“But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have constantly denied having rendered you this service?”
“Yes.”
“Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be someone who, grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?”
“Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle.”
“What was his name?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He gave no other name,” answered Julie, looking earnestly at the count, “than that at the end of his letter—‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”
“Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one.”
Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice:
“Tell me,” continued he, “was he not about my height, perhaps a little taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?”
“Oh, do you then know him?” cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.
“No,” returned Monte Cristo “I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind.”
“Without revealing himself?”
“He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of gratitude.”
“Oh, Heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did he believe, then?”
“He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said Monte Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie’s voice; “but, perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist.”