Summer 1842, On the Mediterranean Sea.
Gentle waves pressed against each other in the blazing sunlight.
A ship split and scattered their gleam as it advanced across the water's surface.
Although it could hardly be called luxurious, the sailing vessel had a certain elegance and strength about it. On board, a man spoke.
"...What's that island over there?"
The man was gazing at the silhouette of an island. Although it was beautifully formed, tracing a gentle curve, it was a barren expanse of yellow-brown rock mingled with traces of pale green.
"Oh, that place... There's nothing on it, mister. Just a desert island."
"Oh?" The man responded to the answer of a nearby crewman with interest. "No one lives there? I see something that looks like a building."
"What? Oh... Well, I don't know about that. Never taken the trouble to stop there... But you're right. I wonder what it is."
The crewman returned to his work with a quizzical look. In his place, a man approached holding a cup.
"What is it, Brother? You fallen for that island or something?"
He was a well-dressed and well-built man with gentle features, but his eyes seemed to flicker with the light of a solemn intelligence.
"But you know you shouldn't fall for islands or oceans? They're scary women—a fright when they're angry, and ready to leave you penniless if they get half the chance. Well, I guess they could be men."
The man shrugged. The man who had first been staring at the island shook his head.
"...The day we met is was 'my friend,' then 'my dearest friend' on the ship out. Now, on the return voyage, you're calling me 'brother,' Prince? If anyone heard you, I'd be stoned for lèse-majesté."
"Nonsense. If I care for a man than for any friend, but not as a lover, then I have no choice but to treat him as my own flesh and blood."
The man who had been called "Prince" took a gulp of the liquid in his cup and flashed a grin.
"Besides, you never bothered with that kind of formal courtesy in the first place."
"Well, we could converse a bit more attractively in prose. Want to do this by letter?"
"It's not me that people truly pay respect to; it's people like you... People who give others joy. I, at least, cannot give people as much joy as your romantic play L'Alchimiste or your novel Le Chevalier d'Harmental. It was you who accomplished that—none other than Alexandre Dumas. Your reputation will never suffer as a brother to the former emperor's nephew."
The man who had just been so excessively praised—Alexandre Dumas—smiled wryly at the man in front of him and shook his head.
"I'll be damned. To think that the illustrious nephew of His Imperial Majesty Napoléon Bonaparte would sing my praises like that. I'm grateful, but I'd like to avoid a life under house arrest on that island."
The man Dumas was addressing—Napoléon Joseph Charles Paul Bonaparte—smiled cheerfully in time with the rocking of the boat.
He was the nephew of Emperor Napoléon I of France and the cousin of Napoléon III. Because his father Jérôme had been King of Westphalia, the 19-year-old was called either "Prince" or "Plon-Plon"—his nickname.
He had become acquainted with Dumas—who was already a bestselling author at the time—when Dumas traveled to Italy, and at Jérôme's recommendation, they had gone on to Elba together. They had enjoyed themselves hunting on the island where Joseph's uncle Napoléon I had once been exiled and were currently being rocked by the ship bearing them back from it.
"By the way, Brother..." Joseph turned a winning smile on Dumas, more than 20 years his senior. "Do you hold a grudge against my uncle?"
Dumas answered with a shrug.
"Ha ha! What could I hold against the great Napoléon, Emperor of France?"
"I hear my uncle treated your father awfully coldly. And that he even refused your mother's requests for a pension."
"Drop it—it's over and done with. Well, I did live poor a long time because of that, and my mum had a rough time of it, too. I think I'd be within my rights to sock him one for her, but..."
After a short pause for thought, Dumas continued slowly while gazing at the island.
"I've never told you...about the time I met you uncle and had a talk with him, have I?"
"First I've heard of it."
"It happened when I was barely 13. He'd come for a victory parade, and I went to get a look at him."
He paused at that point and the ship tilted sharply.
"With a pistol hidden in my breast pocket."
"..."
That sentence, spoken in the break between waves, carried an impact like a scene in a play. Joseph, however, listened to them in silence.
"I'd planned on challenging him to a duel. To throw my glove at his carriage. It was His Imperial Majesty who insulted my old man and my mum first—that ought to give me the right to choose the weapons."
"But my uncle didn't die there, and the great author is right here, alive and well."
"Yeah. I walked up while everyone around me was shouting 'vive l'empereur.' I must have looked like a ghost. I caught a glimpse of a pale face through a gap in the carriage. He was just a little man warn out from battle. It was simple—all I had to do was hurl my glove at him in place of a challenge. Once I did it, I was sure he'd order the soldiers all around him to shoot me or chase me off. But that would be fleeing from our duel. He deserved to have the townspeople mock him as the emperor who ran from a duel with a kid! ...A moment later, the poor brat, drunk on those thoughts more sickly than the emperor's face, pulled out his glove. And what do you think he did with it?"
Dumas recited his past rhythmically, in time with the rocking of the ship, and in a clear, resonant voice, like an actor delivering his lines.
"...The answer is that he waved it. He raised the glove he'd meant to throw high above his head and before he knew it, he was shouting 'vive l'empereur' with the rest of the crowd. Yes, Prince. Your uncle was a hero, but he was also hated by a lot of people. I'm sure there were any number of people apart from me who wanted to hurl a glove at him. I bet there was a crowd of people who came wanting to just put a bullet into his carriage and not bother with dueling, too. But every last one of those people showered the pale, worn-out man with cheers. I don't know what made them do it, but the Emperor was the people's dream. He was their idol. Once I realized that, I couldn't go through with it. It's a fine soldier who can coolly point a gun at a man he admires, but I'm no soldier. It's because he made me realize that that I now fight with a pen in my hand instead of a gun."
Bringing the long story he had begun gravely to a close with a lighthearted tone, Dumas winked and grinned at his friend more than 20 years his junior.
"Does it come off alright when I tell it like that, Prince?"
"Was that one of your inventions, Brother?"
"Who knows? But if someone wants to make it that way, they'll make it that way whether I affirm it or deny it. The truth dims in the face of an amusing lie. Put the other way round, even if you're stuck with the awful meat called 'truth,' which no amount of boiling or grilling will make fit to eat, you can still make it a bit more palatable by letting it marinate in history for a few years and seasoning it with a sprinkle of lies."
Dumas spoke far more cheerfully than he had when relating his own past. Joseph was exasperated, but continued to press him.
"But now that I've heard this much, Brother, I'd like to know what the meat really is."
"In this case, the 'truth' is that, well...I'm not carrying a grudge against Napoléon I or his bloodline anymore. When I add stories like that one just now to it, it hardly matter if they're truth or fiction, does it?"
"I see. Then to you, even a desert island is an ingredient worth dining on. Still, out of all the desert islands out there, what makes you so interested in just that one? Do you have some kind of history with it, by any chance?" Joseph asked with a raucous laugh.
"It's a hunch," Dumas shrugged. "Just a hunch."
"A hunch, huh? I suppose that counts for a lot in your line of work."
"It's an island a spotted while sailing with a relative of His Imperial Majesty. I was thinking that I might as well make it famous to in memory of our meeting."
At that, the nephew of the man who had been emperor of France turned to the island and, giddy as a child, spoke in a voice bursting with enthusiasm.
"Yes, I think there's something about that island myself. A few years back, I even heard rumors of a person who bears the same name. Just between us...the hidden side of the church even made some strange moves."
"The...hidden side of the church?"
"Oh, forget about that. The church wouldn't even bare all its secrets to my father, and he was a king. Anyway, there have been rumors of treasure and miracle stories about that island for a long time now. City children, fishermen, adventurers, religionists—because there's nothing on that island, all sorts of people have been able to project whatever dreams they want to see onto it. But almost no one actually tries to search it, for fear of finding that there's really nothing there."
"Hey now, are you trying to steal my thunder? Telling a story about that island is my job. Just tell me what its name is, Brother."
Joseph, pleased at being called "brother" back, proclaimed the name of the island, his eyes shining with anticipation for the novel Dumas would write about it.
"That island is called Montecristo! An island of possibilities that contains everything because it has nothing."
Originally Posted by successor of the Matou family
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