, he leaned over the rail.

 

He was perhaps nineteen or twenty years old—tall and slender, with black eyes and hair as dark as a raven’s wing. His face held the calm confidence of someone accustomed to danger, the quiet assurance of a young man who had already learned that fear was something to be mastered rather than obeyed.

 

“Ah, Dantès—is that you?” called the man from the skiff. “What has happened? Why does everyone aboard look so solemn?”

 

“A great misfortune, Monsieur Morrel,” Edmond replied. “For me especially. We lost our good Captain Leclere off Civita Vecchia.”

 

“And the cargo?” Morrel asked at once.

 

“The cargo is safe, monsieur. I think you’ll be more than satisfied on that account. But poor Captain Leclere—”

 

“What happened to him?” Morrel asked. “What happened to the poor man?”

 

“He died.”

 

“Overboard?”

 

“No, monsieur. A brain fever. He suffered terribly.”

 

Edmond turned from the conversation toward the deck.

 

“Look alive there! Take in sail!”

 

The crew sprang immediately to their stations. Within moments, the deck came alive with movement as the sailors worked the rigging and brought the Pharaon steadily toward port.

 

Edmond watched long enough to assure himself that each order had been carried out correctly before turning back to Morrel.

 

“But how did it happen?” the shipowner asked.

 

“Suddenly, and when none of us expected it. After a long conversation with the harbor master, Captain Leclere left Naples deeply troubled. Within a day he had taken fever. Three days later, he was dead.”

 

The grief in Edmond’s voice was quiet.

 

“We gave him the burial due a sailor. We sewed him into his hammock, weighted him at the head and feet with cannon shot, and committed him to the sea off the island of Giglio. We’ve brought his sword and Cross of Honor home to his widow.”

 

A melancholy smile touched Edmond’s face.

 

“Ten years fighting the English,” he said, “only to die in his bed like any other man.”

 

“Why, you see, Edmond,” Morrel replied, growing more reassured by the moment, “we are all mortal. The old must eventually make way for the young. Otherwise, how would anyone ever rise? And since you assure me the cargo—”

 

“Is safe and sound, Monsieur Morrel. You have my word for it. And I wouldn’t advise you to accept twenty-five thousand francs for the profits of this voyage.”

 

They were passing the Round Tower now.

 

Edmond turned toward the crew.

 

“Stand by to lower the topsails and jib! Brail up the spanker!”

 

The order was carried out with the precision of a naval crew.

 

“Let go—and clew up!”

 

At once the remaining sails came down, and the Pharaon glided almost imperceptibly forward.

 

“If you’ll come aboard, Monsieur Morrel,” Edmond said, noticing the shipowner’s impatience, “Monsieur Danglars is coming out of his cabin now. He can give you every detail you want about the voyage. I still need to see to the anchoring and put the ship into mourning.”

 

Morrel needed no second invitation. Edmond threw him a rope, and the shipowner caught it, climbing aboard with an agility that would have done credit to a sailor.

 

Edmond returned immediately to his duties, leaving Morrel to Danglars.

 

The supercargo was twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with a face that did little to recommend him. He was deferential to those above him and insolent to those beneath him. His position aboard the Pharaon already made him unpopular with the sailors; his manner did nothing to improve matters.

 

Where Edmond Dantès was loved by the crew, Danglars was disliked.

 

“Well, Monsieur Morrel,” Danglars began, “you’ve heard of the misfortune that has befallen us?”

 

“Yes, yes. Poor Captain Leclere. He was a brave and honest man.”

 

“And a first-rate sailor,” Danglars added, “one with long and honorable service behind him—as a man entrusted with the interests of a house as important as Morrel & Son should have.”

 

Morrel glanced toward Edmond, who was still overseeing the anchoring.

 

“It seems to me a sailor doesn’t need to be so old to know his business. Our friend Edmond appears to understand his quite thoroughly—and without needing instruction from anyone.”

 

“Yes,” Danglars replied, casting Edmond a look of open hatred. “He is young. And youth is invariably confident.”

 

“Scarcely had the captain drawn his last breath before Dantès assumed command without consulting anyone. Then, instead of sailing directly for Marseilles, he cost us a day and a half at the island of Elba.”

 

“As for taking command,” Morrel replied, “that was his duty as captain’s mate. As for losing a day and a half at Elba, he was wrong—unless the ship needed repairs.”

 

“The ship was in as good condition as I am,” said Danglars, “and as I hope you are, Monsieur Morrel. That day and a half was lost for nothing more than a whim—the pleasure of going ashore.”

 

Morrel turned toward the young sailor.

 

“Dantès! Come here a moment!”

 

“In a moment, monsieur!”

 

Edmond turned back to the crew.

 

“Let go!”

 

The anchor dropped at once, its chain rattling through the hawsehole. Edmond remained at his post until the maneuver was complete.

 

“Half-mast the colors! Square the yards!”

 

Danglars watched him.

 

“You see?” he said. “He already thinks himself captain.”

 

“And in practice, he is,” Morrel replied.

 

“Except for your signature and your partner’s.”

 

“And why shouldn’t he have them?” Morrel asked. “He is young, certainly—but he seems to me a capable sailor with plenty of experience.”

 

A shadow passed over Danglars’ face.

 

Edmond approached.

 

“Your pardon, Monsieur Morrel. The ship is now at anchor, and I’m at your service. You called for me?”

 

Danglars stepped back.

 

“I wanted to ask why you stopped at the island of Elba.”

 

“I don’t know, monsieur,” Edmond replied. “I stopped there to carry out Captain Leclere’s final instructions. Before he died, he gave me a packet to deliver to Marshal Bertrand.”

 

“You saw him, then?” Morrel asked.

 

“Who?”

 

“The marshal.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Morrel glanced around them. Then, drawing Edmond slightly aside, he lowered his voice.

 

“And the emperor? How is he?”

 

“Very well, as far as I could tell from seeing him.”

 

“You saw the emperor?”

 

“He came into the marshal’s room while I was there.”

 

“And you spoke with him?”

 

Edmond smiled.

 

“He spoke to me.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He asked about the Pharaon—when we had left Marseilles, what route we had taken, what cargo we carried. I think that if she had been empty, and if I had been her captain, he might have tried to buy her.”

 

Morrel laughed, but Edmond continued.

 

“I told him I was only the mate and that the ship belonged to Morrel & Son. He said he knew the name. The Morrels, he told me, had been shipowners from father to son. He even remembered a Morrel who had served in his regiment when he was stationed at Valence.”

 

Morrel’s face brightened.

 

“That’s true! Policar Morrel—my uncle. He later became a captain.”

 

The news delighted him.

 

“You must tell him that the emperor remembered him, Edmond. You’ll bring tears to the old soldier’s eyes.”

 

He gave Edmond an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

 

“And you were right to follow Captain Leclere’s orders and stop at Elba.”

 

Then his expression changed.

 

“Still, I would be careful who hears of it. Carrying a packet to Marshal Bertrand and speaking with the emperor could bring you trouble.”

 

Edmond looked genuinely surprised.

 

“Trouble? Why, monsieur? I didn’t even know what was in the packet. And the emperor

asked me nothing more than he might have asked any sailor who happened to be

standing there.”

 

Before Morrel could answer, Edmond glanced toward the side of the ship.

 

“Forgive me. The health officers and customs inspectors are coming aboard.”

 

He immediately went to meet them.

 

And the young man went to the gangway.

 

As soon as Edmond was out of earshot, Danglars stepped closer to Morrel.

 

“Well,” he said, “it seems he gave you satisfactory reasons for stopping at Porto-Ferrajo?”

 

“Perfectly satisfactory, my dear Danglars.”

 

“So much the better. It’s unpleasant to think that a comrade has neglected his duty.”

 

“Dantès has done his,” Morrel replied. “And there is little more to say about it.

Captain Leclere himself ordered the delay.”

 

Danglars paused.

 

“Speaking of Captain Leclere—Dantès hasn’t given you a letter from him?”

 

“A letter? To me? No. Was there one?”

 

“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere entrusted him with a letter.”

 

Morrel looked at him.

 

“What packet are you talking about?”

 

“The one Dantès delivered at Porto-Ferrajo.”

 

“And how do you know he had a packet to deliver there?”

 

Color rose sharply in Danglars’ face.

 

“I happened to be passing the captain’s cabin. The door was half open, and I saw Captain Leclere give both a packet and a letter to Dantès.”

 

“He said nothing to me about a letter,” Morrel replied. “But if there is one, he’ll give it to me.”

 

Danglars was silent for a moment.

 

Then he said, “In that case, Monsieur Morrel, I would ask you not to mention the matter to Dantès. I may have been mistaken.”

 

At that moment Edmond returned.

 

Danglars withdrew.

 

“Well, my dear Dantès, are you free now?” Morrel asked when Edmond returned.

 

“Yes, monsieur.”

 

“That didn’t take long.”

 

“No. I gave the customs officers a copy of the bill of lading, and the remaining papers went ashore with the pilot.”

 

“So you have nothing more to do here?”

 

“Nothing. Everything is in order.”

 

“Then come dine with me.”

 

Edmond hesitated.

 

“I’m grateful, Monsieur Morrel, but I must ask you to excuse me. My first visit belongs to my father.”

 

Morrel smiled.

 

“Quite right. I always knew you were a good son.”

 

Edmond’s expression changed slightly.

 

“Do you know how my father is?”

 

“Well, I believe. Though I haven’t seen him lately.”

 

“Yes,” Edmond said. “He keeps mostly to his little room.”

 

“At least that suggests he wanted for nothing while you were away.”

 

Edmond smiled, but there was tenderness in it.

 

“My father is a proud man, monsieur. If he were down to his last meal, I doubt he would ask anything of anyone except Heaven.”

 

“Then once you’ve seen him, we’ll expect you.”

 

Again Edmond hesitated.

 

“I’m afraid I must ask your pardon a second time. After I see my father, there is another visit I’m very anxious to make.”

 

Morrel laughed.

 

“Of course. I’d forgotten there’s someone in the Catalans waiting for you nearly as impatiently as your father—the lovely Mercédès.”

 

Edmond blushed.

 

“Ah!” Morrel continued. “I’m not surprised. She came to see me three times asking whether there was any news of the Pharaon. Edmond, you have a very beautiful sweetheart.”

 

“She is not my sweetheart,” Edmond replied seriously. “She is my betrothed.”

 

“Sometimes that amounts to the same thing,” Morrel said with a smile.

 

“Not with us, monsieur.”

 

Morrel laughed again.

 

“Well, I won’t keep you. You have taken such good care of my affairs that I ought to give you time enough to see to your own. Do you need any money?”

 

“No, monsieur. I still have all my pay coming to me—nearly three months’ wages.”

 

“You’re careful with your money, Edmond.”

 

“Say instead that I have a poor father.”

 

Morrel’s expression softened.

 

“Yes, yes. I know what kind of son you are. Go to him. I have a son myself, and I would be furious with anyone who kept him from me after three months at sea.”

 

“Then I have your permission to leave?”

 

“You do—unless there is anything else you need to tell me.”

 

“Nothing, monsieur.”

 

“Captain Leclere didn’t give you a letter for me before he died?” Morrel asked.

 

“He was too ill to write, monsieur. But that reminds me—I need to ask for a few days’ leave.”

 

“To get married?”

 

“Yes. First for that, and then to go to Paris.”

 

“Take whatever time you need. It will be six weeks before the cargo is unloaded, and nearly three months before we’re ready to sail again.”

 

Morrel rested a hand on Edmond’s shoulder.

 

“Only be back by then. The Pharaon cannot sail without her captain.”

 

Edmond stared at him.

 

“Her captain?”

 

His eyes lit instantly.

 

“Monsieur Morrel, be careful what you say. You’ve touched on the dearest hope I have. Do you truly mean to make me captain of the Pharaon?”

 

“If I were the only owner, I’d shake your hand now and consider it settled. But I have a partner, and as the Italian proverb says: Chi ha compagno ha padrone—he who has a partner has a master.”

 

Morrel smiled.

 

“Still, half the matter is already decided. You have one vote out of two. Leave the other to me. I’ll do everything I can.”

 

Tears rose in Edmond’s eyes. He seized Morrel’s hand.

 

“Monsieur Morrel, thank you—from my father and from Mercédès.”

 

“There’s no need for that,” Morrel replied warmly. “Providence has a way of favoring those who deserve it. Go to your father. Go see Mercédès. Then come back to me.”

 

“Shall I row you ashore?”

 

“No, thank you. I’m staying to go over the accounts with Danglars.”

 

Morrel paused.

 

“Tell me—have you been satisfied with him during the voyage?”

 

“That depends on what you mean, monsieur.”

 

Edmond considered the question.

 

“If you mean as a companion, no. I don’t believe he has liked me since the day we quarreled and I foolishly suggested that we stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle the matter. I was wrong to suggest it, and he was right to refuse.”

 

He continued without bitterness.

 

“But if you mean whether he has done his duty as supercargo, I have nothing to say against him. I believe you’ll be satisfied with his work.”

 

Morrel studied him.

 

“If you were captain of the Pharaon, would you be happy to keep Danglars aboard?”

 

“Captain or mate, Monsieur Morrel, I will always respect anyone who has the owners’ confidence.”

 

Morrel nodded approvingly.

 

“That’s well said, Dantès. Very well said. I won’t keep you any longer. I can see how eager you are to be gone.”

 

“Then I have your permission?”

 

“Yes. Go.”

 

“May I take your skiff?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“For now, then, Monsieur Morrel—farewell, and a thousand thanks.”

 

“I hope to see you again soon, Edmond. Good luck.”

 

Edmond climbed into the skiff and took his place at the stern, directing the two oarsmen to take him to La Canebière.

 

They bent to their oars, and the little boat slipped quickly through the crowded harbor, threading its way among the countless vessels packed between the mouth of the port and the Quai d’Orléans.

 

Morrel watched with a smile until Edmond leapt ashore and disappeared into the crowd.

 

La Canebière was alive from early morning until late at night, and the people of Marseilles took such pride in the famous street that they liked to say, with perfect seriousness:

 

“If Paris had La Canebière, Paris would be a second Marseilles.”

 

When Morrel finally turned away, he found Danglars standing behind him.

 

Danglars, too, had been watching Edmond disappear.

 

But the expression on his face was very different from Morrel’s.