Her memory was prodigious, her voice exceptionally true, her taste perfect. Sanselme felt that here was safety for him.
At the end of a few years Jane, now become a great artist, went with her benefactor to Paris.
Their position toward each other was in no degree modified. He was very respectful in his manner, and always kept a certain distance between them. He did not wish her to know anything more about herself than that she was the daughter of the wretched Zelda.
By degrees the recollection of Lyons seemed to fall from the mind of Jane. Never was there the most distant allusion ever made to her mother, and the girl never spoke of her.
This silence astonished Sanselme, and troubled him as well. He had studied Jane so closely that he thoroughly understood her character, her goodness, unselfishness and passionate gratitude. He knew that she had not forgotten her mother, and would never do so, and that the reason she never mentioned her was because her pain and shame were quite as acute as ever. Jane's character was a singular mixture of audacity and timidity. It was her own proposition that she should offer her services at the concert, and when Sanselme proposed that she should go to Sabrau's, the artist, she had not hesitated in doing so.
She sought to distract her mind, for she was haunted by a spectre. She had a ghastly fear that she might be tempted to lead the life her mother had led.
The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected, honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged. Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.
It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at the artist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. If she would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured—but hitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.
That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre of his past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible that Benedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence. When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered the rage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.