The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

By Alexandre Dumas

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Title: The Count of Monte Cristo

Author: Alexandre Dumas, père

Release Date: January, 1998 [eBook #1184]
[Most recently updated: October 16, 2021]

Language: English


Produced by: Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers, Dan Muller and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO ***




THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO



by Alexandre Dumas [père]





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Contents


 VOLUME ONE
Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival
Chapter 2. Father and Son
Chapter 3. The Catalans
Chapter 4. Conspiracy
Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast
Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi
Chapter 7. The Examination
Chapter 8. The Château d’If
Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal
Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries
Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre
Chapter 12. Father and Son
Chapter 13. The Hundred Days
Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners
Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27
Chapter 16. A Learned Italian
Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber
Chapter 18. The Treasure
Chapter 19. The Third Attack
Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If
Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen
Chapter 22. The Smugglers
Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo
Chapter 24. The Secret Cave
Chapter 25. The Unknown
Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn
Chapter 27. The Story

 VOLUME TWO
Chapter 28. The Prison Register
Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son
Chapter 30. The Fifth of September
Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor
Chapter 32. The Waking
Chapter 33. Roman Bandits
Chapter 34. The Colosseum
Chapter 35. La Mazzolata
Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome.
Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian 
Chapter 38. The Rendezvous
Chapter 39. The Guests
Chapter 40. The Breakfast
Chapter 41. The Presentation
Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio
Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil
Chapter 44. The Vendetta
Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood
Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit
Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays

 VOLUME THREE
Chapter 48. Ideology
Chapter 49. Haydée
Chapter 50. The Morrel Family
Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe
Chapter 52. Toxicology
Chapter 53. Robert le Diable
Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks
Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti
Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti
Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch
Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort
Chapter 59. The Will
Chapter 60. The Telegraph
Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice
Chapter 62. Ghosts
Chapter 63. The Dinner
Chapter 64. The Beggar
Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene
Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects
Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney
Chapter 68. A Summer Ball
Chapter 69. The Inquiry
Chapter 70. The Ball
Chapter 71. Bread and Salt
Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran
Chapter 73. The Promise

VOLUME FOUR
Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault
Chapter 75. A Signed Statement
Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger
Chapter 77. Haydée
Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina
Chapter 79. The Lemonade
Chapter 80. The Accusation
Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker
Chapter 82. The Burglary
Chapter 83. The Hand of God
Chapter 84. Beauchamp
Chapter 85. The Journey
Chapter 86. The Trial
Chapter 87. The Challenge
Chapter 88. The Insult
Chapter 89. The Night
Chapter 90. The Meeting
Chapter 91. Mother and Son
Chapter 92. The Suicide
Chapter 93. Valentine
Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal
Chapter 95. Father and Daughter

VOLUME FIVE
Chapter 96. The Contract
Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium
Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern
Chapter 99. The Law
Chapter 100. The Apparition
Chapter 101. Locusta
Chapter 102. Valentine
Chapter 103. Maximilian
Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature
Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise 
Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds
Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den
Chapter 108. The Judge
Chapter 109. The Assizes
Chapter 110. The Indictment
Chapter 111. Expiation
Chapter 112. The Departure
Chapter 113. The Past
Chapter 114. Peppino
Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare 
Chapter 116. The Pardon
Chapter 117. The Fifth of October



VOLUME ONE



 Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival

On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde
signalled the three-master, the _Pharaon_ from Smyrna, Trieste, and
Naples.

As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Château d’If,
got on board the vessel between Cape Morgiou and Rion island.

Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean
were covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a
ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the _Pharaon_,
has been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs
to an owner of the city.

The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic
shock has made between the Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled
Pomègue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker,
but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is
the forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could have
happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly
that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself,
for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the
anchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and standing by
the side of the pilot, who was steering the _Pharaon_ towards the
narrow entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity
and vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each
direction of the pilot.

The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much
affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the
vessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled
alongside the _Pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded into La
Réserve basin.

When the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his
station by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over the ship’s
bulwarks.

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with
black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing; and his whole
appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men
accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.

“Ah, is it you, Dantès?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s the
matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?”

“A great misfortune, M. Morrel,” replied the young man, “a great
misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave
Captain Leclere.”

“And the cargo?” inquired the owner, eagerly.

“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that
head. But poor Captain Leclere——”

“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of considerable
resignation. “What happened to the worthy captain?”

“He died.”

“Fell into the sea?”

“No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.” Then turning to
the crew, he said, “Bear a hand there, to take in sail!”

All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the
crew, sprang to their respective stations at the spanker brails and
outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and the topsail
clewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his
orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to
the owner.

“And how did this misfortune occur?” inquired the latter, resuming the
interrupted conversation.

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“Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the
harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in mind.
In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days
afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his
rest, sewn up in his hammock with a thirty-six-pound shot at his head
and his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword
and cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,” added the young man
with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the English for ten
years, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else.”

“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more comforted
at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the
young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you assure
me that the cargo——”

“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise
you not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of the voyage.”

Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted:
“Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib; brail up the spanker!”

The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a
man-of-war.

“Let go—and clue up!” At this last command all the sails were lowered,
and the vessel moved almost imperceptibly onwards.

“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, observing the
owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out
of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I
must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.”

The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which
Dantès flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit
to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man,
going to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came
towards the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of
age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors,
insolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as
responsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors,
made him as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantès was beloved by
them.

“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the misfortune
that has befallen us?”

“Yes—yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man.”

“And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service,
as became a man charged with the interests of a house so important as
that of Morrel & Son,” replied Danglars.

“But,” replied the owner, glancing after Dantès, who was watching the
anchoring of his vessel, “it seems to me that a sailor needs not be so
old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend
Edmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require
instruction from anyone.”

“Yes,” said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate.
“Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was
the captain’s breath out of his body when he assumed the command
without consulting anyone, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at
the Island of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct.”

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“As to taking command of the vessel,” replied Morrel, “that was his
duty as captain’s mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Island of
Elba, he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs.”

“The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are,
M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the
pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else.”

“Dantès,” said the shipowner, turning towards the young man, “come this
way!”

“In a moment, sir,” answered Dantès, “and I’m with you.” Then calling
to the crew, he said, “Let go!”

The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through
the port-hole. Dantès continued at his post in spite of the presence of
the pilot, until this manœuvre was completed, and then he added,
“Half-mast the colors, and square the yards!”

“You see,” said Danglars, “he fancies himself captain already, upon my
word.”

“And so, in fact, he is,” said the owner.

“Except your signature and your partner’s, M. Morrel.”

“And why should he not have this?” asked the owner; “he is young, it is
true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience.”

A cloud passed over Danglars’ brow.

“Your pardon, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, approaching, “the vessel now
rides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?”

Danglars retreated a step or two. “I wished to inquire why you stopped
at the Island of Elba?”

“I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain
Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for Marshal Bertrand.”

“Then did you see him, Edmond?”

“Who?”

“The marshal.”

“Yes.”

Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantès on one side, he said
suddenly—

“And how is the emperor?”

“Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him.”

“You saw the emperor, then?”

“He entered the marshal’s apartment while I was there.”

“And you spoke to him?”

“Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,” said Dantès, with a smile.

“And what did he say to you?”

“Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the
course she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not
been laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her. But I
told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel &
Son. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners
from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same
regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.’”

“_Pardieu!_ and that is true!” cried the owner, greatly delighted. “And
that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain.
Dantès, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you
will see it will bring tears into the old soldier’s eyes. Come, come,”
continued he, patting Edmond’s shoulder kindly, “you did very right,
Dantès, to follow Captain Leclere’s instructions, and touch at Elba,
although if it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the
marshal, and had conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into
trouble.”

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“How could that bring me into trouble, sir?” asked Dantès; “for I did
not even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made
such inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here are
the health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside.” And
the young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached,
and said,—

“Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his
landing at Porto-Ferrajo?”

“Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars.”

“Well, so much the better,” said the supercargo; “for it is not
pleasant to think that a comrade has not done his duty.”

“Dantès has done his,” replied the owner, “and that is not saying much.
It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay.”

“Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantès given you a letter from
him?”

“To me?—no—was there one?”

“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter
to his care.”

“Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?”

“Why, that which Dantès left at Porto-Ferrajo.”

“How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?”

Danglars turned very red.

“I was passing close to the door of the captain’s cabin, which was half
open, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dantès.”

“He did not speak to me of it,” replied the shipowner; “but if there be
any letter he will give it to me.”

Danglars reflected for a moment. “Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,” said
he, “not to say a word to Dantès on the subject. I may have been
mistaken.”

At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.

“Well, my dear Dantès, are you now free?” inquired the owner.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have not been long detained.”

“No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and
as to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I
gave them.”

“Then you have nothing more to do here?”

“No—everything is all right now.”

“Then you can come and dine with me?”

“I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due
to my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honor you have
done me.”

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“Right, Dantès, quite right. I always knew you were a good son.”

“And,” inquired Dantès, with some hesitation, “do you know how my
father is?”

“Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately.”

“Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room.”

“That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your
absence.”

Dantès smiled. “My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal left,
I doubt if he would have asked anything from anyone, except from
Heaven.”

“Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on
you.”

“I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has
been paid I have another which I am most anxious to pay.”

“True, Dantès, I forgot that there was at the Catalans someone who
expects you no less impatiently than your father—the lovely Mercédès.”

Dantès blushed.

“Ah, ha,” said the shipowner, “I am not in the least surprised, for she
has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the
_Pharaon_. _Peste!_ Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!”

“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor, gravely; “she is my
betrothed.”

“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a smile.

“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantès.

“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “don’t let me detain
you. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all
the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?”

“No, sir; I have all my pay to take—nearly three months’ wages.”

“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.”

“Say I have a poor father, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see
your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those
who detained him from me after a three months’ voyage.”

“Then I have your leave, sir?”

“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.”

“Nothing.”

“Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?”

“He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your
leave of absence for some days.”

“To get married?”

“Yes, first, and then to go to Paris.”

“Very good; have what time you require, Dantès. It will take quite six
weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until
three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the
_Pharaon_,” added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back,
“cannot sail without her captain.”

“Without her captain!” cried Dantès, his eyes sparkling with animation;
“pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes
of my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the
_Pharaon_?”

“If I were sole owner we’d shake hands on it now, my dear Dantès, and
call it settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian
proverb—_Chi ha compagno ha padrone_—‘He who has a partner has a
master.’ But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of
two votes. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best.”

“Ah, M. Morrel,” exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes,
and grasping the owner’s hand, “M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of
my father and of Mercédès.”

“That’s all right, Edmond. There’s a providence that watches over the
deserving. Go to your father; go and see Mercédès, and afterwards come
to me.”

“Shall I row you ashore?”

“No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with
Danglars. Have you been satisfied with him this voyage?”

“That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you
mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the
day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose
to him to stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle
the dispute—a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite
right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you ask me the
question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you
will be content with the way in which he has performed his duty.”

“But tell me, Dantès, if you had command of the _Pharaon_ should you be
glad to see Danglars remain?”

“Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect
for those who possess the owners’ confidence.”

“That’s right, that’s right, Dantès! I see you are a thoroughly good
fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you
are.”

“Then I have leave?”

“Go, I tell you.”

“May I have the use of your skiff?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!”

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

The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern
sheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La Canebière. The two
oarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly
as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the
narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of
the harbor to the Quai d’Orléans.

The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him
spring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of the throng, which
from five o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, swarms in
the famous street of La Canebière,—a street of which the modern
Phocéens are so proud that they say with all the gravity in the world,
and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, “If
Paris had La Canebière, Paris would be a second Marseilles.” On turning
round the owner saw Danglars behind him, apparently awaiting orders,
but in reality also watching the young sailor,—but there was a great
difference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the
movements of Edmond Dantès.



 Chapter 2. Father and Son

We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and
endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil
suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantès, who, after having
traversed La Canebière, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small
house, on the left of the Allées de Meilhan, rapidly ascended four
flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while
with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused
before a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small
room.

This room was occupied by Dantès’ father. The news of the arrival of
the _Pharaon_ had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair,
was amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and
sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window.
Suddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice
behind him exclaimed, “Father—dear father!”

The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he
fell into his arms, pale and trembling.

“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young
man, much alarmed.

“No, no, my dear Edmond—my boy—my son!—no; but I did not expect you;
and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly—Ah, I feel as if I were
going to die.”

“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ’Tis I—really I! They say joy
never hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do
smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and
we are going to be happy.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will—so we will,” replied the old man; “but
how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me
all the good fortune that has befallen you.”

“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness
derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek
this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to
lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable
that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you
understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred
louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor
sailor like me could have hoped for?”

“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very fortunate.”

“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small
house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and
honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?”

“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away”—and as he said so the
old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.

“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive
you. Where do you keep your wine?”

“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the
old man.

“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,” and he opened two or three
cupboards.

“It is no use,” said the old man, “there is no wine.”

“What, no wine?” said Dantès, turning pale, and looking alternately at
the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. “What, no
wine? Have you wanted money, father?”

“I want nothing now that I have you,” said the old man.

“Yet,” stammered Dantès, wiping the perspiration from his brow,—“yet I
gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago.”

“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little
debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I
did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see,
lest he might do you an injury——”

“Well?”

“Why, I paid him.”

“But,” cried Dantès, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed
Caderousse.”

“Yes,” stammered the old man.

“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”

The old man nodded.

“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered
Edmond.

“You know how little I require,” said the old man.

“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his
father.

“What are you doing?”

“You have wounded me to the heart.”

“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man; “and now
it’s all over—everything is all right again.”

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“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a promising future and a
little money. Here, father, here!” he said, “take this—take it, and
send for something immediately.” And he emptied his pockets on the
table, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six
five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantès
brightened.

“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired.

“To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and
tomorrow we shall have more.”

“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by your leave I
will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy
too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your
return, in order to be able to purchase them.”

“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I
will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and
most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall
have tomorrow. But, hush, here comes somebody.”

“’Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to
congratulate you on your fortunate return.”

“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,” murmured
Edmond. “But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on
a time, so he’s welcome.”

As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at
the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of
cloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.

“What, is it you, Edmond, back again?” said he, with a broad
Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth.

“Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you
in any and every way,” replied Dantès, but ill-concealing his coldness
under this cloak of civility.

“Thanks—thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it
chances that at times there are others who have need of me.” Dantès
made a gesture. “I do not allude to you, my boy. No!—no! I lent you
money, and you returned it; that’s like good neighbors, and we are
quits.”

“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantès’ reply; “for
when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude.”

“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk
of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece
of mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars. ‘You at
Marseilles?’—‘Yes,’ says he.

“‘I thought you were at Smyrna.’—‘I was; but am now back again.’

“‘And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?’

“‘Why, with his father, no doubt,’ replied Danglars. And so I came,”
added Caderousse, “as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking
hands with a friend.”

0037m



“Worthy Caderousse!” said the old man, “he is so much attached to us.”

“Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are
so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy,” continued the
tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dantès
had thrown on the table.

The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes
of his neighbor. “Eh,” he said, negligently, “this money is not mine. I
was expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in
my absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come,
father” added Dantès, “put this money back in your box—unless neighbor
Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service.”

“No, my boy, no,” said Caderousse. “I am not in any want, thank God, my
living is suited to my means. Keep your money—keep it, I say;—one never
has too much;—but, at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by
your offer as if I took advantage of it.”

“It was offered with good will,” said Dantès.

“No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I
hear,—you insinuating dog, you!”

“M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,” replied Dantès.

“Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him.”

“What, did you refuse to dine with him?” said old Dantès; “and did he
invite you to dine?”

“Yes, my dear father,” replied Edmond, smiling at his father’s
astonishment at the excessive honor paid to his son.

“And why did you refuse, my son?” inquired the old man.

“That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,” replied the
young man. “I was most anxious to see you.”

“But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,” said Caderousse.
“And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy
the owner.”

“But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,” replied Dantès, “and
I hope he fully understood it.”

“Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one’s
patrons.”

“I hope to be captain without that,” said Dantès.

“So much the better—so much the better! Nothing will give greater
pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the
Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it.”

“Mercédès?” said the old man.

“Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you,
and know you are well and have all you require, I will ask your consent
to go and pay a visit to the Catalans.”

“Go, my dear boy,” said old Dantès; “and Heaven bless you in your wife,
as it has blessed me in my son!”

“His wife!” said Caderousse; “why, how fast you go on, father Dantès;
she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me.”

“No, but according to all probability she soon will be,” replied
Edmond.

“Yes—yes,” said Caderousse; “but you were right to return as soon as
possible, my boy.”

“And why?”

“Because Mercédès is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack
followers; she particularly has them by dozens.”

“Really?” answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of
slight uneasiness.

0039m



“Ah, yes,” continued Caderousse, “and capital offers, too; but you
know, you will be captain, and who could refuse you then?”

“Meaning to say,” replied Dantès, with a smile which but ill-concealed
his trouble, “that if I were not a captain——”

“Eh—eh!” said Caderousse, shaking his head.

“Come, come,” said the sailor, “I have a better opinion than you of
women in general, and of Mercédès in particular; and I am certain that,
captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me.”

“So much the better—so much the better,” said Caderousse. “When one is
going to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but
never mind that, my boy,—go and announce your arrival, and let her know
all your hopes and prospects.”

“I will go directly,” was Edmond’s reply; and, embracing his father,
and nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment.

Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantès, he
went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of
the Rue Senac.

“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?”

“I have just left him,” answered Caderousse.

“Did he allude to his hope of being captain?”

“He spoke of it as a thing already decided.”

“Indeed!” said Danglars, “he is in too much hurry, it appears to me.”

“Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing.”

“So that he is quite elated about it?”

“Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter—has already offered
me his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a
loan of money, as though he were a banker.”

“Which you refused?”

“Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was I
who put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M.
Dantès has no longer any occasion for assistance—he is about to become
a captain.”

“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not one yet.”

“_Ma foi!_ it will be as well if he is not,” answered Caderousse; “for
if he should be, there will be really no speaking to him.”

“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he is; and
perhaps become even less than he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing—I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the
Catalane?”

“Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a
storm in that quarter.”

0041m



“Explain yourself.”

“Why should I?”

“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantès?”

“I never like upstarts.”

“Then tell me all you know about the Catalane.”

“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to
believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some
annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries.”

“What have you seen?—come, tell me!”

“Well, every time I have seen Mercédès come into the city she has been
accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red
complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin.”

“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?”

“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean
with a fine wench of seventeen?”

“And you say that Dantès has gone to the Catalans?”

“He went before I came down.”

“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Réserve, and we can drink a
glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news.”

“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but you pay the score.”

“Of course,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated
place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses.

Père Pamphile had seen Dantès pass not ten minutes before; and assured
that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of
the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were
singing their welcome to one of the first days of spring.



 Chapter 3. The Catalans

Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot
where the two friends sat looking and listening as they drank their
wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious colony
quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this
day. Whence it came no one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of
its chiefs, who understood Provençal, begged the commune of Marseilles
to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors
of old, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and
three months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels
which had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up.
This village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half
Moorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by descendants
of the first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three
or four centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on
which they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with
the Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their
original customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have
preserved its language.

Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little
village, and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the
beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and
within coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and
beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the
gazelle’s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in
her slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the
flowers of which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her
arms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the
Arlesian Venus, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she
tapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so as to display the
pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and
blue clocked, stocking. At three paces from her, seated in a chair
which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten
table, was a tall young man of twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was
looking at her with an air in which vexation and uneasiness were
mingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze
of the young girl controlled his look.

“You see, Mercédès,” said the young man, “here is Easter come round
again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?”

“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be
very stupid to ask me again.”

“Well, repeat it,—repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe
it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had
your mother’s sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are
trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you.
Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès, and
to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!”

“At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,”
replied Mercédès; “you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry.
I have always said to you, ‘I love you as a brother; but do not ask
from me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another’s.’ Is
not this true, Fernand?”

“Yes, that is very true, Mercédès,” replied the young man, “Yes, you
have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the
Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?”

0045m



“You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I
pray of you, do not cite this custom in your favor. You are included in
the conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance,
liable at any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier,
what would you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune,
with nothing but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable
inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She
has been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost
entirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you,
and that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and
I accept it, Fernand, because you are the son of my father’s brother,
because we were brought up together, and still more because it would
give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this
fish which I go and sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax
I spin,—I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity.”

“And if it were, Mercédès, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as
well as the daughter of the first shipowner or the richest banker of
Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful
housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?”

“Fernand,” answered Mercédès, shaking her head, “a woman becomes a bad
manager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when she
loves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my
friendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will
promise no more than I can bestow.”

“I understand,” replied Fernand, “you can endure your own wretchedness
patiently, but you are afraid to share mine. Well, Mercédès, beloved by
you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should
become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a
place as clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself.”

“You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you
remain at the Catalans it is because there is no war; so remain a
fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you
more.”

“Well, I will do better, Mercédès. I will be a sailor; instead of the
costume of our fathers, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat,
a striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons.
Would not that dress please you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mercédès, with an angry glance,—“what do you
mean? I do not understand you?”

“I mean, Mercédès, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because
you are expecting someone who is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you
await is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him.”

“Fernand,” cried Mercédès, “I believed you were good-hearted, and I was
mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the
anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of
whom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of
the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died
loving me and me only.” The young girl made a gesture of rage. “I
understand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not
love you; you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end
would that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and
see that friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me,
to seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who
loves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil
thoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself
with having me for your friend and sister; and besides,” she added, her
eyes troubled and moistened with tears, “wait, wait, Fernand; you said
just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four
months, and during these four months there have been some terrible
storms.”

Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which
flowed down the cheeks of Mercédès, although for each of these tears he
would have shed his heart’s blood; but these tears flowed for another.
He arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly
stopping before Mercédès, with his eyes glowing and his hands
clenched,—“Say, Mercédès,” he said, “once for all, is this your final
determination?”

“I love Edmond Dantès,” the young girl calmly replied, “and none but
Edmond shall ever be my husband.”

“And you will always love him?”

“As long as I live.”

Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was
like a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in the face, with
clenched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,—“But if he is dead——”

“If he is dead, I shall die too.”

“If he has forgotten you——”

“Mercédès!” called a joyous voice from without,—“Mercédès!”

“Ah,” exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly
leaping in excess of love, “you see he has not forgotten me, for here
he is!” And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, “Here,
Edmond, here I am!”

Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight
of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him. Edmond and Mercédès
were clasped in each other’s arms. The burning Marseilles sun, which
shot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of
light. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness
isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in
broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem
rather the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale,
and threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the
shadow. By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself,
the young Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.

“Ah, your pardon,” said Dantès, frowning in his turn; “I did not
perceive that there were three of us.” Then, turning to Mercédès, he
inquired, “Who is this gentleman?”

“One who will be your best friend, Dantès, for he is my friend, my
cousin, my brother; it is Fernand—the man whom, after you, Edmond, I
love the best in the world. Do you not remember him?”

“Yes!” said Dantès, and without relinquishing Mercédès’ hand clasped in
one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial
air. But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture,
remained mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly
at the agitated and embarrassed Mercédès, and then again on the gloomy
and menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger waxed hot.

“I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet
an enemy here.”

“An enemy!” cried Mercédès, with an angry look at her cousin. “An enemy
in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my
arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to
return to it no more.”

Fernand’s eye darted lightning. “And should any misfortune occur to
you, dear Edmond,” she continued with the same calmness which proved to
Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his
sinister thought, “if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend
the highest point of the Cape de Morgiou and cast myself headlong from
it.”

Fernand became deadly pale. “But you are deceived, Edmond,” she
continued. “You have no enemy here—there is no one but Fernand, my
brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend.”

And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the
Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and
offered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave,
was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercédès exercised over
him. Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond’s hand when he felt he
had done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair—“Oh, who
will deliver me from this man? Wretched—wretched that I am!”

“Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?” exclaimed a
voice.

The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived
Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under an arbor.

“Well”, said Caderousse, “why don’t you come? Are you really in such a
hurry that you have no time to pass the time of day with your friends?”

“Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them,” added
Danglars. Fernand looked at them both with a stupefied air, but did not
say a word.

“He seems besotted,” said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee.
“Are we mistaken, and is Dantès triumphant in spite of all we have
believed?”

“Why, we must inquire into that,” was Caderousse’s reply; and turning
towards the young man, said, “Well, Catalan, can’t you make up your
mind?”

Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly
entered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness
to his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment to his
exhausted body.

“Good-day,” said he. “You called me, didn’t you?” And he fell, rather
than sat down, on one of the seats which surrounded the table.

“I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid
you would throw yourself into the sea,” said Caderousse, laughing.
“Why, when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of
wine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of
water unnecessarily!”

Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into
his hands, his elbows leaning on the table.

“Well, Fernand, I must say,” said Caderousse, beginning the
conversation, with that brutality of the common people in which
curiosity destroys all diplomacy, “you look uncommonly like a rejected
lover;” and he burst into a hoarse laugh.

“Bah!” said Danglars, “a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in
love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse.”

“No,” he replied, “only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand,” said
Caderousse, “hold up your head, and answer us. It’s not polite not to
reply to friends who ask news of your health.”

“My health is well enough,” said Fernand, clenching his hands without
raising his head.

“Ah, you see, Danglars,” said Caderousse, winking at his friend, “this
is how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a good and brave Catalan,
one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very
fine girl, named Mercédès; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine
girl is in love with the mate of the _Pharaon_; and as the _Pharaon_
arrived today—why, you understand!”

“No; I do not understand,” said Danglars.

“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse.

“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking
at Caderousse like a man who looks for someone on whom to vent his
anger; “Mercédès is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not
free to love whomsoever she will?”

“Oh, if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is another
thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans
were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was
even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance.”

Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he said.

“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from
the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantès
return so suddenly—he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance
faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come
suddenly.”

“Ah, _ma foi_, under any circumstances!” said Caderousse, who drank as
he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take
effect,—“under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out
by the fortunate arrival of Dantès; is he, Danglars?”

“No, you are right—and I should say that would bring him ill-luck.”

“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine
for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while
Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never mind—in the meantime he marries
Mercédès—the lovely Mercédès—at least he returns to do that.”

During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man,
on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead.

“And when is the wedding to be?” he asked.

“Oh, it is not yet fixed!” murmured Fernand.

“No, but it will be,” said Caderousse, “as surely as Dantès will be
captain of the _Pharaon_—eh, Danglars?”

Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse,
whose countenance he scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow
was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already
rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.

“Well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to Captain Edmond
Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalane!”

Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and
swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground.

“Eh, eh, eh!” stammered Caderousse. “What do I see down there by the
wall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are
better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver;
but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in
hand. Heaven forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and
they are actually embracing!”

Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.

“Do you know them, Fernand?” he said.

“Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. “It is Edmond and Mercédès!”

“Ah, see there, now!” said Caderousse; “and I did not recognize them!
Hallo, Dantès! hello, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know
when the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not
tell us.”

“Hold your tongue, will you?” said Danglars, pretending to restrain
Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the
arbor. “Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without
interruption. See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is
well-behaved!”

0051m



Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the
bull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen
from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong
upon his rival, when Mercédès, smiling and graceful, lifted up her
lovely head, and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this
Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped
again heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after
the other, the one brutalized by liquor, the other overwhelmed with
love.

“I shall get nothing from these fools,” he muttered; “and I am very
much afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Here’s an
envious fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be nursing
his wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from
under his nose and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes
that glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and
Calabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one
blow. Unquestionably, Edmond’s star is in the ascendant, and he will
marry the splendid girl—he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all,
unless”—a sinister smile passed over Danglars’ lips—“unless I take a
hand in the affair,” he added.

“Hallo!” continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the
table, “hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too
proud to speak to them?”

“No, my dear fellow!” replied Dantès, “I am not proud, but I am happy,
and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.”

“Ah, very well, that’s an explanation!” said Caderousse. “How do you
do, Madame Dantès?”

Mercédès courtesied gravely, and said—“That is not my name, and in my
country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call a young girl by the
name of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me
Mercédès, if you please.”

“We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse,” said Dantès, “he is
so easily mistaken.”

“So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantès,” said
Danglars, bowing to the young couple.

“As soon as possible, M. Danglars; today all preliminaries will be
arranged at my father’s, and tomorrow, or next day at latest, the
wedding festival here at La Réserve. My friends will be there, I hope;
that is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse.”

“And Fernand,” said Caderousse with a chuckle; “Fernand, too, is
invited!”

“My wife’s brother is my brother,” said Edmond; “and we, Mercédès and
I, should be very sorry if he were absent at such a time.”

Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and
he could not utter a word.

“Today the preliminaries, tomorrow or next day the ceremony! You are in
a hurry, captain!”

“Danglars,” said Edmond, smiling, “I will say to you as Mercédès said
just now to Caderousse, ‘Do not give me a title which does not belong
to me’; that may bring me bad luck.”

“Your pardon,” replied Danglars, “I merely said you seemed in a hurry,
and we have lots of time; the _Pharaon_ cannot be under weigh again in
less than three months.”

“We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have
suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good
fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I
must go to Paris.”

“Ah, really?—to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been
there, Dantès?”

“Yes.”

“Have you business there?”

“Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know
to what I allude, Danglars—it is sacred. Besides, I shall only take the
time to go and return.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he
added, “To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter which the grand
marshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea—a capital idea! Ah;
Dantès, my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the
good ship _Pharaon_;” then turning towards Edmond, who was walking
away, “A pleasant journey,” he cried.

“Thank you,” said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers
continued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they were the very
elect of heaven.



 Chapter 4. Conspiracy

Danglars followed Edmond and Mercédès with his eyes until the two
lovers disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas;
then, turning round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and
trembling, into his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of
a drinking-song.

“Well, my dear sir,” said Danglars to Fernand, “here is a marriage
which does not appear to make everybody happy.”

“It drives me to despair,” said Fernand.

“Do you, then, love Mercédès?”

“I adore her!”

“For long?”

“As long as I have known her—always.”

“And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy
your condition; I did not think that was the way of your people.”

“What would you have me do?” said Fernand.

“How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle
Mercédès; but for you—in the words of the gospel, seek, and you shall
find.”

“I have found already.”

“What?”

“I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune
happened to her betrothed, she would kill herself.”

“Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them.”

“You do not know Mercédès; what she threatens she will do.”

“Idiot!” muttered Danglars; “whether she kill herself or not, what
matter, provided Dantès is not captain?”

“Before Mercédès should die,” replied Fernand, with the accents of
unshaken resolution, “I would die myself!”

“That’s what I call love!” said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than
ever. “That’s love, or I don’t know what love is.”

“Come,” said Danglars, “you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and
hang me, I should like to help you, but——”

“Yes,” said Caderousse, “but how?”

“My dear fellow,” replied Danglars, “you are three parts drunk; finish
the bottle, and you will be completely so. Drink then, and do not
meddle with what we are discussing, for that requires all one’s wit and
cool judgment.”

“I—drunk!” said Caderousse; “well that’s a good one! I could drink four
more such bottles; they are no bigger than cologne flasks. Père
Pamphile, more wine!”

And Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table.

“You were saying, sir——” said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the
end of this interrupted remark.

“What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose
the thread of my sentence.”

“Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it
is because they have bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will
extract from their hearts;” and Caderousse began to sing the two last
lines of a song very popular at the time:

‘Tous les méchants sont buveurs d’eau;

C’est bien prouvé par le déluge.’1


“You said, sir, you would like to help me, but——”

“Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dantès did
not marry her you love; and the marriage may easily be thwarted,
methinks, and yet Dantès need not die.”

“Death alone can separate them,” remarked Fernand.

“You talk like a noodle, my friend,” said Caderousse; “and here is
Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow, who will prove to
you that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you.
Say there is no need why Dantès should die; it would, indeed, be a pity
he should. Dantès is a good fellow; I like Dantès. Dantès, your
health.”

Fernand rose impatiently. “Let him run on,” said Danglars, restraining
the young man; “drunk as he is, he is not much out in what he says.
Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were
between Edmond and Mercédès they would be as effectually separated as
if he lay under a tombstone.”

0056m



“Yes; but one gets out of prison,” said Caderousse, who, with what
sense was left him, listened eagerly to the conversation, “and when one
gets out and one’s name is Edmond Dantès, one seeks revenge——”

“What matters that?” muttered Fernand.

“And why, I should like to know,” persisted Caderousse, “should they
put Dantès in prison? he has neither robbed, nor killed, nor murdered.”

“Hold your tongue!” said Danglars.

“I won’t hold my tongue!” replied Caderousse; “I say I want to know why
they should put Dantès in prison; I like Dantès; Dantès, your health!”
and he swallowed another glass of wine.

0057m



Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his
intoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said, “Well, you understand
there is no need to kill him.”

“Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having
Dantès arrested. Have you that means?”

“It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the
matter? it is no affair of mine.”

“I know not why you meddle,” said Fernand, seizing his arm; “but this I
know, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dantès, for he
who himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others.”

“I! motives of hatred against Dantès? None, on my word! I saw you were
unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that’s all; but since you
believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the
affair as best you may;” and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.

“No, no,” said Fernand, restraining him, “stay! It is of very little
consequence to me at the end of the matter whether you have any angry
feeling or not against Dantès. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you
find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man,
for Mercédès has declared she will kill herself if Dantès is killed.”

Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and
looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said, “Kill Dantès!
who talks of killing Dantès? I won’t have him killed—I won’t! He’s my
friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I
shared mine with him. I won’t have Dantès killed—I won’t!”

“And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?” replied
Danglars. “We were merely joking; drink to his health,” he added,
filling Caderousse’s glass, “and do not interfere with us.”

“Yes, yes, Dantès’ good health!” said Caderousse, emptying his glass,
“here’s to his health! his health—hurrah!”

“But the means—the means?” said Fernand.

“Have you not hit upon any?” asked Danglars.

“No!—you undertook to do so.”

“True,” replied Danglars; “the French have the superiority over the
Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the French invent.”

“Do you invent, then,” said Fernand impatiently.

“Waiter,” said Danglars, “pen, ink, and paper.”

“Pen, ink, and paper,” muttered Fernand.

“Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without
my tools I am fit for nothing.”

“Pen, ink, and paper, then,” called Fernand loudly.

“There’s what you want on that table,” said the waiter.

“Bring them here.” The waiter did as he was desired.

0059m



“When one thinks,” said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper,
“there is here wherewithal to kill a man more sure than if we waited at
the corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more dread
of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or
pistol.”

“The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be,” said Danglars. “Give
him some more wine, Fernand.” Fernand filled Caderousse’s glass, who,
like the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper and
seized the glass.

The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh
assault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped, his glass upon the
table.

“Well!” resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of
Caderousse’s reason vanishing before the last glass of wine.

“Well, then, I should say, for instance,” resumed Danglars, “that if
after a voyage such as Dantès has just made, in which he touched at the
Island of Elba, someone were to denounce him to the king’s procureur as
a Bonapartist agent——”

“I will denounce him!” exclaimed the young man hastily.

“Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront
you with him you have denounced; I will supply you with the means of
supporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dantès cannot
remain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and
the day when he comes out, woe betide him who was the cause of his
incarceration!”

“Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a
quarrel with me.”

“Yes, and Mercédès! Mercédès, who will detest you if you have only the
misfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly beloved Edmond!”

“True!” said Fernand.

“No, no,” continued Danglars; “if we resolve on such a step, it would
be much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip it into this ink,
and write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized)
the denunciation we propose.” And Danglars, uniting practice with
theory, wrote with his left hand, and in a writing reversed from his
usual style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he
handed to Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone:

“The honorable, the king’s attorney, is informed by a friend of the
throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantès, mate of the ship
_Pharaon_, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at
Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for
the usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist
committee in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him,
for the letter will be found upon him, or at his father’s, or in his
cabin on board the _Pharaon_.”

“Very good,” resumed Danglars; “now your revenge looks like common
sense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and the matter will
thus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the letter
as I am doing, and write upon it, ‘To the king’s attorney,’ and that’s
all settled.” And Danglars wrote the address as he spoke.

“Yes, and that’s all settled!” exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last
effort of intellect, had followed the reading of the letter, and
instinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation
must entail. “Yes, and that’s all settled; only it will be an infamous
shame;” and he stretched out his hand to reach the letter.

“Yes,” said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; “and as what I
say and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the first and foremost,
should be sorry if anything happened to Dantès—the worthy Dantès—look
here!” And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw
it into a corner of the arbor.

“All right!” said Caderousse. “Dantès is my friend, and I won’t have
him ill-used.”

“And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand,”
said Danglars, rising and looking at the young man, who still remained
seated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper
flung into the corner.

“In this case,” replied Caderousse, “let’s have some more wine. I wish
to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercédès.”

“You have had too much already, drunkard,” said Danglars; “and if you
continue, you will be compelled to sleep here, because unable to stand
on your legs.”

“I?” said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken
man, “I can’t keep on my legs? Why, I’ll wager I can go up into the
belfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too!”

“Done!” said Danglars, “I’ll take your bet; but tomorrow—today it is
time to return. Give me your arm, and let us go.”

“Very well, let us go,” said Caderousse; “but I don’t want your arm at
all. Come, Fernand, won’t you return to Marseilles with us?”

“No,” said Fernand; “I shall return to the Catalans.”

“You’re wrong. Come with us to Marseilles—come along.”

“I will not.”

“What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince;
there’s liberty for all the world. Come along, Danglars, and let the
young gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses.”

Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s temper at the moment, to take
him off towards Marseilles by the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he
went.

When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and saw
Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his
pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.

“Well,” said Caderousse, “why, what a lie he told! He said he was going
to the Catalans, and he is going to the city. Hallo, Fernand! You are
coming, my boy!”

“Oh, you don’t see straight,” said Danglars; “he’s gone right by the
road to the Vieilles Infirmeries.”

“Well,” said Caderousse, “I should have sworn that he turned to the
right—how treacherous wine is!”

“Come, come,” said Danglars to himself, “now the thing is at work and
it will effect its purpose unassisted.”



 Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast

The morning’s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves
into a network of ruby-tinted light.

The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Réserve, with
whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for
the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each
of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the
name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a
wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although
the entertainment was fixed for twelve o’clock, an hour previous to
that time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,
consisting of the favored part of the crew of the _Pharaon_, and other
personal friends of the bridegroom, the whole of whom had arrayed
themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to
the occasion.

Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the
_Pharaon_ had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed
unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding
condescension could possibly be intended.

Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by
Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had
recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his
intention to dine at La Réserve.

In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an
enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the _Pharaon_, who
hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man
whose wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first
in command of the ship; and as Dantès was universally beloved on board
his vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at
finding that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly
coincided with their own.

With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched
in search of the bridegroom to convey to him the intelligence of the
arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a
lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.

Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but
ere they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards
them, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in
attendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dantès’ father; the whole
brought up by Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.

Neither Mercédès nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his
countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the
sunshine and the presence of each other.

Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty
shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their
places beside Fernand and old Dantès,—the latter of whom attracted
universal notice.

The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed
with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry
legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked stockings,
evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat
depended a long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came
along, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his aged
countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one
of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the
Luxembourg and Tuileries.

Beside him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good
things provided for the wedding party had induced him to become
reconciled to the Dantès, father and son, although there still lingered
in his mind a faint and unperfect recollection of the events of the
preceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the morning the
dim and misty outline of a dream.

0065m



As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of
deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,
who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten
that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;
occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,
and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated
and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like
one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.

Dantès himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar
to the merchant service—a costume somewhat between a military and a
civil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and
happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be
imagined.

Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercédès boasted the same
bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved
with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more
practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes
beneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed
lashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes;
but, on the contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile
that seemed to say: “If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am
very happy.”

As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel
descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and
sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already
given, that Dantès should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.
Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of
his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting
her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the
feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose
heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of
several minutes.

“Father,” said Mercédès, stopping when she had reached the centre of
the table, “sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place
him who has ever been as a brother to me,” pointing with a soft and
gentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the
direst torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even
beneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen
retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.

During this time, Dantès, at the opposite side of the table, had been
occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was
seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from
Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most
agreeable.

Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,
and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and
brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel
within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than
rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster, North. All the
delicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the
sandy beach, and styled by the grateful fishermen “fruits of the sea.”

“A pretty silence truly!” said the old father of the bridegroom, as he
carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the
topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercédès herself. “Now,
would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who
desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?”

“Ah,” sighed Caderousse, “a man cannot always feel happy because he is
about to be married.”

“The truth is,” replied Dantès, “that I am too happy for noisy mirth;
if that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you
are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us
almost the same as sorrow.”

Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and
betrayed each fresh impression.

“Why, what ails you?” asked he of Edmond. “Do you fear any approaching
evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this
instant.”

“And that is the very thing that alarms me,” returned Dantès. “Man does
not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness
is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where
fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of
all shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I
own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of
which I feel myself unworthy—that of being the husband of Mercédès.”

“Nay, nay!” cried Caderousse, smiling, “you have not attained that
honor yet. Mercédès is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and
manner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is
not yet come!”

The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start
at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops
of perspiration that gathered on his brow.

“Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worthwhile to
contradict me for such a trifle as that. ’Tis true that Mercédès is not
actually my wife; but,” added he, drawing out his watch, “in an hour
and a half she will be.”

A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the
exception of the elder Dantès, whose laugh displayed the still perfect
beauty of his large white teeth. Mercédès looked pleased and gratified,
while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.

“In an hour?” inquired Danglars, turning pale. “How is that, my
friend?”

“Why, thus it is,” replied Dantès. “Thanks to the influence of M.
Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every
difficulty has been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the
usual delay; and at half-past two o’clock the Mayor of Marseilles will
be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has
already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,
that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will have become
Madame Dantès.”

0069m



Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow,
and he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his
falling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not
refrain from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the
noisy felicitations of the company.

“Upon my word,” cried the old man, “you make short work of this kind of
affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married today at three
o’clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!”

“But,” asked Danglars, in a timid tone, “how did you manage about the
other formalities—the contract—the settlement?”

“The contract,” answered Dantès, laughingly, “it didn’t take long to
fix that. Mercédès has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So,
you see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come
very expensive.” This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.

“So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to
be the actual wedding dinner!” said Danglars.

“No, no,” answered Dantès; “don’t imagine I am going to put you off in
that shabby manner. Tomorrow morning I start for Paris; four days to
go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission
entrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back
here by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage
feast.”

This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests
to such a degree, that the elder Dantès, who, at the commencement of
the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it
difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment’s
tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the
bride and bridegroom.

Dantès, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded
by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercédès glanced at the clock and
made an expressive gesture to Edmond.

Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at
such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of social
position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the
commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves
according to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out
more agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting
for a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or
her own thoughts.

Fernand’s paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As
for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the
damned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table, and,
as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such
deafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther
end of the salon.

Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most
anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room.

“Upon my word,” said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment
of Dantès, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken
of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantès’ good
fortune,—“upon my word, Dantès is a downright good fellow, and when I
see him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I
cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him
that trick you were planning yesterday.”

“Oh, there was no harm meant,” answered Danglars; “at first I certainly
did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but
when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as
to become one of his rival’s attendants, I knew there was no further
cause for apprehension.” Caderousse looked full at Fernand—he was
ghastly pale.

“Certainly,” continued Danglars, “the sacrifice was no trifling one,
when the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future
captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad! I only wish he would let me take
his place.”

“Shall we not set forth?” asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercédès;
“two o’clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter
of an hour.”

0071m



“To be sure!—to be sure!” cried Dantès, eagerly quitting the table;
“let us go directly!”

His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.

At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every
change in Fernand’s look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back,
with an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the
open windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct
sound on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with
the clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and
buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the
bridal party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension
quelled every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most
deathlike stillness prevailed.

The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the
door. The company looked at each other in consternation.

“I demand admittance,” said a loud voice outside the room, “in the name
of the law!” As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened,
and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,
followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the
most extreme dread on the part of those present.

“May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?” said M.
Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew; “there is
doubtless some mistake easily explained.”

“If it be so,” replied the magistrate, “rely upon every reparation
being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and
although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must,
nevertheless, be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled
answers to the name of Edmond Dantès?”

Every eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation
he could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in a firm
voice:

“I am he; what is your pleasure with me?”

“Edmond Dantès,” replied the magistrate, “I arrest you in the name of
the law!”

“Me!” repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, “and wherefore, I
pray?”

“I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons
that have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary
examination.”

M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He
saw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly
well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate
decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold
marble effigy. Old Dantès, however, sprang forward. There are
situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to
understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the
officer was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said,
“My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your
son has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in
registering his cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at
liberty directly he has given the information required, whether
touching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of
Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise.

0073m



“How can I tell you?” replied he; “I am, like yourself, utterly
bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out
what it is about.” Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he
had disappeared.

The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with
startling clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed
appeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication
of the evening before had raised between himself and his memory.

“So, so,” said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, “this,
then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday?
All I can say is, that if it be so, ’tis an ill turn, and well deserves
to bring double evil on those who have projected it.”

“Nonsense,” returned Danglars, “I tell you again I have nothing
whatever to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the
paper to pieces.”

“No, you did not!” answered Caderousse, “you merely threw it by—I saw
it lying in a corner.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool!—what should you know about it?—why, you
were drunk!”

“Where is Fernand?” inquired Caderousse.

“How do I know?” replied Danglars; “gone, as every prudent man ought to
be, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is,
let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends.”

During this conversation, Dantès, after having exchanged a cheerful
shake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered
himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, “Make
yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to
clear up, that’s all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to
go so far as the prison to effect that.”

0075m



“Oh, to be sure!” responded Danglars, who had now approached the group,
“nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain.”

Dantès descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and
followed by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got
in, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove
off towards Marseilles.

“Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!” cried Mercédès, stretching out her arms
to him from the balcony.

The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken
heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, “Good-bye, Mercédès—we
shall soon meet again!” Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the
turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.

“Wait for me here, all of you!” cried M. Morrel; “I will take the first
conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you
word how all is going on.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed a multitude of voices, “go, and return as
quickly as you can!”

This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of
terrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old
father and Mercédès remained for some time apart, each absorbed in
grief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their
eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other’s
arms.

Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass
of water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit
down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed
next to the seat on which poor Mercédès had fallen half fainting, when
released from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantès.
Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.

“He is the cause of all this misery—I am quite sure of it,” whispered
Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.

“I don’t think so,” answered the other; “he’s too stupid to imagine
such a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of
whoever wrought it.”

“You don’t mention those who aided and abetted the deed,” said
Caderousse.

“Surely,” answered Danglars, “one cannot be held responsible for every
chance arrow shot into the air.”

“You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody’s
head.”

Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every
different form.

“What think you, Danglars,” said one of the party, turning towards him,
“of this event?”

“Why,” replied he, “I think it just possible Dantès may have been
detected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as
contraband.”

“But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since
you are the ship’s supercargo?”

“Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the
merchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with
cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret’s
warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal’s; that is all I was obliged to
know, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars.”

“Now I recollect,” said the afflicted old father; “my poor boy told me
yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for
me!”

“There, you see,” exclaimed Danglars. “Now the mischief is out; depend
upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our
absence, and discovered poor Dantès’ hidden treasures.”

Mercédès, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover’s
arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst
out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.

“Come, come,” said the old man, “be comforted, my poor child; there is
still hope!”

“Hope!” repeated Danglars.

“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on
his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his
countenance.

“Good news! good news!” shouted forth one of the party stationed in the
balcony on the lookout. “Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we
shall hear that our friend is released!”

Mercédès and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him
at the door. He was very pale.

“What news?” exclaimed a general burst of voices.

“Alas, my friends,” replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his
head, “the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected.”

“Oh, indeed—indeed, sir, he is innocent!” sobbed forth Mercédès.

“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is charged——”

“With what?” inquired the elder Dantès.

“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of our readers
may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in
the period at which our story is dated.

A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercédès; the old man sank
into a chair.

“Ah, Danglars!” whispered Caderousse, “you have deceived me—the trick
you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old
man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am
determined to tell them all about it.”

“Be silent, you simpleton!” cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm,
“or I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether
Dantès be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he
quitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any
letters or other documents of a compromising character be found upon
him, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his
accomplices?”

With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived
the solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully,
wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.

“Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it,” said he, casting a
bewildered look on his companion.

“To be sure!” answered Danglars. “Let us wait, by all means. If he be
innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no
use involving ourselves in a conspiracy.”

“Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer.”

“With all my heart!” replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so
tractable. “Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for
the present to take their course.”

After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and
protector of Mercédès, led the girl to her home, while some friends of
Dantès conducted his father, nearly lifeless, to the Allées de Meilhan.

The rumor of Edmond’s arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in
circulating throughout the city.

“Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?” asked M.
Morrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh
tidings of Dantès, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he
overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. “Could you have believed such a
thing possible?”

“Why, you know I told you,” replied Danglars, “that I considered the
circumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very
suspicious circumstance.”

“And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?”

0079m



“Certainly not!” returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, “You
understand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who
served under the _other_ government, and who does not altogether
conceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of
regretting the abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure
both Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a
soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is
bound to acquaint the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are
many things he ought most carefully to conceal from all else.”

“’Tis well, Danglars—’tis well!” replied M. Morrel. “You are a worthy
fellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of
poor Edmond having become captain of the _Pharaon_.”

“Is it possible you were so kind?”

“Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantès what was his opinion
of you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your
post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you.”

“And what was his reply?”

“That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair
which he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that
whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship’s owners
would have his preference also.”

“The hypocrite!” murmured Danglars.

“Poor Dantès!” said Caderousse. “No one can deny his being a
noble-hearted young fellow.”

“But meanwhile,” continued M. Morrel, “here is the _Pharaon_ without a
captain.”

“Oh,” replied Danglars, “since we cannot leave this port for the next
three months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dantès
will be set at liberty.”

“No doubt; but in the meantime?”

“I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel,” answered Danglars. “You
know that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced
captain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to
accept my services, that upon Edmond’s release from prison no further
change will be requisite on board the _Pharaon_ than for Dantès and
myself each to resume our respective posts.”

“Thanks, Danglars—that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully
authorize you at once to assume the command of the _Pharaon_, and look
carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must
never be allowed to interfere with business.”

“Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be
permitted to see our poor Edmond?”

“I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I
shall endeavor to interest in Edmond’s favor. I am aware he is a
furious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king’s
attorney, he is a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of
one.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Danglars; “but I hear that he is ambitious, and
that’s rather against him.”

“Well, well,” returned M. Morrel, “we shall see. But now hasten on
board, I will join you there ere long.”

So saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded
in the direction of the Palais de Justice.

0081m



“You see,” said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, “the turn things have
taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence?”

“Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere
joke should lead to such consequences.”

“But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but
Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the
room—indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it.”

“Oh, no,” replied Caderousse, “that I can answer for, you did not. I
only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed
and crumpled in a corner of the arbor.”

“Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and
either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not
take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he
may have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting
was disguised.”

“Then you were aware of Dantès being engaged in a conspiracy?”

“Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing
more. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the
truth.”

“Still,” argued Caderousse, “I would give a great deal if nothing of
the kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You
will see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of
us.”

“Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person;
and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way?
All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly
quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that
the storm will pass away without in the least affecting us.”

“Amen!” responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to
Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allées de Meilhan, moving
his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one
whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.

“So far, then,” said Danglars, mentally, “all has gone as I would have
it. I am, temporarily, commander of the _Pharaon_, with the certainty
of being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded
to hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantès being
released. But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and,” added he
with a smile, “she will take her own.” So saying, he leaped into a
boat, desiring to be rowed on board the _Pharaon_, where M. Morrel had
agreed to meet him.



 Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi

In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand
Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being
celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given by
Dantès. In this case, however, although the occasion of the
entertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.
Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to
the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the
very flower of Marseilles society,—magistrates who had resigned their
office during the usurper’s reign; officers who had deserted from the
imperial army and joined forces with Condé; and younger members of
families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of
exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate
to the rank of a god.

The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic
conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive
passions that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily,
for five centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness
to the violence of party feeling.

The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held
sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects a
small population of five or six thousand souls,—after having been
accustomed to hear the “_Vive Napoléons_” of a hundred and twenty
millions of human beings, uttered in ten different languages,—was
looked upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh
connection with France or claim to her throne.

The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military
part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while
the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the
downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that
they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and
cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.

An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and
proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de
Saint-Méran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of
Hartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal
enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air _à l’Anglaise_, and the
ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the
table with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor
prevailed.

“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a stern,
forbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance,
despite her fifty years—“ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us
from those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle
during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here,
that all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow
the fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made
their fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not
help admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and
station was truly our ‘Louis the well-beloved,’ while their wretched
usurper has been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their
‘Napoleon the accursed.’ Am I not right, Villefort?”

“I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but—in
truth—I was not attending to the conversation.”

“Marquise, marquise!” interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the
toast, “let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one’s wedding
day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry
politics.”

“Never mind, dearest mother,” said a young and lovely girl, with a
profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid
crystal, “’tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to
prevent his listening to what you said. But there—now take him—he is
your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my
mother speaks to you.”

“If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly
caught, I shall be delighted to answer,” said M. de Villefort.

“Never mind, Renée,” replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness
that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however
all other feelings may be withered in a woman’s nature, there is always
one bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the
shrine of maternal love. “I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort,
was, that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or
devotion.”

“They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities,”
replied the young man, “and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the
Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitious
followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the
personification of equality.”

“He!” cried the marquise: “Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy’s
sake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip
the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to
my mind, has usurped quite enough.”

0085m



“Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right
pedestal—that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;
that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme. The only
difference consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated
by these two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the
equality that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the
guillotine, the other elevates the people to a level with the throne.
Observe,” said Villefort, smiling, “I do not mean to deny that both
these men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and
the 4th of April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy
of being gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil
order; and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust
he is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical
satellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with other
usurpers—Cromwell, for instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon,
had his partisans and advocates.”

“Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully
revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the
son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven.” A
deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.

“’Tis true, madame,” answered he, “that my father was a Girondin, but
he was not among the number of those who voted for the king’s death; he
was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and had
well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father
perished.”

“True,” replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree
at the tragic remembrance thus called up; “but bear in mind, if you
please, that our respective parents underwent persecution and
proscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which
I may remark, that while my family remained among the staunchest
adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining
the new government; and that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin,
the Count Noirtier became a senator.”

“Dear mother,” interposed Renée, “you know very well it was agreed that
all these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside.”

“Suffer me, also, madame,” replied Villefort, “to add my earnest
request to Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s, that you will kindly allow
the veil of oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails
recrimination over matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have
laid aside even the name of my father, and altogether disown his
political principles. He was—nay, probably may still be—a Bonapartist,
and is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a staunch royalist, and
style myself de Villefort. Let what may remain of revolutionary sap
exhaust itself and die away with the old trunk, and condescend only to
regard the young shoot which has started up at a distance from the
parent tree, without having the power, any more than the wish, to
separate entirely from the stock from which it sprung.”

“Bravo, Villefort!” cried the marquis; “excellently well said! Come,
now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring
to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and
forgetfulness of the past.”

“With all my heart,” replied the marquise; “let the past be forever
forgotten. I promise you it affords _me_ as little pleasure to revive
it as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and
inflexible for the future in his political principles. Remember, also,
Villefort, that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your
fealty and strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king
consented to forget the past, as I do” (and here she extended to him
her hand)—“as I now do at your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should
there fall in your way anyone guilty of conspiring against the
government, you will be so much the more bound to visit the offence
with rigorous punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected
family.”

“Alas, madame,” returned Villefort, “my profession, as well as the
times in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already
successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the
offenders to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing
yet.”

0087m



“Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise.

“I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is too
near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.
Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one
frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists;
from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of
persons, and assassinations in the lower.”

“You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de
Saint-Méran’s oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d’Artois,
“that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?”

“Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris,” said M. de
Saint-Méran; “and where is it decided to transfer him?”

“To Saint Helena.”

“For heaven’s sake, where is that?” asked the marquise.

“An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two
thousand leagues from here,” replied the count.

“So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly
to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples,
of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the
sovereignty of which he coveted for his son.”

“Unfortunately,” said Villefort, “there are the treaties of 1814, and
we cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those compacts.”

“Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it,” responded M. de Salvieux.
“There wasn’t any trouble over treaties when it was a question of
shooting the poor Duc d’Enghien.”

“Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable that, by the aid of the
Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the
vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The
king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of
France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can
best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down
every attempt at conspiracy—’tis the best and surest means of
preventing mischief.”

“Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm of the law
is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place.”

“Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it.”

“Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it
can do is to avenge the wrong done.”

“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to
the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de
Saint-Méran, “do try and get up some famous trial while we are at
Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very
amusing!”

“Amusing, certainly,” replied the young man, “inasmuch as, instead of
shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre,
you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress—a drama
of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,
instead of—as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy—going home
to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he
may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,—is removed from your sight
merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the
executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to
bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that
should any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to
offer you the choice of being present.”

“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’t
you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.”

“What would you have? ’Tis like a duel. I have already recorded
sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political
conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened,
and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?”

“Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,” said Renée, becoming more and more
terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”

“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile; “and in the
interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would
only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as
is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can you
expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his
commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will
scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be
his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely
because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one
requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in
order to lash one’s self into a state of sufficient vehemence and
power. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile,
as though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused
pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire
of my eloquence.” Renée uttered a smothered exclamation.

“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call talking to some
purpose.”

“Just the person we require at a time like the present,” said a second.

“What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear
Villefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the man for
murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner
had laid his hand upon him.”

“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposed
Renée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards
poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed
themselves up in political intrigues——”

“Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,
don’t you see, Renée, the king is the father of his people, and he who
shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent
of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great
scale?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but, M. de
Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to
those I plead for.”

“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with one
of his sweetest smiles; “you and I will always consult upon our
verdicts.”

“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and
embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays
the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is the
badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in
point.”

“_Cedant arma togæ_,” said Villefort with a bow.

“I cannot speak Latin,” responded the marquise.

“Well,” said Renée, “I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some
other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I
always felt a shudder at the idea of even a _destroying_ angel?”

“Dear, good Renée,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable
tenderness on the lovely speaker.

“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort may
prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he
will have achieved a noble work.”

“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’s
conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.

“Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already had
the honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured his
past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous
friend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than his son;
for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulse
than warm, decided preference and conviction.” Having made this
well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the
effect of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been
addressing the bench in open court.

“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de Salvieux, “that is
exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when
questioned by his majesty’s principal chamberlain touching the
singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the
daughter of an officer of the Duc de Condé; and I assure you he seemed
fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences
was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,
without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted
us by saying, ‘Villefort’—observe that the king did not pronounce the
word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on
that of Villefort—‘Villefort,’ said his majesty, ‘is a young man of
great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his
profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that
he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de
Saint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the
noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.’”

“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express
himself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured Villefort.

“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he
will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to
him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of
your espousing his daughter.”

0091m



“That is true,” answered the marquis.

“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do
to evince my earnest gratitude!”

“That is right,” cried the marquise. “I love to see you thus. Now,
then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most
welcome.”

“For my part, dear mother,” interposed Renée, “I trust your wishes will
not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor
debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s
hands,—then I shall be contented.”

“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be
called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of
wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to
see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those
violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor
redounds to the physician.”

At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish had
sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and
whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table
and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon,
however, returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renée regarded
him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as
they then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed
to excite the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful
and intelligent lover.

“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that I
were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the
disciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in
1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my
betrothal.”

“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle de
Saint-Méran, with an air of deep interest.

“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the
executioner.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renée, turning pale.

“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to
the magistrate to hear his words.

“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy
has just been discovered.”

“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.

“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” said
Villefort:

“‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the
religious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantès,
mate of the ship _Pharaon_, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter
from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter
from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration
of this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned
Edmond Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him,
or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the
possession of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in
the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the _Pharaon_.’”

“But,” said Renée, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous
scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.”

0093m



“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,
opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me,
but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for
arresting the accused party.”

“Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?” said the marquise.

“Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet
pronounce him guilty.”

“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if the
letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again,
unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman.”

“And where is the unfortunate being?” asked Renée.

“He is at my house.”

“Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not neglect your
duty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go
wherever that service calls you.”

“Oh, Villefort!” cried Renée, clasping her hands, and looking towards
her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of our
betrothal.”

The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair
pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly:

“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenity
in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero
prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his
head to be cut off.”

Renée shuddered at the word _cut_, for the growth in question had a
head.

“Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the marquise. “She will
soon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extended
her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s
respectful salute on it, looked at Renée, as much as to say, “I must
try and fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.”

“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poor
Renée.

“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly
exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can
possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the
state!”

“Oh, mother!” murmured Renée.

“Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that
to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;”
then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to
say, “Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with
mercy,” and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort
departed with paradise in his heart.



 Chapter 7. The Examination

No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air
of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in
spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a
finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no
means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the
recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which
might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his
own career, Gérard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already
rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He
was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not
passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king;
and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,
Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s family possessed considerable political
influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry
of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the
prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her
father’s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling
of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its
contemplation.

At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.
The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to
earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, “I
have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this
man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the
conspiracy.”

“We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers
found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself
is named Edmond Dantès, mate on board the three-master the _Pharaon_,
trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &
Son, of Marseilles.”

“Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the
marines?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen or twenty at the most.”

At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue
des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,
approached; it was M. Morrel.

“Ah, M. de Villefort,” cried he, “I am delighted to see you. Some of
your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just
arrested Edmond Dantès, mate of my vessel.”

“I know it, monsieur,” replied Villefort, “and I am now going to
examine him.”

“Oh,” said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, “you do not know
him, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature
in the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman
in all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your
indulgence for him.”

Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at
Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other
suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and
replied coldly:

“You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy
in private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet
be, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?”

The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply
them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the
heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of
indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear
on politics; besides, what Dantès had told him of his interview with
the grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed
him. He replied, however, in a tone of deep interest:

“I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and
equitable, and give him back to us soon.” This _give us_ sounded
revolutionary in the deputy’s ears.

“Ah, ah,” murmured he, “is Dantès then a member of some Carbonari
society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was,
if I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many
others.” Then he added, “Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform
my duty impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have
appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present
epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my
duty.”

0097m



As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the
Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the
shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had
left him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in
the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the
prisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at
Dantès, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,
saying, “Bring in the prisoner.”

Rapid as had been Villefort’s glance, it had served to give him an idea
of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence
in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and
frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.
Villefort’s first impression was favorable; but he had been so often
warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the
impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He
stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising,
composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An
instant after Dantès entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and
saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if
he had been in M. Morrel’s salon. It was then that he encountered for
the first time Villefort’s look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate,
who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of
his own.

“Who and what are you?” demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of
papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police
agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour’s
time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt
espionage of which “the accused” is always made the victim.

“My name is Edmond Dantès,” replied the young man calmly; “I am mate of
the _Pharaon_, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son.”

“Your age?” continued Villefort.

“Nineteen,” returned Dantès.

“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?”

“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the young man,
his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that
happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great
was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the
radiant face of Mercédès.

“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the deputy,
shuddering in spite of himself.

“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been
attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive as he was, was
struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès,
surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in
his own bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was
summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This
philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M.
de Saint-Méran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited
further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a
reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort
turned to Dantès.

0099m



“Go on, sir,” said he.

“What would you have me say?”

“Give all the information in your power.”

“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I
know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.”

“Have you served under the usurper?”

“I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell.”

“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said Villefort,
who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make
this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.

“My political opinions!” replied Dantès. “Alas, sir, I never had any
opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.
If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus
all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to
these three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I
adore Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how
uninteresting it is.” As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous
and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without
knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With
the deputy’s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man
uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he
was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of
the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,
because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked
good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort’s
severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness.

_“Pardieu!”_ said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain
Renée’s favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on
me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet
kiss in private.” Full of this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous,
that when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change
on his physiognomy, was smiling also.

“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least, that you know.”

“I have enemies?” replied Dantès; “my position is not sufficiently
elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat
too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve
sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that
they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as
an elder brother.”

“But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at
nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who
loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the
envy of someone.”

“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may
possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my
acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced
to hate them.”

“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You
seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty
to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the
paper; do you know the writing?” As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter
from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud
passed over his brow as he said:

“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably
plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,” added he,
looking gratefully at Villefort, “to be examined by such a man as you;
for this envious person is a real enemy.” And by the rapid glance that
the young man’s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid
beneath this mildness.

“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a
judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what
truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?”
And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantès had just
given back to him.

“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a
sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father——”

“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally, “If Renée could
see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a
decapitator.”

“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a
brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to
arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder
rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was
dying, he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ said he, ‘swear to
perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest
importance.’

“‘I swear, captain,’ replied I.

“‘Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume
the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at
Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps
they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission.
You will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor
and profit from it.’

“‘I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the
grand-marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’

“‘Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every
difficulty,’ said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was
time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died.”

“And what did you do then?”

“What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my
place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with
a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for
the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody
to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found
some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent
the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly
admitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as
the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in
Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I
landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit
my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.
Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at
my marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and
tomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this
charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you have been
culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to
the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from
Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go
and rejoin your friends.

“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantès joyfully.

“Yes; but first give me this letter.”

“You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I
see in that packet.”

“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves.
“To whom is it addressed?”

_“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris.”_ Had a thunderbolt
fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He
sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the
fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.

“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing still paler.

“Yes,” said Dantès; “do you know him?”

“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king does not know
conspirators.”

0103m



“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantès, who after believing himself
free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. “I have, however, already told
you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter.”

“Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,”
said Villefort.

“I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it.”

“Have you shown this letter to anyone?” asked Villefort, becoming still
more pale.

“To no one, on my honor.”

“Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the
Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?”

“Everybody, except the person who gave it to me.”

“And that was too much, far too much,” murmured Villefort. Villefort’s
brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled
Dantès with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered
his face with his hands.

“Oh,” said Dantès timidly, “what is the matter?” Villefort made no
answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and
again perused the letter.

“And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?”

“I give you my word of honor, sir,” said Dantès; “but what is the
matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?”

“No,” said Villefort, rising hastily; “stay where you are. It is for me
to give orders here, and not you.”

“Monsieur,” replied Dantès proudly, “it was only to summon assistance
for you.”

“I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;
answer me.” Dantès waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort
fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with
perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.

“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and that Noirtier
is the father of Villefort, I am lost!” And he fixed his eyes upon
Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.

“Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,” cried he, suddenly.

“In heaven’s name!” cried the unhappy young man, “if you doubt me,
question me; I will answer you.” Villefort made a violent effort, and
in a tone he strove to render firm:

“Sir,” said he, “I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you
immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial
justice; what my own feeling is you already know.”

“Oh, monsieur,” cried Dantès, “you have been rather a friend than a
judge.”

0105m



“Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it
as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,
and you see——” Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited
until it was entirely consumed.

“You see, I destroy it?”

“Oh,” exclaimed Dantès, “you are goodness itself.”

“Listen,” continued Villefort; “you can now have confidence in me after
what I have done.”

“Oh, command, and I will obey.”

“Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you.”

“Speak, and I will follow your advice.”

“I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should
anyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but
do not breathe a word of this letter.”

“I promise.” It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner
who reassured him.

“You see,” continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of
burnt paper fluttered in the flames, “the letter is destroyed; you and
I alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned,
deny all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved.”

“Be satisfied; I will deny it.”

“It was the only letter you had?”

“It was.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words
in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.

“Follow him,” said Villefort to Dantès. Dantès saluted Villefort and
retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself
half-fainting into a chair.

“Alas, alas,” murmured he, “if the procureur himself had been at
Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have
destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always
interfere with my successes?” Suddenly a light passed over his face, a
smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in
thought.

“This will do,” said he, “and from this letter, which might have ruined
me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand.” And after
having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur
hastened to the house of his betrothed.

0107m




 Chapter 8. The Château d’If

The commissary of police, as he traversed the antechamber, made a sign
to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dantès’ right and the
other on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice
was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors,
whose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais
de Justice communicated with the prison,—a sombre edifice, that from
its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After
numberless windings, Dantès saw a door with an iron wicket. The
commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow
seeming to Dantès as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two
gendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud
sound behind him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and
mephitic,—he was in prison.

He was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated and barred,
and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him; besides, the
words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so much, resounded
still in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four o’clock when
Dantès was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st of
March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity
augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound he rose
and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate him,
but the sound died away, and Dantès sank again into his seat. At last,
about ten o’clock, and just as Dantès began to despair, steps were
heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the
massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches
pervaded the apartment.

By the torchlight Dantès saw the glittering sabres and carbines of four
gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but stopped at the sight of this
display of force.

“Are you come to fetch me?” asked he.

“Yes,” replied a gendarme.

“By the orders of the deputy procureur?”

“I believe so.” The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort
relieved all Dantès’ apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed
himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the
coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.

“Is this carriage for me?” said Dantès.

“It is for you,” replied a gendarme.

Dantès was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and
having neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the
steps, and was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the
two others took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily
over the stones.

The prisoner glanced at the windows—they were grated; he had changed
his prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither.
Through the grating, however, Dantès saw they were passing through the
Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the
quay. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne.

The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse,
a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dantès saw
the reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay.

“Can all this force be summoned on my account?” thought he.

The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking a
word, answered Dantès’ question; for he saw between the ranks of the
soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two
gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered
to alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example.
They advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a
chain, near the quay.

The soldiers looked at Dantès with an air of stupid curiosity. In an
instant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the
gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent
the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards
the Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of
the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantès knew, in the
Frioul and outside the inner harbor.

The prisoner’s first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure
air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La
Réserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the
open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantès folded his
hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.

0111m



The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tête de Mort, were
now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This
manœuvre was incomprehensible to Dantès.

“Whither are you taking me?” asked he.

“You will soon know.”

“But still——”

“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.” Dantès, trained in
discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question
subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.

The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they
were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor
outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him
on some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt
to handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the
deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not
pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend?
Had not Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only
proof against him?

He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.

They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the
right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the
prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it
was there Mercédès dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn
Mercédès that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?

One light alone was visible; and Dantès saw that it came from Mercédès’
chamber. Mercédès was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A
loud cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not
utter it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a
madman?

He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on,
but the prisoner thought only of Mercédès. An intervening elevation of
land hid the light. Dantès turned and perceived that they had got out
to sea. While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their
oars and hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.

In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantès turned to the
nearest gendarme, and taking his hand,

“Comrade,” said he, “I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to
tell me where we are going. I am Captain Dantès, a loyal Frenchman,
thought accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I
promise you on my honor I will submit to my fate.”

The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for
answer a sign that said, “I see no great harm in telling him now,” and
the gendarme replied:

“You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know
where you are going?”

“On my honor, I have no idea.”

“Have you no idea whatever?”

“None at all.”

“That is impossible.”

“I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat.”

“But my orders.”

“Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten
minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if
I intended.”

“Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must
know.”

“I do not.”

“Look round you then.” Dantès rose and looked forward, when he saw rise
within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which
stands the Château d’If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than
three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to
Dantès like a scaffold to a malefactor.

“The Château d’If?” cried he, “what are we going there for?”

The gendarme smiled.

“I am not going there to be imprisoned,” said Dantès; “it is only used
for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any
magistrates or judges at the Château d’If?”

“There are only,” said the gendarme, “a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,
and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you
will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good
nature.”

Dantès pressed the gendarme’s hand as though he would crush it.

“You think, then,” said he, “that I am taken to the Château d’If to be
imprisoned there?”

“It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard.”

“Without any inquiry, without any formality?”

“All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already
made.”

“And so, in spite of M. de Villefort’s promises?”

“I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you,” said the gendarme,
“but I know we are taking you to the Château d’If. But what are you
doing? Help, comrades, help!”

By a rapid movement, which the gendarme’s practiced eye had perceived,
Dantès sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four
vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He
fell back cursing with rage.

“Good!” said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; “this is the
way you keep your word as a sailor! Believe soft-spoken gentlemen
again! Hark ye, my friend, I have disobeyed my first order, but I will
not disobey the second; and if you move, I will blow your brains out.”
And he levelled his carbine at Dantès, who felt the muzzle against his
temple.

For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending
the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M.
de Villefort’s promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of
a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing
his teeth and wringing his hands with fury.

At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of
the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley,
and Dantès guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they
were mooring the boat.

His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise,
and dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the
fortress, while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet
followed behind.

Dantès made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream; he saw
soldiers drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was
ascending a flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a
door, and that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as
through a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier
against freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.

They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his
thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls;
he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the
light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.

They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantès could not escape,
the gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders
came.

“Where is the prisoner?” said a voice.

“Here,” replied the gendarmes.

“Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell.”

“Go!” said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantès forward.

The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under
ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with
tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly, and
showed Dantès the features of his conductor, an under-jailer,
ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.

0113m



“Here is your chamber for tonight,” said he. “It is late, and the
governor is asleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the
meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a
prisoner can wish for. Goodnight.” And before Dantès could open his
mouth—before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the
water—before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was, the
jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door,
leaving stamped upon the prisoner’s mind the dim reflection of the
dripping walls of his dungeon.

Dantès was alone in darkness and in silence—cold as the shadows that he
felt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the
jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantès where he was. He found the
prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with
weeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The
jailer advanced; Dantès appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on
the shoulder. Edmond started.

“Have you not slept?” said the jailer.

“I do not know,” replied Dantès. The jailer stared.

“Are you hungry?” continued he.

“I do not know.”

“Do you wish for anything?”

“I wish to see the governor.”

The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left the chamber.

Dantès followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands
towards the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst
forth; he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking
himself what crime he had committed that he was thus punished.

The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and
round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular
tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so
still, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and,
thanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained
the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish
vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercédès and his father could
have joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live—good seamen
are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish
like a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercédès and
his father, whereas he was now confined in the Château d’If, that
impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and
Mercédès; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort’s promise.
The thought was maddening, and Dantès threw himself furiously down on
his straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.

“Well,” said the jailer, “are you more reasonable today?” Dantès made
no reply.

“Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?”

“I wish to see the governor.”

“I have already told you it was impossible.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask
for it.”

“What is allowed, then?”

“Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about.”

“I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to
walk about; but I wish to see the governor.”

“If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any
more to eat.”

“Well, then,” said Edmond, “if you do not, I shall die of hunger—that
is all.”

The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every
prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more
subdued tone.

“What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will
be allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and
if he chooses to reply, that is his affair.”

“But,” asked Dantès, “how long shall I have to wait?”

“Ah, a month—six months—a year.”

“It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once.”

“Ah,” said the jailer, “do not always brood over what is impossible, or
you will be mad in a fortnight.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of
francs to the governor for his liberty that an abbé became mad, who was
in this chamber before you.”

0119m



“How long has he left it?”

“Two years.”

“Was he liberated, then?”

“No; he was put in a dungeon.”

“Listen!” said Dantès. “I am not an abbé, I am not mad; perhaps I shall
be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another
offer.”

“What is that?”

“I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give
you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will
seek out a young girl named Mercédès, at the Catalans, and give her two
lines from me.”

0120m



“If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is
worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to
run such a risk for three hundred.”

“Well,” said Dantès, “mark this; if you refuse at least to tell
Mercédès I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and
when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool.”

“Threats!” cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the
defensive; “you are certainly going mad. The abbé began like you, and
in three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but,
fortunately, there are dungeons here.”

Dantès whirled the stool round his head.

“All right, all right,” said the jailer; “all right, since you will
have it so. I will send word to the governor.”

“Very well,” returned Dantès, dropping the stool and sitting on it as
if he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an
instant with a corporal and four soldiers.

“By the governor’s orders,” said he, “conduct the prisoner to the tier
beneath.”

“To the dungeon, then,” said the corporal.

“Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen.” The soldiers seized
Dantès, who followed passively.

He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and
he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantès advanced with
outstretched hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the
corner until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was
right; Dantès wanted but little of being utterly mad.



 Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal

Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de
Saint-Méran’s in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house
found that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in
the salon. Renée was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously
awaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a general exclamation.

“Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is
the matter?” said one. “Speak out.”

“Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?” asked another.

“Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?” cried a third.

“Marquise,” said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, “I
request your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by
a few moments’ private conversation?”

“Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?” asked the marquis, remarking
the cloud on Villefort’s brow.

“So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so,” added
he, turning to Renée, “judge for yourself if it be not important.”

“You are going to leave us?” cried Renée, unable to hide her emotion at
this unexpected announcement.

“Alas,” returned Villefort, “I must!”

“Where, then, are you going?” asked the marquise.

“That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions
for Paris, a friend of mine is going there tonight, and will with
pleasure undertake them.” The guests looked at each other.

“You wish to speak to me alone?” said the marquis.

“Yes, let us go to the library, please.” The marquis took his arm, and
they left the salon.

“Well,” asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, “tell me what it
is?”

“An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate
presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you
any landed property?”

“All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand
francs.”

“Then sell out—sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all.”

0123m



“But how can I sell out here?”

“You have a broker, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an
instant’s delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late.”

“The deuce you say!” replied the marquis, “let us lose no time, then!”

And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to
sell out at the market price.

“Now, then,” said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, “I
must have another!”

“To whom?”

“To the king.”

“To the king?”

“Yes.”

“I dare not write to his majesty.”

“I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do
so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king’s presence
without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would
occasion a loss of precious time.”

“But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of
entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the
day or night.”

“Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my
discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and
take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made
if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget
the service I do him.”

“In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write
the letter.”

“Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an
hour.”

“Tell your coachman to stop at the door.”

“You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renée,
whom I leave on such a day with great regret.”

“You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person.”

“A thousand thanks—and now for the letter.”

The marquis rang, a servant entered.

“Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him.”

“Now, then, go,” said the marquis.

“I shall be gone only a few moments.”

Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight
of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to
throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At
his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for
him. It was Mercédès, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come
unobserved to inquire after him.

As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantès had
spoken of Mercédès, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty
and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become
of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the
accused.

“The young man you speak of,” said Villefort abruptly, “is a great
criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.” Mercédès burst
into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.

“But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is
alive or dead,” said she.

0125m



“I do not know; he is no longer in my hands,” replied Villefort.

And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and
closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not
thus banished; like Virgil’s wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his
wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was
almost a sob, and sank into a chair.

Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The
man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on
the altar of his father’s faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,
leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse,
not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow
and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up to
the very moment of death. Then he had a moment’s hesitation. He had
frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his
irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest
shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort’s brow, because they were
guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose
happiness he had destroyed. In this case he was not the judge, but the
executioner.

As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and
which had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill
him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles
instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be
healed, but Villefort’s was one of those that never close, or if they
do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment
the sweet voice of Renée had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or
the fair Mercédès had entered and said, “In the name of God, I conjure
you to restore me my affianced husband,” his cold and trembling hands
would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the
chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort’s valet, who came to
tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.

Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of
the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into his
pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head,
muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his
servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the
carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Méran’s. The
hapless Dantès was doomed.

As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renée in
waiting. He started when he saw Renée, for he fancied she was again
about to plead for Dantès. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she
was thinking only of Villefort’s departure.

She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to
become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and
Renée, far from pleading for Dantès, hated the man whose crime
separated her from her lover.

0127m



Meanwhile what of Mercédès? She had met Fernand at the corner of the
Rue de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly
cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her
hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercédès did not even feel. She
passed the night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid
no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was
day. Grief had made her blind to all but one object—that was Edmond.

“Ah, you are there,” said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.

“I have not quitted you since yesterday,” returned Fernand sorrowfully.

M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that
Dantès had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends,
and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in
circulation that Dantès was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the
most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne
as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home
in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more
could be done.

Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking,
like M. Morrel, to aid Dantès, he had shut himself up with two bottles
of black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did
not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and
yet not so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows
on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres
danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle—spectres such as Hoffmann
strews over his punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust.

Danglars alone was content and joyous—he had got rid of an enemy and
made his own situation on the _Pharaon_ secure. Danglars was one of
those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a
heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life
of a man was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when,
by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires.
He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.

Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux’s letter, embraced
Renée, kissed the marquise’s hand, and shaken that of the marquis,
started for Paris along the Aix road.

Old Dantès was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond.
But we know very well what had become of Edmond.



 Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries

We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling—thanks to
trebled fees—with all speed, and passing through two or three
apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched
window, so well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon
and Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.

There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from
Hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to great
people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was
carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with
gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire,
and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius’s rather
inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace—a work which was
much indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical
monarch.

“You say, sir——” said the king.

“That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire.”

“Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean
kine?”

“No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and
seven years of scarcity; and with a king as full of foresight as your
majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared.”

“Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?”

“Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the
south.”

“Well, my dear duke,” replied Louis XVIII., “I think you are wrongly
informed, and know positively that, on the contrary, it is very fine
weather in that direction.” Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII.
liked a pleasant jest.

“Sire,” continued M. de Blacas, “if it only be to reassure a faithful
servant, will your majesty send into Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphiné,
trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the feeling
in these three provinces?”

“_Canimus surdis_,” replied the king, continuing the annotations in his
Horace.

“Sire,” replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to
comprehend the quotation, “your majesty may be perfectly right in
relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether
wrong in dreading some desperate attempt.”

“By whom?”

“By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents.”

“My dear Blacas,” said the king, “you with your alarms prevent me from
working.”

“And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security.”

“Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on
the _Pastor quum traheret_—wait, and I will listen to you afterwards.”

There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as
small as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then
looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of
his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said:

“Go on, my dear duke, go on—I listen.”

“Sire,” said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing
Villefort to his own profit, “I am compelled to tell you that these are
not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a
serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to
watch over the south” (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these
words), “has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens
the king, and so I hastened to you, sire.”

“_Mala ducis avi domum_,” continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.

“Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?”

“By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand.”

“Which?”

“Whichever you please—there to the left.”

“Here, sire?”

“I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my
left—yes, there. You will find yesterday’s report of the minister of
police. But here is M. Dandré himself;” and M. Dandré, announced by the
chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.

“Come in,” said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, “come in, Baron,
and tell the duke all you know—the latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do
not conceal anything, however serious,—let us see, the Island of Elba
is a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and
bristling war—_bella, horrida bella_.”

M. Dandré leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two
hands, and said:

“Has your majesty perused yesterday’s report?”

“Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what
the report contains—give him the particulars of what the usurper is
doing in his islet.”

“Monsieur,” said the baron to the duke, “all the servants of his
majesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the
Island of Elba. Bonaparte——”

M. Dandré looked at Louis XVIII., who, employed in writing a note, did
not even raise his head. “Bonaparte,” continued the baron, “is mortally
wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at
Porto-Longone.”

“And scratches himself for amusement,” added the king.

“Scratches himself?” inquired the duke, “what does your majesty mean?”

“Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this
hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries
him to death, _prurigo_?”

“And, moreover, my dear duke,” continued the minister of police, “we
are almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be
insane.”

“Insane?”

“Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly,
sometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he passes hours on the
seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes
‘duck-and-drake’ five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he
had gained another Marengo or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that
these are indubitable symptoms of insanity.”

“Or of wisdom, my dear baron—or of wisdom,” said Louis XVIII.,
laughing; “the greatest captains of antiquity amused themselves by
casting pebbles into the ocean—see Plutarch’s life of Scipio
Africanus.”

M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the
truthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to reveal the whole
secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had
yet communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.

“Well, well, Dandré,” said Louis XVIII., “Blacas is not yet convinced;
let us proceed, therefore, to the usurper’s conversion.” The minister
of police bowed.

“The usurper’s conversion!” murmured the duke, looking at the king and
Dandré, who spoke alternately, like Virgil’s shepherds. “The usurper
converted!”

“Decidedly, my dear duke.”

“In what way converted?”

“To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron.”

“Why, this is the way of it,” said the minister, with the gravest air
in the world: “Napoleon lately had a review, and as two or three of his
old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their
dismissal, and exhorted them to ‘serve the good king.’ These were his
own words, of that I am certain.”

“Well, Blacas, what think you of this?” inquired the king triumphantly,
and pausing for a moment from the voluminous scholiast before him.

“I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am;
and as it is impossible it can be the minister of police as he has the
guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable
that I am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will
interrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will urge your
majesty to do him this honor.”

“Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person
you please, but you must not expect me to be too confiding. Baron, have
you any report more recent than this, dated the 20th February, and this
is the 3rd of March?”

“No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I
left my office.”

“Go thither, and if there be none—well, well,” continued Louis XVIII.,
“make one; that is the usual way, is it not?” and the king laughed
facetiously.

“Oh, sire,” replied the minister, “we have no occasion to invent any;
every day our desks are loaded with most circumstantial denunciations,
coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services which
they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon
some unexpected event in some way to justify their predictions.”

“Well, sir, go”; said Louis XVIII., “and remember that I am waiting for
you.”

“I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes.”

“And I, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “will go and find my messenger.”

“Wait, sir, wait,” said Louis XVIII. “Really, M. de Blacas, I must
change your armorial bearings; I will give you an eagle with
outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to
escape, and bearing this device—_Tenax_.”

0133m



“Sire, I listen,” said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.

“I wish to consult you on this passage, ‘_Molli fugiens anhelitu_,’ you
know it refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are you not a sportsman
and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the _molli
anhelitu_?”

“Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for
he has posted two hundred and twenty leagues in scarcely three days.”

“Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we
have a telegraph which transmits messages in three or four hours, and
that without getting in the least out of breath.”

“Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come
so far, and with so much ardor, to give your majesty useful
information. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him
to me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously.”

“M. de Salvieux, my brother’s chamberlain?”

“Yes, sire.”

“He is at Marseilles.”

“And writes me thence.”

“Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?”

“No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present
him to your majesty.”

“M. de Villefort!” cried the king, “is the messenger’s name M. de
Villefort?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And he comes from Marseilles?”

“In person.”

“Why did you not mention his name at once?” replied the king, betraying
some uneasiness.

“Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty.”

“No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding,
ambitious, too, and, _pardieu!_ you know his father’s name!”

“His father?”

“Yes, Noirtier.”

“Noirtier the Girondin?—Noirtier the senator?”

“He himself.”

“And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?”

“Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you
Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would
sacrifice everything, even his father.”

“Then, sire, may I present him?”

“This instant, duke! Where is he?”

“Waiting below, in my carriage.”

“Seek him at once.”

“I hasten to do so.”

The duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his
really sincere royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained
alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened Horace, muttered:

“_Justum et tenacem propositi virum_.”

M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the
antechamber he was forced to appeal to the king’s authority.
Villefort’s dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut,
excited the susceptibility of M. de Brezé, who was all astonishment at
finding that this young man had the audacity to enter before the king
in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a
word—his majesty’s order; and, in spite of the protestations which the
master of ceremonies made for the honor of his office and principles,
Villefort was introduced.

The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On
opening the door, Villefort found himself facing him, and the young
magistrate’s first impulse was to pause.

“Come in, M. de Villefort,” said the king, “come in.”

Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited until the king
should interrogate him.

“M. de Villefort,” said Louis XVIII., “the Duc de Blacas assures me you
have some interesting information to communicate.”

“Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it
equally important.”

0137m



“In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as
bad in your opinion as I am asked to believe?”

“Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have
used, that it is not irreparable.”

“Speak as fully as you please, sir,” said the king, who began to give
way to the emotion which had showed itself in Blacas’s face and
affected Villefort’s voice. “Speak, sir, and pray begin at the
beginning; I like order in everything.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “I will render a faithful report to your
majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my anxiety leads to
some obscurity in my language.” A glance at the king after this
discreet and subtle exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his
august auditor, and he went on:

“Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your
majesty that I have discovered, in the exercise of my duties, not a
commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the
lower ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy—a
storm which menaces no less than your majesty’s throne. Sire, the
usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which,
however mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have
left Elba, to go whither I know not, but assuredly to attempt a landing
either at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores
of France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island
of Elba has maintained his relations with Italy and France?”

“I am, sir,” said the king, much agitated; “and recently we have had
information that the Bonapartist clubs have had meetings in the Rue
Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these
details?”

“Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a
man of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some time, and arrested on
the day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent character,
and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of
Elba. There he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral
message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not extract from
him; but this mission was to prepare men’s minds for a return (it is
the man who says this, sire)—a return which will soon occur.”

“And where is this man?”

“In prison, sire.”

“And the matter seems serious to you?”

“So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst
of a family festival, on the very day of my betrothal, I left my bride
and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your
majesty’s feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my
devotion.”

“True,” said Louis XVIII., “was there not a marriage engagement between
you and Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran?”

“Daughter of one of your majesty’s most faithful servants.”

“Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort.”

“Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy.”

“A conspiracy in these times,” said Louis XVIII., smiling, “is a thing
very easy to meditate, but more difficult to conduct to an end,
inasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors,
we have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the
future. For the last ten months my ministers have redoubled their
vigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If
Bonaparte landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before
he could even reach Piombino; if he land in Tuscany, he will be in an
unfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful
of men, and the result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is
by the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same time rely on our
royal gratitude.”

“Ah, here is M. Dandré!” cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister
of police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to
faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his
hand, restrained him.



 Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre

At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently
the table at which he was sitting.

“What ails you, baron?” he exclaimed. “You appear quite aghast. Has
your uneasiness anything to do with what M. de Blacas has told me, and
M. de Villefort has just confirmed?” M. de Blacas moved suddenly
towards the baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the
forbearance of the statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much
more to his advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over
him than that he should humiliate the prefect.

“Sire,——” stammered the baron.

“Well, what is it?” asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving
way to an impulse of despair, was about to throw himself at the feet of
Louis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned.

“Will you speak?” he said.

“Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I
can never forgive myself!”

“Monsieur,” said Louis XVIII., “I command you to speak.”

“Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on
the 1st of March.”

“And where? In Italy?” asked the king eagerly.

“In France, sire,—at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan.”

“The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two
hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only
acquired this information today, the 3rd of March! Well, sir, what you
tell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you
have gone mad.”

“Alas, sire, it is but too true!” Louis made a gesture of indescribable
anger and alarm, and then drew himself up as if this sudden blow had
struck him at the same moment in heart and countenance.

“In France!” he cried, “the usurper in France! Then they did not watch
over this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in league with him.”

“Oh, sire,” exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, “M. Dandré is not a man to be
accused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of
police has shared the general blindness, that is all.”

“But——” said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was
silent; then he continued, “Your pardon, sire,” he said, bowing, “my
zeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me?”

“Speak, sir, speak boldly,” replied Louis. “You alone forewarned us of
the evil; now try and aid us with the remedy.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “the usurper is detested in the south; and it
seems to me that if he ventured into the south, it would be easy to
raise Languedoc and Provence against him.”

“Yes, assuredly,” replied the minister; “but he is advancing by Gap and
Sisteron.”

“Advancing—he is advancing!” said Louis XVIII. “Is he then advancing on
Paris?” The minister of police maintained a silence which was
equivalent to a complete avowal.

“And Dauphiné, sir?” inquired the king, of Villefort. “Do you think it
possible to rouse that as well as Provence?”

“Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling in
Dauphiné is quite the reverse of that in Provence or Languedoc. The
mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire.”

“Then,” murmured Louis, “he was well informed. And how many men had he
with him?”

“I do not know, sire,” answered the minister of police.

“What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on
that point? Of course it is of no consequence,” he added, with a
withering smile.

“Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact
of the landing and the route taken by the usurper.”

“And how did this despatch reach you?” inquired the king. The minister
bowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he
stammered out:

“By the telegraph, sire.” Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his
arms over his chest as Napoleon would have done.

0141m



“So then,” he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, “seven conjoined and
allied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of heaven replaced me on
the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have,
during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the
people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now,
when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I
hold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms!”

“Sire, it is fatality!” murmured the minister, feeling that the
pressure of circumstances, however light a thing to destiny, was too
much for any human strength to endure.

“What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing,
forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console
myself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places
of honor, who ought to watch over me more carefully than over
themselves,—for my fortune is theirs—before me they were nothing—after
me they will be nothing, and perish miserably from
incapacity—ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right—it is fatality!”

The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas
wiped the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled within himself, for
he felt his increased importance.

“To fall,” continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded
the abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended,—“to fall, and learn of
that fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my
brother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries
driven away by ridicule. Ridicule, sir—why, you know not its power in
France, and yet you ought to know it!”

“Sire, sire,” murmured the minister, “for pity’s——”

“Approach, M. de Villefort,” resumed the king, addressing the young
man, who, motionless and breathless, was listening to a conversation on
which depended the destiny of a kingdom. “Approach, and tell monsieur
that it is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known.”

“Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man
concealed from all the world.”

“Really impossible! Yes—that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there
are great words, as there are great men; I have measured them. Really
impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen
hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going
on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is
a gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal—a
gentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all
your police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had
the power of directing a telegraph.” The look of the minister of police
was turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in
modest triumph.

“I do not mean that for you, Blacas,” continued Louis XVIII.; “for if
you have discovered nothing, at least you have had the good sense to
persevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have
considered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else
dictated by venal ambition.” These words were an allusion to the
sentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much
confidence an hour before.

Villefort understood the king’s intent. Any other person would,
perhaps, have been overcome by such an intoxicating draught of praise;
but he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police
minister, although he saw that Dandré was irrevocably lost. In fact,
the minister, who, in the plenitude of his power, had been unable to
unearth Napoleon’s secret, might in despair at his own downfall
interrogate Dantès and so lay bare the motives of Villefort’s plot.
Realizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen
minister, instead of aiding to crush him.

“Sire,” said Villefort, “the suddenness of this event must prove to
your majesty that the issue is in the hands of Providence; what your
majesty is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is
simply owing to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good
and devoted servant—that’s all. Do not attribute to me more than I
deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the
first opinion you have been pleased to form of me.” The minister of
police thanked the young man by an eloquent look, and Villefort
understood that he had succeeded in his design; that is to say, that
without forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of
one on whom, in case of necessity, he might rely.

“’Tis well,” resumed the king. “And now, gentlemen,” he continued,
turning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of police, “I have no
further occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is
in the department of the minister of war.”

“Fortunately, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “we can rely on the army; your
majesty knows how every report confirms their loyalty and attachment.”

“Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to
place in them. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned
with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”

“The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!” exclaimed Villefort, unable to
repress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he added, “Your pardon,
sire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget, not the
respect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the
rules of etiquette.”

“Go on, go on, sir,” replied the king; “you have today earned the right
to make inquiries here.”

“Sire,” interposed the minister of police, “I came a moment ago to give
your majesty fresh information which I had obtained on this head, when
your majesty’s attention was attracted by the terrible event that has
occurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your
majesty.”

“On the contrary, sir,—on the contrary,” said Louis XVIII., “this
affair seems to me to have a decided connection with that which
occupies our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps,
put us on the direct track of a great internal conspiracy.” At the name
of General Quesnel, Villefort trembled.

“Everything points to the conclusion, sire,” said the minister of
police, “that death was not the result of suicide, as we first
believed, but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just
left a Bonapartist club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been
with him that morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue
Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general’s valet, who was dressing his
hair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street
mentioned, but did not catch the number.” As the police minister
related this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life
hung on the speaker’s lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king
looked towards him.

“Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom
they believed attached to the usurper, but who was really entirely
devoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush?”

“It is probable, sire,” replied Villefort. “But is this all that is
known?”

“They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him.”

“On his track?” said Villefort.

“Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty
to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy
eyebrows, and a thick moustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an
officer of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly
corresponding with this description was followed, but he was lost sight
of at the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Héron.”
Villefort leaned on the back of an armchair, for as the minister of
police went on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he
learned that the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who
followed him, he breathed again.

“Continue to seek for this man, sir,” said the king to the minister of
police; “for if, as I am all but convinced, General Quesnel, who would
have been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his
assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished.” It required
all Villefort’s coolness not to betray the terror with which this
declaration of the king inspired him.

“How strange,” continued the king, with some asperity; “the police
think that they have disposed of the whole matter when they say, ‘A
murder has been committed,’ and especially so when they can add, ‘And
we are on the track of the guilty persons.’”

“Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at
least.”

“We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you
must be fatigued after so long a journey; go and rest. Of course you
stopped at your father’s?” A feeling of faintness came over Villefort.

0145m



“No, sire,” he replied, “I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue
de Tournon.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas.”

“But you will see him, then?”

“I think not, sire.”

“Ah, I forgot,” said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all
these questions were not made without a motive; “I forgot you and M.
Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another
sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be
recompensed.”

“Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a
recompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition that I have
nothing more to ask for.”

“Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the
meanwhile” (the king here detached the cross of the Legion of Honor
which he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis,
above the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave
it to Villefort)—“in the meanwhile take this cross.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “your majesty mistakes; this is an officer’s
cross.”

“_Ma foi!_” said Louis XVIII., “take it, such as it is, for I have not
the time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be your care to see
that the brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort.” Villefort’s
eyes were filled with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and
kissed it.

“And now,” he said, “may I inquire what are the orders with which your
majesty deigns to honor me?”

“Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to
serve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at
Marseilles.”

“Sire,” replied Villefort, bowing, “in an hour I shall have quitted
Paris.”

“Go, sir,” said the king; “and should I forget you (kings’ memories are
short), do not be afraid to bring yourself to my recollection. Baron,
send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain.”

“Ah, sir,” said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the
Tuileries, “you entered by luck’s door—your fortune is made.”

“Will it be long first?” muttered Villefort, saluting the minister,
whose career was ended, and looking about him for a hackney-coach. One
passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the
driver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to
dreams of ambition.

Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to
be ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him.
He was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp
and loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard someone speak
his name.

0147m



“Who could know that I was here already?” said the young man. The valet
entered.

“Well,” said Villefort, “what is it?—Who rang?—Who asked for me?”

“A stranger who will not send in his name.”

“A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me?”

“He wishes to speak to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes.”

“Did he mention my name?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of person is he?”

“Why, sir, a man of about fifty.”

“Short or tall?”

“About your own height, sir.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark,—very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows.”

“And how dressed?” asked Villefort quickly.

“In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of
Honor.”

“It is he!” said Villefort, turning pale.

0148m



“Eh, _pardieu!_” said the individual whose description we have twice
given, entering the door, “what a great deal of ceremony! Is it the
custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their
anterooms?”

“Father!” cried Villefort, “then I was not deceived; I felt sure it
must be you.”

“Well, then, if you felt so sure,” replied the new-comer, putting his
cane in a corner and his hat on a chair, “allow me to say, my dear
Gérard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the
door.”

“Leave us, Germain,” said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment
with evident signs of astonishment.



 Chapter 12. Father and Son

M. Noirtier—for it was, indeed, he who entered—looked after the servant
until the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he might
be overheard in the antechamber, he opened the door again, nor was the
precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who
proved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our first
parents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the
antechamber door, then that of the bedchamber, and then extended his
hand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which
he could not conceal.

“Well, now, my dear Gérard,” said he to the young man, with a very
significant look, “do you know, you seem as if you were not very glad
to see me?”

“My dear father,” said Villefort, “I am, on the contrary, delighted;
but I so little expected your visit, that it has somewhat overcome me.”

“But, my dear fellow,” replied M. Noirtier, seating himself, “I might
say the same thing to you, when you announce to me your wedding for the
28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in Paris.”

“And if I have come, my dear father,” said Gérard, drawing closer to M.
Noirtier, “do not complain, for it is for you that I came, and my
journey will be your salvation.”

“Ah, indeed!” said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in
the chair. “Really, pray tell me all about it, for it must be
interesting.”

“Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue
Saint-Jacques?”

“No. 53; yes, I am vice-president.”

“Father, your coolness makes me shudder.”

“Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers,
has escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of
Bordeaux by Robespierre’s bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most
things. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”

“Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel,
who quitted his own house at nine o’clock in the evening, was found the
next day in the Seine.”

0151m



“And who told you this fine story?”

“The king himself.”

“Well, then, in return for your story,” continued Noirtier, “I will
tell you another.”

“My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me.”

“Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?”

“Not so loud, father, I entreat of you—for your own sake as well as
mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for
three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible
speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay.”

“Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not
landed.”

“No matter, I was aware of his intention.”

“How did you know about it?”

“By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba.”

“To me?”

“To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger.
Had that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father,
would probably ere this have been shot.” Villefort’s father laughed.

“Come, come,” said he, “will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so
promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you
speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing
to pass you.”

“I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that
letter must have led to your condemnation.”

“And the destruction of your future prospects,” replied Noirtier; “yes,
I can easily comprehend that. But I have nothing to fear while I have
you to protect me.”

“I do better than that, sir—I save you.”

“You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic—explain
yourself.”

“I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques.”

“It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn’t
they search more vigilantly? they would have found——”

“They have not found; but they are on the track.”

“Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the
police is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the
government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a
sneaking air, that the track is lost.”

“Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in
all countries they call that a murder.”

“A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the
general was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having
thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to
swim.”

“Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown
himself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month
of January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense
of the word.”

“And who thus designated it?”

“The king himself.”

“The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was
no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well
as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in
politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.
Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell
you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was
recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and
invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends.
He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the
projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the
fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at
each other,—he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an
ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and
yet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free—perfectly
free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear
fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that’s all. A murder?
really, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found
an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you
were fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of
one of my party, ‘My son, you have committed a murder?’ No, I said,
‘Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; tomorrow, perchance, it
will be our turn.’”

“But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be
sweeping.”

“I do not understand you.”

“You rely on the usurper’s return?”

“We do.”

“You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of
France without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast.”

“My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble;
on the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at
Paris.”

“The people will rise.”

“Yes, to go and meet him.”

“He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched
against him.”

“Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gérard, you are
but a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph has
told you, three days after the landing, ‘The usurper has landed at
Cannes with several men. He is pursued.’ But where is he? what is he
doing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to
Paris, without drawing a trigger.”

“Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an
impassable barrier.”

“Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm—all Lyons will
hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and
our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well,
you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your
arrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your
direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in
proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring,
then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will
dine together.”

“Indeed!” replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment,
“you really do seem very well informed.”

“Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the
means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which
devotion prompts.”

“Devotion!” said Villefort, with a sneer.

“Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful
ambition.”

And Villefort’s father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon
the servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm.

“Wait, my dear father,” said the young man, “one word more.”

“Say on.”

“However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible
thing.”

“What is that?”

“The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General
Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house.”

“Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may
be that description?”

“Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor
in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane.”

“Ah, ha, that’s it, is it?” said Noirtier; “and why, then, have they
not laid hands on him?”

“Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the
corner of the Rue Coq-Héron.”

“Didn’t I say that your police were good for nothing?”

“Yes; but they may catch him yet.”

“True,” said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, “true, if this
person were not on his guard, as he is;” and he added with a smile, “He
will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.” At
these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went
towards a table on which lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his
face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising
whiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.

His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took,
instead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top
of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned
frock-coat, a coat of Villefort’s of dark brown, and cut away in front;
tried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son’s, which
appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner
where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the
air with it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger
which was one of his principal characteristics.

“Well,” he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise
was completed, “well, do you think your police will recognize me now.”

“No, father,” stammered Villefort; “at least, I hope not.”

“And now, my dear boy,” continued Noirtier, “I rely on your prudence to
remove all the things which I leave in your care.”

“Oh, rely on me,” said Villefort.

“Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really
saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter.”

Villefort shook his head.

“You are not convinced yet?”

“I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.”

“Shall you see the king again?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?”

“Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father.”

“True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second
restoration, you would then pass for a great man.”

“Well, what should I say to the king?”

“Say this to him: ‘Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France,
as to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he
whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the
usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at
Grenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing
as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with
hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of
snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave
France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but
by right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your
adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be
humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of
Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.’ Tell him this, Gérard; or, rather, tell
him nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you have
come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter
Marseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain,
quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time,
I swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies.
Go, my son—go, my dear Gérard, and by your obedience to my paternal
orders, or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in
your place. This will be,” added Noirtier, with a smile, “one means by
which you may a second time save me, if the political balance should
some day take another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down.
Adieu, my dear Gérard, and at your next journey alight at my door.”

Noirtier left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness
that had characterized him during the whole of this remarkable and
trying conversation. Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window,
put aside the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or
three ill-looking men at the corner of the street, who were there,
perhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat,
and hat with broad brim.

Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared
at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various articles he had left
behind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of
the portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into
small bits and flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and
calling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was
ready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready,
learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in the midst
of the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached
Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the
heart of man with ambition and its first successes.



 Chapter 13. The Hundred Days

M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he
had predicted. Everyone knows the history of the famous return from
Elba, a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably
remain without a counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow;
the monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious
foundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous structure of
ancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort,
therefore, gained nothing save the king’s gratitude (which was rather
likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion
of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas
had duly forwarded the brevet.

Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it
not been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at court, and thus the
Girondin of ’93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had
been his protector. All Villefort’s influence barely enabled him to
stifle the secret Dantès had so nearly divulged. The king’s procureur
alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.

However, scarcely was the imperial power established—that is, scarcely
had the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and begun to issue orders from
the closet into which we have introduced our readers,—he found on the
table there Louis XVIII.’s half-filled snuff-box,—scarcely had this
occurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities, to
rekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and
it required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater
violence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the
royalists whenever they ventured abroad.

0159m



Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment—we
will not say all powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather a
timid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of
Bonaparte accused him of “moderation”—but sufficiently influential to
make a demand in favor of Dantès.

Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more
favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, Gérard
required a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII.
returned, the influence of M. de Saint-Méran, like his own, could be
vastly increased, and the marriage be still more suitable. The deputy
procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one
morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.

Anyone else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man
of ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made
Morrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for
the simple reason that the king’s procureur always makes everyone wait,
and after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he
ordered M. Morrel to be admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had
found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial
politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the
well-bred from the vulgar man.

He had entered Villefort’s office expecting that the magistrate would
tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder
all over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his
desk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door;
Villefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him;
then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned
his hat in his hands,

“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the
hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.”

“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.

“Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be
delighted.”

“Everything depends on you.”

“Explain yourself, pray.”

“Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, “do
you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the
emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who
was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of
Elba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You
then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor—it was your
duty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him—it is
equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?”

0161m



Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. “What is his
name?” said he. “Tell me his name.”

“Edmond Dantès.”

Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a
pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but
he did not blanch.

“Dantès,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantès.”

“Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then went to a
table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to
Morrel,

“Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said he, in the
most natural tone in the world.

Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these
matters, he would have been surprised at the king’s procureur answering
him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the
prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in
his expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other’s
condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.

“No,” said Morrel; “I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years,
the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I
came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come today to
plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were
very severe with the Bonapartists in those days.”

“Monsieur,” returned Villefort, “I was then a royalist, because I
believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen
of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the
legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people.”

“That’s right!” cried Morrel. “I like to hear you speak thus, and I
augur well for Edmond from it.”

“Wait a moment,” said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register;
“I have it—a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I
recollect now; it was a very serious charge.”

“How so?”

“You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de
Justice.”

“Well?”

“I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was
carried off.”

“Carried off!” said Morrel. “What can they have done with him?”

“Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the
Sainte-Marguérite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take
command of your vessel.”

“Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not
already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be
to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it.”

“Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,” replied Villefort. “The order of
imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation
must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been
reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded.”

“But,” said Morrel, “is there no way of expediting all these
formalities—of releasing him from arrest?”

“There has been no arrest.”

“How?”

“It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance
without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may
defeat their wishes.”

“It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present——”

“It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV.
The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis
himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the
register is incalculable.” Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much
kindness would have dispelled them.

“Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?” asked he.

“Petition the minister.”

“Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions
every day, and does not read three.”

“That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented
by me.”

“And will you undertake to deliver it?”

“With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is
innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn
him.” Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which,
however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him
defenceless.

“But how shall I address the minister?”

“Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, “and
write what I dictate.”

“Will you be so good?”

“Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already.”

“That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be
suffering.”

Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw
back. Dantès must be crushed to gratify Villefort’s ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention,
no doubt, Dantès’ patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made
out one of the most active agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident
that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release
him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.

“That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.”

“Will the petition go soon?”

“Today.”

“Countersigned by you?”

“The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents
of your petition.” And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate
at the bottom.

“What more is to be done?”

“I will do whatever is necessary.” This assurance delighted Morrel, who
took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantès that he
would soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved
the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantès, in the hopes of an
event that seemed not unlikely,—that is, a second restoration. Dantès
remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis
XVIII.’s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice
had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo,
and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any
fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.

Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had
become filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the
situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards
he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, whose father now stood higher
at court than ever.

And so Dantès, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in
his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven.

Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that
overwhelmed Dantès; and, when Napoleon returned to France, he, after
the manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, _a decree of
Providence_. But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart
failed him, and he lived in constant fear of Dantès’ return on a
mission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to
quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish
merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is,
ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. He then left for Madrid,
and was no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was absent. What had
become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the
absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of
deceiving Mercédès as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of
emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and
motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence
Marseilles and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of
a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of
vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up; he would shoot Dantès, and then
kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never
kills himself, for he constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man
in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the
emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible
thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and
marry Mercédès. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have
done so when he parted from Mercédès. His devotion, and the compassion
he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce
on noble minds—Mercédès had always had a sincere regard for Fernand,
and this was now strengthened by gratitude.

“My brother,” said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders,
“be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the
world.” These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand’s heart. Should
Dantès not return, Mercédès might one day be his.

0165m



Mercédès was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never
seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in
tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute
and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times
gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to
cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was
not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into
execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.

Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married
and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantès,
who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s downfall.
Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the
hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercédès’ arms. M. Morrel
paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old
man had contracted.

There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the
south was aflame, and to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of
so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantès, was stigmatized as a crime.



 Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners

A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the
inspector-general of prisons. Dantès in his cell heard the noise of
preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been
inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash
of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon.
He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had
so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked
upon himself as dead.

The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of
several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended
them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed,
and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that
the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.

The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook
their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector
turned smilingly to the governor.

“I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless
visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same
thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?”

“Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.”

“Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We
must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.”

“Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners
sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be
sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall
a victim.”

“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a
stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight,
smell, and respiration.

“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”

“A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most
strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.”

“He is alone?”

“Certainly.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Nearly a year.”

“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”

“No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to
him.”

“To kill the turnkey?”

“Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked
the governor.

“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey.

“He must be mad,” said the inspector.

“He is worse than that,—he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.

“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.

“Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another
year he will be quite so.”

“So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,” said the inspector.
He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every
way fit for his office.

“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves
that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon
about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair,
an old abbé, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here
since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He
used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had
better see him, for his madness is amusing.”

“I will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously
perform my duty.”

This was the inspector’s first visit; he wished to display his
authority.

“Let us visit this one first,” added he.

“By all means,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to
open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the
creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the
dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a
narrow iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted
by two turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to
whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and
that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was
come, sprang forward with clasped hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was
about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three
steps. Dantès saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing
all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the
inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor,
observed, “He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is
afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of
anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then,
turning to the prisoner, “What is it you want?” said he.

“I want to know what crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am
guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.”

“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.

“I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters
really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is
that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an
infamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.”

“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “you are not so
always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the
turnkey.”

“It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very
good to me, but I was mad.”

“And you are not so any longer?”

“No; captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.”

“So long?—when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector.

“The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.”

“Today is the 30th of July, 1816,—why, it is but seventeen months.”

“Only seventeen months,” replied Dantès. “Oh, you do not know what is
seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man
who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man, who,
like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an
honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant—who
sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his
affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen
months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a
worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then,
and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a
verdict—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be
denied to one who is accused!”

“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On
my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against
him.”

“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.”

“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “I know it is not in your power to
release me; but you can plead for me—you can have me tried—and that is
all I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.
Uncertainty is worse than all.”

“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector.

“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched
with pity; tell me at least to hope.”

“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to
examine into your case.”

“Oh, I am free—then I am saved!”

“Who arrested you?”

“M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says.”

“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse.”

“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “since my
only protector is removed.”

“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?”

“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.”

“I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?”

“Entirely.”

“That is well; wait patiently, then.”

Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but
this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès—Hope.

0173m



“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to
the other cell?”

“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector. “If I once went up those
stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.”

“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting
than this one’s display of reason.”

“What is his folly?”

“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered
government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the
third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of
captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five
millions.”

“How curious!—what is his name?”

“The Abbé Faria.”

“No. 27,” said the inspector.

“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.”

The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber
of the _mad abbé_, as the prisoner was usually called.

In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of
plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments
scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines,
and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the
soldier of Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the
door, and continued his calculations until the flash of the torches
lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then,
raising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons
present. He hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it
round him.

“What is it you want?” said the inspector.

“I, monsieur,” replied the abbé with an air of surprise,—“I want
nothing.”

“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by
government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the
prisoners.”

“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each
other, I hope.”

“There, now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”

“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome.
I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why,
I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have
demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.”

“Why from the French government?”

“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and
Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.”

“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from Italy?”

“My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,” returned
the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for
his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli
and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.”

“Monsieur,” returned the inspector, “Providence has changed this
gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.”

“It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and
independent.”

“Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire
if you have anything to ask or to complain of.”

“The food is the same as in other prisons,—that is, very bad; the
lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon;
but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to
reveal of the greatest importance.”

“We are coming to the point,” whispered the governor.

“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued the abbé,
“although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which,
if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton’s system. Could you allow
me a few words in private.”

“What did I tell you?” said the governor.

“You knew him,” returned the inspector with a smile.

“What you ask is impossible, monsieur,” continued he, addressing Faria.

0175m



“But,” said the abbé, “I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting
to five millions.”

“The very sum you named,” whispered the inspector in his turn.

“However,” continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to
depart, “it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the
governor can be present.”

“Unfortunately,” said the governor, “I know beforehand what you are
about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?” Faria fixed his
eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced anyone else of
his sanity.

“Of course,” said he; “of what else should I speak?”

“Mr. Inspector,” continued the governor, “I can tell you the story as
well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five
years.”

“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like those of Holy
Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.”

“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,”
replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.” The abbé’s
eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand.

“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until
my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit
by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the
rest, if they will only give me my liberty.”

“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not been told
beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.”

“I am not mad,” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar
to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to
sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot
where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask
no more.”

The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?”

“A hundred leagues.”

“It is not ill-planned,” said the governor. “If all the prisoners took
it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians
consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of
escaping.”

“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the abbé’s plan
has not even the merit of originality.”

Then turning to Faria, “I inquired if you are well fed?” said he.

“Swear to me,” replied Faria, “to free me if what I tell you prove
true, and I will stay here while you go to the spot.”

“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector.

“Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so
there is no chance of my escaping.”

“You do not reply to my question,” replied the inspector impatiently.

“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will
keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.” And
the abbé, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued
his calculations.

0177m



“What is he doing there?” said the inspector.

“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They
went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.

“He was wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector.

“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.”

“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich, he would not
have been here.”

So the matter ended for the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and
this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the
impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his
wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern
times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither
courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the
eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves
sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are
not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer
the victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition
rarely allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and
their flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its
cell, from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy
hospital, where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the
mutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the
Abbé Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with Dantès; he examined the register, and
found the following note concerning him:

_Edmond Dantès:_

Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.

This note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it
had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend
against this accusation; he simply wrote, _Nothing to be done._

This visit had infused new vigor into Dantès; he had, till then,
forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the
date, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose
his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months—Dantès
still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This
fortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until
his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his
circuit was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months
passed away, then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by
and no favorable change had taken place, and Dantès began to fancy the
inspector’s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had
obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his
subordinates, and amongst them Dantès’ jailer. A new governor arrived;
it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners;
he learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty
cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell,
and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now
number 34.



 Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27

Dantès passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in
suspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious
innocence which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own
innocence, which justified in some measure the governor’s belief in his
mental alienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he
addressed his supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the
last resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have
any hope in him till they have exhausted all other means of
deliverance.

Dantès asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, even
if it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous,
was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated
to be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing
materials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the
same. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the
latter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to
speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantès spoke for the
sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but
the sound of his voice terrified him.

Often, before his captivity, Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea of
assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers.
He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face
besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the
infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The
galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other.
They were very happy.

He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were it
even the mad abbé. The jailer, though rough and hardened by the
constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of
his heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man
who suffered so; and he laid the request of number 34 before the
governor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dantès wished to
conspire or attempt an escape, and refused his request. Dantès had
exhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God.

All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he
recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new
meaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere medley
of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first
understands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the
pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the
sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid
every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to
accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty
oftener addressed to man than to God: “Forgive us our trespasses as we
forgive them that trespass against us.” Yet in spite of his earnest
prayers, Dantès remained a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantès was a man of great
simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore,
in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history
of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild
the ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the
imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors
in Martin’s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past
life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so
doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness!
No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would
have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle
in a cage. He clung to one idea—that of his happiness, destroyed,
without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and
reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable
Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.

Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantès uttered blasphemies that made
his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the
walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly
upon himself, so that the least thing,—a grain of sand, a straw, or a
breath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the
letter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every
line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the _mene, mene,
tekel upharsin_ of Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity
of man, and not the vengeance of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into
the deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most
horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient,
because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at
least the boon of unconsciousness.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death,
and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must
be invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the
brink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!

Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye;
but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself
struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once
thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all
is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This
state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings
that precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a
sort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the
bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity.

Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his
sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell
when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantès reviewed his past
life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future
existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.

“Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded
other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the
storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with
its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled
and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight
of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then
terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a
sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was
happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed
of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a
creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the
gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound
me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own
manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I
have paced three thousand times round my cell,—that is thirty thousand
steps, or about ten leagues.”

No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more
composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and
slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt
that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two
methods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself
with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of
starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dantès had always
entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the
yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He
resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his
resolve.

0185m



Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had
ceased to mark the lapse of time. Dantès said, “I wish to die,” and had
chosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he
had taken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are
brought,” thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and they
will think that I have eaten them.”

He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture,
the provisions his jailer brought him—at first gayly, then with
deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of
his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once
repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at
a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted
fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life
contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less
sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young—he was only
four or five-and-twenty—he had nearly fifty years to live. What
unforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to
liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary
Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would
not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient
strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next
morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously
ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.

Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over
him which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain
at his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his
eyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the
will-o’-the-wisps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of
that mysterious country called Death!

Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow
sound in the wall against which he was lying.

So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did
not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his
faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond
raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made
by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the
stones.

Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded to the
idea that haunts all prisoners—liberty! It seemed to him that heaven
had at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on
the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had
so often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the
distance that separated them.

No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams
that forerun death!

Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then
heard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.

Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond
was intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.

For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that
he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the
attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter
with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously
at him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it,
and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last
moments.

The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantès raised himself up and
began to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food,
about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order
to have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his
jailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread
for his prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantès was delirious; and placing the food
on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound
became more and more distinct.

“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner who
is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help
him!”

Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to
misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope—the idea that the
noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the
neighboring dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It
was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch his
countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy
hopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own
curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he
could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one
means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned
his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered
towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents
with a feeling of indescribable pleasure.

He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that
shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much
food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour,
and returned to his couch—he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his
ideas became again collected—he could think, and strengthen his
thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself:

“I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it
is a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to
work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as
his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it.
If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him,
he will cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.”

Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his
sight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone,
and with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck
thrice.

At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no
sound was heard from the wall—all was silent there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and,
thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh
recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence—night came without recurrence of
the noise.

“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, and
life and energy returned.

The night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions—he had already
devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously
for the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars
of the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise,
and so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he
listened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient
at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been
disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself.

Three days passed—seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off
by minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time
that night, Dantès, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,
fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He
moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and
then went back and listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other
side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had
substituted a lever for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the
indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around
for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist
cement, and displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating
was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All
his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.
The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it
would have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and
chair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had
been removed.

0189m



Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one
of the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the
floor, and it broke in pieces.

Dantès concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,
leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural
an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,
but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was
working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited
for day.

All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his
way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantès told him that the jug had
fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went
grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to
remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised
the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.

Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the
sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by
the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored
uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of
removing the plaster that surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès was able to break it
off—in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had
scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in
two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage
twenty feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours
he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six
years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?

This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, with
the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the
stone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give
strength to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals
imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must
remove from its socket.

Dantès strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The
fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantès
paused with anguish on his brow.

Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive
until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea
occurred to him—he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; this
saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantès had noticed that
it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave
it to him or to his companion first.

The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten
years of his life in exchange for it.

0191m



The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into
Dantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,
washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening
came Dantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as
he entered, stepped on it and broke it.

This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there,
but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer,
therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour
the soup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one
plate—there was no alternative.

“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bring
me my breakfast.”

This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity
of making another trip. He left the saucepan.

Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and
after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and
return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted
the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and
employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all
went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the
wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.

Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of
his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use
of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work
without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his
bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece
of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.

“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès.

“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break
your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners
followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave
you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I
hope you will not be so destructive.”

Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the
coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of
iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that
the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was
a greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him,
he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by
the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and
fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived,
Dantès straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and
placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of
soup into it, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners
were deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time,
had not Dantès long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the
turnkey retired.

Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to
work. He listened—all was silent, as it had been for the last three
days. Dantès sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.
However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but
after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no
impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and found
that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole
Dantès had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.
The unhappy young man had not thought of this.

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you,
that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my
liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to
existence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!”

0193m



“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that
seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,
sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair
stood on end, and he rose to his knees.

“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard anyone
speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to
a prisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding
strength to restraints of oak and iron.

“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound
of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?”

“Who are you?” said the voice.

“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation in
answering.

“Of what country?”

“A Frenchman.”

“Your name?”

“Edmond Dantès.”

“Your profession?”

“A sailor.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the 28th of February, 1815.”

“Your crime?”

“I am innocent.”

“But of what are you accused?”

“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”

“What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the
throne, then?”

“He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of
Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all
this?”

“Since 1811.”

Dantès shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in
prison.

“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is
your excavation?”

“On a level with the floor.”

“How is it concealed?”

“Behind my bed.”

“Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?”

“No.”

“What does your chamber open on?”

“A corridor.”

“And the corridor?”

“On a court.”

“Alas!” murmured the voice.

“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantès.

“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong
angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the
wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.”

“But then you would be close to the sea?”

“That is what I hoped.”

“And supposing you had succeeded?”

“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands
near here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I should
have been safe.”

“Could you have swum so far?”

“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”

“All?”

“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait
until you hear from me.”

“Tell me, at least, who you are?”

“I am—I am No. 27.”

“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantès. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter
laugh resounding from the depths.

“Oh, I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this
man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by him who died for us that
naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I
conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have
got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against
the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.”

“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.”

“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been
here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,
the 28th of February, 1815.”

“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be a
traitor.”

“Oh, no, no,” cried Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray
you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!”

“You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I
was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures
me. I will not forget you. Wait.”

“How long?”

“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.”

“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me
come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you
of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love
somebody?”

“No, I am alone in the world.”

“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if
you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he
yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father
has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves
me still; I shall love you as I loved my father.”

“It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.”

These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his
sincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same
precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then
gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,
perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a
companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints
made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are
gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.

All day Dantès walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on
his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he
bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind
that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already;
and then his mind was made up—when the jailer moved his bed and stooped
to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would
be condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when
this miraculous noise recalled him to life.

The jailer came in the evening. Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to him
that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was
a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are you
going mad again?”

Dantès did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would
betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantès
hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but
he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed
from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.

“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.”

“Is your jailer gone?”

“Yes,” said Dantès; “he will not return until the evening; so that we
have twelve hours before us.”

“I can work, then?” said the voice.

“Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.”

In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantès was resting his two
hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he
drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a
hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from
the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to
measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly
the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.

0197m




 Chapter 16. A Learned Italian

Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantès
almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view
of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled
through the grating.

He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering
and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almost
buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)
beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by
care, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a
man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physical
strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow,
while the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one could
only guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been
fashioned.

The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a
certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made it
probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.
He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with
evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled and
invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him
with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at
that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where
he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.

“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to remove the
traces of my entrance here—our future tranquillity depends upon our
jailers being entirely ignorant of it.”

Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in
spite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said:

“You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools
to aid you.”

“Why,” exclaimed Dantès, with astonishment, “do you possess any?”

“I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that
are necessary,—a chisel, pincers, and lever.”

0201m



“Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and
patience.”

“Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.”

So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of
beechwood.

“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired Dantès.

“With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed
me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about
fifty feet.”

“Fifty feet!” responded Dantès, almost terrified.

“Do not speak so loud, young man—don’t speak so loud. It frequently
occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside
the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the
prisoners.”

“But they believe I am shut up alone here.”

“That makes no difference.”

“And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get
here?”

“I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from
mine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the
necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion,
instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I
expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it,
and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor
on which your chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is
all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled
with soldiers.”

“That’s true,” said Dantès; “but the corridor you speak of only bounds
_one_ side of my cell; there are three others—do you know anything of
their situation?”

“This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten
experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many
years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor’s
apartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get
into some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The
fourth and last side of your cell faces on—faces on—stop a minute, now
where does it face?”

The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole
by which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, which
gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an
opening through which a child could not have passed, was, for better
security, furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all
apprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the
possibility of a prisoner’s escape. As the stranger asked the question,
he dragged the table beneath the window.

“Climb up,” said he to Dantès.

The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes of
his companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held out
both hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantès knew only by the number of
his cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in a
person of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a
lizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantès, and
from them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of
the dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to
slip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as to be able to
command a perfect view from top to bottom.

An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, “I thought
so!” and sliding from the shoulders of Dantès as dextrously as he had
ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.

“What was it that you thought?” asked the young man anxiously, in his
turn descending from the table.

The elder prisoner pondered the matter. “Yes,” said he at length, “it
is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery,
where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and
night.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“Certain. I saw the soldier’s shape and the top of his musket; that
made me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see
me.”

“Well?” inquired Dantès.

“You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your
dungeon?”

“Then——” pursued the young man eagerly.

“Then,” answered the elder prisoner, “the will of God be done!” And as
the old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profound
resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantès gazed
on the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and
ardently nourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration.

“Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?” said he at length.
“Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself.”

“Willingly,” answered the stranger; “if, indeed, you feel any curiosity
respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way.”

“Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own
powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?”

The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. “Then listen,” said he. “I am
the Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Château
d’If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for
three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was
transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that
the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,
had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was
very far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of;
namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be
overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment—Napoleon II.?”

“No, Louis XVIII.”

“The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways of
Providence—for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heaven
to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?”

Dantès’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his
own misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.

“Yes, yes,” continued he, “’Twill be the same as it was in England.
After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James
II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a
stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people,
then a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!” said the abbé,
turning towards Dantès, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a
prophet, “you are young, you will see all this come to pass.”

“Probably, if ever I get out of prison!”

“True,” replied Faria, “we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,
and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond
these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.”

“But wherefore are you here?”

“Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize
in 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political
face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a
quantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical
ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and,
lastly, because I fancied I had found my Cæsar Borgia in a crowned
simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was
the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed
now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to
complete his work. Italy seems fated to misfortune.” And the old man
bowed his head.

Dantès could not understand a man risking his life for such matters.
Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and
spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing.

“Are you not,” he asked, “the priest who here in the Château d’If is
generally thought to be—ill?”

“Mad, you mean, don’t you?”

“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantès, smiling.

“Well, then,” resumed Faria with a bitter smile, “let me answer your
question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner of
the Château d’If, for many years permitted to amuse the different
visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability,
I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if
such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to
suffering and despair.”

Dantès remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he
said:

“Then you abandon all hope of escape?”

“I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to
attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve.”

“Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to
succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in
another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?”

“Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to
effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning
over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I
possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard
as granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove
huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days
have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well
repaid if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of
this hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as
the stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I
dug up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the
fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so
completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add
another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also
that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my
undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to
make it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at
the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed
from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew
attempts evidently at variance with the Almighty’s pleasure.”

Dantès held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the
thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the
failure of the abbé’s plans.

The abbé sank upon Edmond’s bed, while Edmond himself remained
standing. Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed,
some things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on
them for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet—to devote
three years to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a
precipice overhanging the sea—to plunge into the waves from the height
of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to
pieces against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have
escaped the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils
past, then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three
miles ere you could reach the shore—were difficulties so startling and
formidable that Dantès had never even dreamed of such a scheme,
resigning himself rather to death.

But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate a
courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new
courage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what he
had not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only
because of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost
incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himself
with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had done
all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantès? Faria had dug his way
through fifty feet, Dantès would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of
fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but half as
old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk
from the idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three
miles to one of the islands—Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a
hardy sailor, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar
task; should he, who had so often for mere amusement’s sake plunged to
the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to
entertain the same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many
times had he, for pure pastime, continued in the water for more than
twice as long! At once Dantès resolved to follow the brave example of
his energetic companion, and to remember that what has once been done
may be done again.

After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man
suddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in search of!”

Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his head with
quick anxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?”

“The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you
occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does
it not?”

0207m



“It does.”

“And is not above fifteen feet from it?”

“About that.”

“Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through
the corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the
top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately;
we shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel
who guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is
courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient
in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now see
me prove mine.”

“One instant, my dear friend,” replied the abbé; “it is clear you do
not understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and
what use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider
that I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the
task of the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day.
But then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention),
then I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the
Almighty in trying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had
committed no offence, and merited not condemnation.”

“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantès with much surprise; “do
you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have
encountered me?”

“No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself
merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no
sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so
easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life.”

A slight movement of surprise escaped Dantès.

“Is it possible,” said he, “that where your liberty is at stake you can
allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?”

“Tell me,” replied Faria, “what has hindered you from knocking down
your jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing
yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?”

“Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,” answered Dantès.

“Because,” said the old man, “the natural repugnance to the commission
of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is
because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us
from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature
teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell
to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this
instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to
spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of
blood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a
shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and
physiological formation——”

Dantès was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts
which had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for
there are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head
and those that emanate from the heart.

0209m



“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over all the most
celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.
Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated
upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the
Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé
Dubuquoi from For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are
those for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the
best of all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable
moment, and when it presents itself, profit by it.”

“Ah,” said Dantès, “you might well endure the tedious delay; you were
constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with
toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.”

“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that source for
recreation or support.”

“What did you do then?”

“I wrote or studied.”

“Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?”

“Oh, no,” answered the abbé; “I had none but what I made for myself.”

“You made paper, pens and ink?”

“Yes.”

Dantès gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing.
Faria saw this.

“When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend,” said he, “I will
show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of
my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the
Colosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and on
the borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that
they would be arranged in order within the walls of the Château d’If.
The work I speak of is called _A Treatise on the Possibility of a
General Monarchy in Italy_, and will make one large quarto volume.”

“And on what have you written all this?”

“On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as
smooth and as easy to write on as parchment.”

“You are, then, a chemist?”

“Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis.”

“But for such a work you must have needed books—had you any?”

“I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after
reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and
fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of
all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I
devoted three years of my life to reading and studying these one
hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that
since I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled
me to recall their contents as readily as though the pages were open
before me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon,
Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne,
Shakespeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most
important.”

“You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to
have been able to read all these?”

“Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues—that is to say, German,
French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I
learned modern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am
still trying to improve myself.”

“Improve yourself!” repeated Dantès; “why, how can you manage to do
so?”

“Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and
arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their
medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is
absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred
thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I
certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;
and that would be quite as much as I should ever require.”

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantès, who almost fancied he had to do
with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some
imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings,
he added, “Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage
to write the work you speak of?”

“I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally
preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings
are served to us on _maigre_ days. Well, I selected the cartilages of
the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight
with which I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and
Saturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for
I will freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest
solace and relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and
traversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am
myself a prisoner.”

“But the ink,” said Dantès; “of what did you make your ink?”

“There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,” replied Faria, “but it
was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it
must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a
coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought
to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired.
For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I
pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.”

“And when,” asked Dantès, “may I see all this?”

“Whenever you please,” replied the abbé.

“Oh, then let it be directly!” exclaimed the young man.

“Follow me, then,” said the abbé, as he re-entered the subterranean
passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès.



 Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber

After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean
passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves
erect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into
which the abbé’s cell opened; from that point the passage became much
narrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees.
The floor of the abbé’s cell was paved, and it had been by raising one
of the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able to
commence the laborious task of which Dantès had witnessed the
completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eager
and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more
than common met his view.

“It is well,” said the abbé; “we have some hours before us—it is now
just a quarter past twelve o’clock.” Instinctively Dantès turned round
to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately
to specify the hour.

“Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,” said the abbé,
“and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these
lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and
the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the
precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that
might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth
never vary in their appointed paths.”

This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had always
imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in
the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement
of the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared
to him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion’s
lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging
out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda,
which he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in
his earliest youth.

“Come,” said he to the abbé, “I am anxious to see your treasures.”

The abbé smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by
the help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the
hearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a
safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès.

0213m



“What do you wish to see first?” asked the abbé.

“Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!”

Faria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of
linen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls
consisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;
they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, so
legible that Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the
sense—it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provençal, perfectly
understood.

“There,” said he, “there is the work complete. I wrote the word _finis_
at the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up
two of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to
complete the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find
in all Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have
composed, my literary reputation is forever secured.”

“I see,” answered Dantès. “Now let me behold the curious pens with
which you have written your work.”

“Look!” said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six
inches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine
painting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one
of those cartilages of which the abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it
was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantès
examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the
instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.

“Ah, yes,” said Faria; “the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it,
as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.” The
penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it
would serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.

Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same
attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools
exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the
South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading
vessels.

“As for the ink,” said Faria, “I told you how I managed to obtain
that—and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it.”

“One thing still puzzles me,” observed Dantès, “and that is how you
managed to do all this by daylight?”

“I worked at night also,” replied Faria.

“Night!—why, for Heaven’s sake, are your eyes like cats’, that you can
see to work in the dark?”

“Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence
that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I
furnished myself with a light.”

“You did? Pray tell me how.”

“I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made
oil—here is my lamp.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch
very similar to those used in public illuminations.

“But how do you procure a light?”

“Oh, here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen.”

“And matches?”

“I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little
sulphur, which was readily supplied.”

Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table,
and stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed
by the perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind.

0215m



“You have not seen all yet,” continued Faria, “for I did not think it
wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut
this one up.” They put the stone back in its place; the abbé sprinkled
a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,
rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the
other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it
stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting
in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this
space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.
Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and
compact enough to bear any weight.

“Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?”

“I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets
of my bed, during my three years’ imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when
I was removed to the Château d’If, I managed to bring the ravellings
with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here.”

“And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?”

“Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the
edges over again.”

“With what?”

“With this needle,” said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he
showed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for
the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.

“I once thought,” continued Faria, “of removing these iron bars, and
letting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat
wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more
preparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely
have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the
project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I
carefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen
opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chance
frequently brings about.”

While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind
of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so
intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably be
able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself
could see nothing.

“What are you thinking of?” asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deep
abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe
and wonder.

“I was reflecting, in the first place,” replied Dantès, “upon the
enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to
reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you
not have accomplished if you had been free?”

“Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a
state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is
needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.
Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my
mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the
collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity,
lightning, from lightning, illumination.”

“No,” replied Dantès. “I know nothing. Some of your words are to me
quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the
knowledge you have.”

The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “but you had another subject for your
thoughts; did you not say so just now?”

“I did!”

“You have told me as yet but one of them—let me hear the other.”

“It was this,—that while you had related to me all the particulars of
your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.”

“Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit
of your having passed through any very important events.”

“It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved
misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no
longer vent reproaches upon Heaven.”

“Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?”

“I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon
earth,—my father and Mercédès.”

“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed
back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”

Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which
consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three
voyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last
cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet
to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with
that personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a
letter addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles, and
interview with his father—his affection for Mercédès, and their nuptual
feast—his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at
the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Château d’If.
From this point everything was a blank to Dantès—he knew nothing more,
not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital
finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly.

“There is,” said he, at the end of his meditations, “a clever maxim,
which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and
that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved
mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.
Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices,
and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle
within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and
wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you
visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover
the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any
way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could your
disappearance have been serviceable?”

“To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person.”

“Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor
philosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king
who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his
rival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his
successor inherits a crown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary
steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand
livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are
as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from
the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder,
and is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in
Descartes’ theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase
as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason
rests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your
particular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain
of the _Pharaon_?”

“Yes.”

“And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?”

“Yes.”

“Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the
accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the
question as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from
being captain of the _Pharaon_. What say you?”

“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board,
and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain
themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me.
There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of
ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and
had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.”

“Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?”

“Danglars.”

“What rank did he hold on board?”

“He was supercargo.”

“And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his
employment?”

“Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed
inaccuracies in his accounts.”

“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last
conversation with Captain Leclere?”

“No; we were quite alone.”

“Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone?”

“It might, for the cabin door was open—and—stay; now I
recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was
giving me the packet for the grand marshal.”

“That’s better,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did
you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?”

“Nobody.”

“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of
it, I think?”

“Yes; the grand marshal did.”

“And what did you do with that letter?”

“Put it into my portfolio.”

“You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find
room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official
letter?”

“You are right; it was left on board.”

“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter
in the portfolio?”

“No.”

“And what did you do with this same letter while returning from
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?”

“I carried it in my hand.”

“So that when you went on board the _Pharaon_, everybody could see that
you held a letter in your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Danglars, as well as the rest?”

“Danglars, as well as others.”

“Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your
arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you
was formulated?”

“Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my
memory.”

“Repeat it to me.”

Dantès paused a moment, then said, “This is it, word for word: ‘The
king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,
that one Edmond Dantès, mate on board the _Pharaon_, this day arrived
from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been
intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the
usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of
his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will
be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his
cabin on board the _Pharaon_.’”

The abbé shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he;
“and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good
heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.”

“Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous.”

“How did Danglars usually write?”

“In a handsome, running hand.”

“And how was the anonymous letter written?”

“Backhanded.”

Again the abbé smiled. “Disguised.”

“It was very boldly written, if disguised.”

“Stop a bit,” said the abbé, taking up what he called his pen, and,
after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,
with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.
Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost
amounting to terror.

“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “Why your writing exactly
resembles that of the accusation.”

“Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand;
and I have noticed that——”

“What?”

“That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand
varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform.”

“You have evidently seen and observed everything.”

“Let us proceed.”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“Now as regards the second question.”

“I am listening.”

“Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage
with Mercédès?”

“Yes; a young man who loved her.”

“And his name was——”

“Fernand.”

“That is a Spanish name, I think?”

“He was a Catalan.”

“You imagine him capable of writing the letter?”

“Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife
into me.”

“That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an
assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,
never.”

“Besides,” said Dantès, “the various circumstances mentioned in the
letter were wholly unknown to him.”

“You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone?”

“To no one.”

“Not even to your mistress?”

“No, not even to my betrothed.”

“Then it is Danglars.”

“I feel quite sure of it now.”

“Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?”

“No—yes, he was. Now I recollect——”

“What?”

“To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at
Père Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They
were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way,
but Fernand looked pale and agitated.”

“Were they alone?”

“There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who
had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named
Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that it
should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that
on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.
Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantès, pressing
his hand to his throbbing brows.

“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the
villany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh.

“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see so
completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery
seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent
no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was
condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?”

“That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded the
abbé. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be
easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been
child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of
the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on
every point.”

“Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see
more clearly into my life than I do myself.”

“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his
deputy, or a magistrate?”

“The deputy.”

“Was he young or old?”

“About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.”

“So,” answered the abbé. “Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to
be corrupt. And how did he treat you?”

“With more of mildness than severity.”

“Did you tell him your whole story?”

“I did.”

“And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?”

“He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought
me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.”

“By your misfortune?”

“Yes.”

“Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?”

“He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.”

“And that?”

“He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.”

“What? the accusation?”

“No; the letter.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw it done.”

“That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater
scoundrel than you have thought possible.”

“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled
with tigers and crocodiles?”

“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more
dangerous than the others.”

“Never mind; let us go on.”

“With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?”

“He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only
proof existing against you.’”

“This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.”

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?”

“To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris.”

“Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could
possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?”

“Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me
promise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring
me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he
insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned
in the address.”

“Noirtier!” repeated the abbé; “Noirtier!—I knew a person of that name
at the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been a
Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?”

“De Villefort!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès
gazed on him in utter astonishment.

“What ails you?” said he at length.

“Do you see that ray of sunlight?”

“I do.”

“Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you.
Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed
great sympathy and commiseration for you?”

“He did.”

“And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?”

“Yes.”

“And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?”

“Yes.”

“Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this
Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This
Noirtier was his father!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened its
yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely
transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected
words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to
prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! his
father!”

“Yes, his father,” replied the abbé; “his right name was Noirtier de
Villefort.”

At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, and
cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that
had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the
letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the
magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce
punishment,—all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried
out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried
to the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, and said, “I
must be alone, to think over all this.”

When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the
turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and
contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these
hours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he
had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by
a solemn oath.

Dantès was at length roused from his reverie by the voice of Faria,
who, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his
fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his
mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the
abbé unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter
quality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a
small quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbé had come to
ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him.

Dantès followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and now
wore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance
that bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria
bent on him his penetrating eye.

“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, or
having given you the information I did.”

“Why so?” inquired Dantès.

“Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that of
vengeance.”

Dantès smiled. “Let us talk of something else,” said he.

Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in
accordance with Dantès’ request, he began to speak of other matters.
The elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like
that of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful and
important hints as well as sound information; but it was never
egotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.
Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his
remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort
of knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of
the good abbé’s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him;
but, like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes,
opened new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave
fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the
delight an intellectual mind would have in following one so richly
gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where he was so much at
home.

“You must teach me a small part of what you know,” said Dantès, “if
only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so
learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being
tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself.
If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention
another word about escaping.”

The abbé smiled.

“Alas, my boy,” said he, “human knowledge is confined within very
narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics,
history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am
acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely
require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I
possess.”

“Two years!” exclaimed Dantès; “do you really believe I can acquire all
these things in so short a time?”

“Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to
learn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory
makes the one, philosophy the other.”

“But cannot one learn philosophy?”

“Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to
truth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into
heaven.”

“Well, then,” said Dantès, “What shall you teach me first? I am in a
hurry to begin. I want to learn.”

“Everything,” said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners
sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.
Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing
quickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his
mind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally
poetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality
of arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He
already knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic
dialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two
languages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so
that at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and
German.

In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbé, Dantès spoke no
more of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left no
room for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged
his word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring
in any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed by
unheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a year
Dantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite of
the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed
incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall
into long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise,
and, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon.
One day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed:

“Ah, if there were no sentinel!”

“There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,” said Dantès,
who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though
his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest
operations.

“I have already told you,” answered the abbé, “that I loathe the idea
of shedding blood.”

“And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a
measure of self-preservation.”

“No matter! I could never agree to it.”

“Still, you have thought of it?”

“Incessantly, alas!” cried the abbé.

“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you
not?” asked Dantès eagerly.

“I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in
the gallery beyond us.”

“He shall be both blind and deaf,” replied the young man, with an air
of determination that made his companion shudder.

“No, no,” cried the abbé; “impossible!”

Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in
token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three
months passed away.

“Are you strong?” the abbé asked one day of Dantès. The young man, in
reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and
then as readily straightened it.

“And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last
resort?”

“I promise on my honor.”

“Then,” said the abbé, “we may hope to put our design into execution.”

“And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?”

“At least a year.”

“And shall we begin at once?”

“At once.”

“We have lost a year to no purpose!” cried Dantès.

“Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?” asked the
abbé.

“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

“Tut, tut!” answered the abbé, “man is but man after all, and you are
about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me
show you my plan.”

The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. It
consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the
passage which united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level
as they do in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners
immediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once
there, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones
with which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the
desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who,
stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès
before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to
make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let
themselves down from the outer walls by means of the abbé’s ladder of
cords.

Dantès’ eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at
the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed.
That very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity
proportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of
ultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work except
the necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in
anticipation of the turnkey’s visits. They had learned to distinguish
the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards
their dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his
coming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which
would have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees
and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria’s or
Dantès’ cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the
night wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to
remain.

More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools
for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still
continuing to instruct Dantès by conversing with him, sometimes in one
language, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the history
of nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame and
trodden the path of glory. The abbé was a man of the world, and had,
moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of
melancholy dignity which Dantès, thanks to the imitative powers
bestowed on him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward
polish and politeness he had before been wanting in, and which is
seldom possessed except by those who have been placed in constant
intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding.

At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation
completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly
hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over
their heads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently
dark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final
attempt till that auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread
now was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall
should give way before its right time, and this they had in some
measure provided against by propping it up with a small beam which they
had discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way.
Dantès was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard
Faria, who had remained in Edmond’s cell for the purpose of cutting a
peg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of
great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him
standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead
streaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what has
happened?”

“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé, “listen to what I have to say.”

Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria,
whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles,
while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair
seemed to stand on end.

“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting his
chisel fall to the floor.

“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “all is over with me. I am seized with a
terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast
approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my
imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you
what that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of
the feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out
for the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there
half-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no,
no!—I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have
the strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how
long the attack may last?”

In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly
frustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, but
descended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with
him; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the
abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled
with ice. “I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it
comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though
dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms
may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful
convulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries
are not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be
removed to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever.
When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and
not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife,
pour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down
my throat, and I may perhaps revive.”

“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones.

“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——”

0229m



So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was
unable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole
frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one
side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself
about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès
prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The
fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder
and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled
under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became
as rigid as a corpse.

Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then,
taking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed
jaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and
anxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave
no sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed too
long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his
hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At
length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned
to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the
sufferer made a feeble effort to move.

“He is saved! he is saved!” cried Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident
anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished
the approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven
o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his
head.

The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully
drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had
scarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the
prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key
had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer
had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose
restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the
food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the
stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s
couch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay
helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.

“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly, to Dantès.

“And why not?” asked the young man. “Did you fancy yourself dying?”

“No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I
thought you might have made your escape.”

The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès.

“Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?”

“At least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion would
have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this
attack.”

“Be of good cheer,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And as
he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his
hands. The abbé shook his head.

“The last attack I had,” said he, “lasted but half an hour, and after
it I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my
right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that
there has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will
either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.”

“No, no,” cried Dantès; “you are mistaken—you will not die! And your
third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at
liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only
with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command
every requisite assistance.”

“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack which
has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison.
None can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.”

“Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—and
meanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our
flight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able
to swim we will go.”

“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; not
for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken.”

The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight,
perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.

“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “Depend
upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of
this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it,
for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of
it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I
have twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated
Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.”

0233m



“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your
poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my
shoulders, and swim for both of us.”

“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must
know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done
fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain
hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I
shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are
young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back
your promise.”

“It is well,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising and
extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he
slowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while
you live.”

Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled
young friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the
sincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.

“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “I accept. You may
one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But
as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to
fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by
chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention
of his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery
which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set
about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance;
keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow
till after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the
greatest importance to communicate to you.”

Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it.
Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his
task, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show
towards his aged friend.



 Chapter 18. The Treasure

When Dantès returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in
captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of
light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in
his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the
use, a sheet of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small
compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He
did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantès.

“What is that?” he inquired.

“Look at it,” said the abbé with a smile.

“I have looked at it with all possible attention,” said Dantès, “and I
only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters
inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink.”

“This paper, my friend,” said Faria, “I may now avow to you, since I
have the proof of your fidelity—this paper is my treasure, of which,
from this day forth, one-half belongs to you.”

The sweat started forth on Dantès’ brow. Until this day and for how
long a time!—he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had
brought upon the abbé the accusation of madness. With his instinctive
delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord,
and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old
man for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by Faria,
after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into
mental alienation.

“Your treasure?” stammered Dantès. Faria smiled.

“Yes,” said he. “You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by
your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this
moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantès, and
if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes—you. No one
would listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you,
who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards
if you will.”

“Alas,” murmured Edmond to himself, “this is a terrible relapse! There
was only this blow wanting.” Then he said aloud, “My dear friend, your
attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile?
Tomorrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but today I wish to
nurse you carefully. Besides,” he said, “a treasure is not a thing we
need hurry about.”

“On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond!”
replied the old man. “Who knows if tomorrow, or the next day after, the
third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes,
indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which
would make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to
those men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I
tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my
captivity. But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now
that I see you, young and with a promising future,—now that I think of
all that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I
shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as
worthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden
wealth.”

Edmond turned away his head with a sigh.

“You persist in your incredulity, Edmond,” continued Faria. “My words
have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this
paper, which I have never shown to anyone.”

“Tomorrow, my dear friend,” said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to
the old man’s madness. “I thought it was understood that we should not
talk of that until tomorrow.”

“Then we will not talk of it until tomorrow; but read this paper
today.”

“I will not irritate him,” thought Edmond, and taking the paper, of
which half was wanting,—having been burnt, no doubt, by some
accident,—he read:

“this treasure, which may amount to two...

of Roman crowns in the most distant a...

of the second opening wh...

declare to belong to him alo...

heir.

                    “25th April, 149’”


“Well!” said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it.

“Why,” replied Dantès, “I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected
words, which are rendered illegible by fire.”

“Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for
me, who have grown pale over them by many nights’ study, and have
reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought.”

“And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?”

“I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen
to the history of this paper.”

“Silence!” exclaimed Dantès. “Steps approach—I go—adieu!”

And Dantès, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be
sure to confirm his belief in his friend’s mental instability, glided
like a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his
alarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with
his foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more effectually to
avoid discovery.

It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria’s illness from the jailer,
had come in person to see him.

Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he
might conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already half
stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched with
pity, might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus
separate him from his young companion. But fortunately this was not the
case, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for
whom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a
slight indisposition.

During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands,
tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their first
acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so
wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so
much wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was Faria
deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?

Dantès remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his
friend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be convinced,
once for all, that the abbé was mad—such a conviction would be so
terrible!

But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had
gone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move and get
over the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he heard
the painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his
leg was inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond was
obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been able to
enter by the small aperture which led to Dantès’ chamber.

“Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,” he said with a benignant
smile. “You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen
to me.”

Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he
seated himself on the stool beside him.

“You know,” said the abbé, “that I was the secretary and intimate
friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe
to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich,
although the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I
heard the phrase very often, ‘As rich as a Spada.’ But he, like public
rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise.
I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the
world, I tried by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all
he had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The
cardinal’s house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble
patron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty
family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his
unavailing searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that
followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume
relating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth
chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines,
which I can never forget:—

“‘The great wars of Romagna had ended; Cæsar Borgia, who had completed
his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had
also need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of
France, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and
it was necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable
scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished
condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined
to make two cardinals.’

“By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich
men—_this_ was the return the Holy Father looked for. In the first
place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which
the cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell
besides. There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter.

“The pope and Cæsar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they
were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of
the Holy See, and Cæsar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the
Roman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope.
They were ambitious, and Cæsar Borgia soon found purchasers for their
appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being
cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals
held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns
entered into the coffers of the speculators.

0239m



“It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The
pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them
the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their
affairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Cæsar
Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of
dispute between the Holy Father and his son. Cæsar thought they could
make use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends,
that is to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to
certain persons with the request that they go and open a designated
cupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point,—a negligence
on the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the
opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person
was pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the
ring with the lion’s head, which Cæsar wore when he wanted to greet his
friends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored,
and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal.

“Cæsar proposed to his father, that they should either ask the
cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander
VI. replied: ‘Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi,
let us ask both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get
that money back. Besides, you forget, Cæsar, an indigestion declares
itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day
or two.’ Cæsar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals
were consequently invited to dinner.

“The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San
Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by
report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a
good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man,
and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest
promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to
his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the
servant did not find him.

“Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so
eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a
centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, ‘Cæsar wills that
you die.’ but it was a legate _à latere_, who came with a smile on his
lips to say from the pope, ‘His holiness requests you to dine with
him.’

“Spada set out about two o’clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited
him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of his
nephew, in full costume, and Cæsar Borgia paying him most marked
attentions. Spada turned pale, as Cæsar looked at him with an ironical
air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was
well spread.

“They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his nephew if
he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly
comprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had
already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by
the pope’s butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach
him, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician
declared they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died
on the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door,
making signs which his wife could not comprehend.

“Then Cæsar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under
pretense of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance
consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written:—‘I
bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst
others, my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve
in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.’

“The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the
furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was
really the most miserable of uncles—no treasures—unless they were those
of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all.
Cæsar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found
nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns
in plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to
say to his wife before he expired: ‘Look well among my uncle’s papers;
there is a will.’

“They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but
it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard behind the
Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value,
and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they
were beneath the rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years
rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned,—you know by what mistake.
Cæsar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a
snake; but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a
tiger’s. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself
obscurely killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history.

“After the pope’s death and his son’s exile, it was supposed that the
Spada family would resume the splendid position they had held before
the cardinal’s time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in
doubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public
rumor was, that Cæsar, a better politician than his father, had carried
off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two,
because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any precaution, was
completely despoiled.

“Up to this point,” said Faria, interrupting the thread of his
narrative, “this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?”

“Oh, my friend,” cried Dantès, “on the contrary, it seems as if I were
reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you.”

“I will. The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years
rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others
diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some
were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I
was—the Count of Spada. I had often heard him complain of the
disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest
all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The
celebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in the count’s
possession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the
singular clause of the only will that had been found, had caused it to
be regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family with
superstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful
Gothic characters, and so weighty with gold, that a servant always
carried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity.

“At the sight of papers of all sorts,—titles, contracts, parchments,
which were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from the
poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of
documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but
in spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found—nothing. Yet I had
read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for
the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had
occurred to them on the death of the Cardinal Cæsar Spada; but could
only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,
his companion in misfortune.

“I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited
the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the
treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth
under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated
a thousand and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the
family for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my
ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty.

“My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,
his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous
breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns,
which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have anniversary
masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a
genealogical tree and history of his house. All this I did
scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion.

“In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the
death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see
presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for
the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was
sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at
Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed,
my library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor
at the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head
dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o’clock in the
afternoon.

0243m



“I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in
utter darkness. I rang for a light, but, as no one came, I determined
to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple
manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took
a wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece
of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a
light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing,
however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a
moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which
was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and
which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request
of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and
putting it into the expiring flame, set light to it.

“But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire
ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it
in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper
in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible
emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had
been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when
exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by
the flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read it again,
Dantès, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and
unconnected sense.”

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantès, who this
time read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish color
resembling rust:

     “This 25th day of April, 1498, be...

     Alexander VI., and fearing that not...

     he may desire to become my heir, and re...

     and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...

     my sole heir, that I have bu...

     and has visited with me, that is, in...

     Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...

     jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...

     may amount to nearly two mil...

     will find on raising the twentieth ro...

     creek to the east in a right line. Two open...

     in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...

     which treasure I bequeath and leave en...

     as my sole heir.

     “25th April, 1498.

     “Cæs...


“And now,” said the abbé, “read this other paper;” and he presented to
Dantès a second leaf with fragments of lines written on it, which
Edmond read as follows:

           “...ing invited to dine by his Holiness

        ...content with making me pay for my hat,

   ...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara

           ...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada

                      ...ried in a place he knows

                        ...the caves of the small

                 ...essed of ingots, gold, money,

 ...know of the existence of this treasure, which

           ...lions of Roman crowns, and which he

                             ...ck from the small

                           ...ings have been made

                           ...ngle in the second;

                                   ...tire to him

                                    ...ar † Spada.”


Faria followed him with an excited look.

“And now,” he said, when he saw that Dantès had read the last line,
“put the two fragments together, and judge for yourself.” Dantès
obeyed, and the conjointed pieces gave the following:

0245m



“This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness
Alexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my
hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate
of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...I declare to
my nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place
he knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small
Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...essed of ingots, gold, money,
jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this
treasure, which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns,
and which he will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small
creek to the east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in
these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second;
which treasure I bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir.
“25th April, 1498. “Cæs...ar † Spada.”

“Well, do you comprehend now?” inquired Faria.

“It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought
for,” replied Edmond, still incredulous.

“Yes; a thousand times, yes!”

“And who completed it as it now is?”

“I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring
the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden
meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a
cavern by the small ray of light above us.”

“And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?”

“I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying
with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian
kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period,
quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to
him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my
hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having
aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was
leaving Piombino.

“Now,” continued Faria, addressing Dantès with an almost paternal
expression, “now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If
we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here,
and you escape alone, the whole belongs to you.”

“But,” inquired Dantès hesitating, “has this treasure no more
legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?”

“No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count
of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic
breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind
satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy
it without remorse.”

“And you say this treasure amounts to——”

“Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our money.”2

“Impossible!” said Dantès, staggered at the enormous amount.

“Impossible? and why?” asked the old man. “The Spada family was one of
the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in
those times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such
accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at
this day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly
a million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they
cannot touch.”

Edmond thought he was in a dream—he wavered between incredulity and
joy.

“I have only kept this secret so long from you,” continued Faria, “that
I might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped
before my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte
Cristo; now,” he added, with a sigh, “it is you who will conduct me
thither. Well, Dantès, you do not thank me?”

“This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend,” replied Dantès, “and to
you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours.”

“You are my son, Dantès,” exclaimed the old man. “You are the child of
my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you
to me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a
father, and the prisoner who could not get free.”

And Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained to him to
the young man, who threw himself upon his neck and wept.



 Chapter 19. The Third Attack

Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’s
meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really
loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he
expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantès all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days
to his friends; and then Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the
oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected
how much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions
could do to his enemies.

The abbé did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantès knew it,
and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,
between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there.
This island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It
is a rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been
thrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.
Dantès drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès
advice as to the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But
Dantès was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man.
It was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in
which he had achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the
suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond’s admiration of him; but at
the same time Dantès could not believe that the deposit, supposing it
had ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure
as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.

However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last
chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to
perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on
the sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had
repaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the
hole Dantès had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it
will be remembered, the abbé had made to Edmond, the misfortune would
have been still greater, for their attempt to escape would have been
detected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a
stronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the
realization of their hopes.

“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to
Faria, “that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for
what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever
with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure
will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this
prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits
me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our
living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is
the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages
you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with
all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you
have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of
them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced
them—this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have
made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better
for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as
problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the
sea, which we take for _terra firma_, and which evaporate and vanish as
we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear
your eloquent speech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul,
and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I
should ever be free,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to
which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no
longer any hold over me; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical,
but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the
sovereigns of the earth, even Cæsar Borgia himself, could not deprive
me of this.”

Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed
together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence
as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied
would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left
leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was
continually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,
and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might
be some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantès to learn it by heart;
and Dantès knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed
the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would
be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed
while Faria was giving instructions to Dantès,—instructions which were
to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and
hour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought,
which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone
under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to
endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed
spot,—the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in
the second opening.

In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.
Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand
and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had
gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his
youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who
learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed,—Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantès, for
fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his
memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for
them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of
Providence.

But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young
man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many
stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when
Edmond returned to his cell.

One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone
calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or
rather a plaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached
him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow.
Undoubtedly the call came from Faria’s dungeon.

“Alas,” murmured Edmond; “can it be?”

He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and
reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the
light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken,
Dantès saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead.
His features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he
already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them
for the first time.

“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you understand,
do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?”

Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed
towards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!”

Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.

“Silence,” he said, “or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my
dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your
flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done
here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew
we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear
Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty;
some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you
will appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young,
strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape,
while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead
body tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence
has done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away,
and it was time I should die.”

Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my friend, my
friend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all his presence of mind,
which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,
which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have
saved you once, and I will save you a second time!” And raising the
foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the
red liquor.

“See,” he exclaimed, “there remains still some of the magic draught.
Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh
instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.”

“There is not a hope,” replied Faria, shaking his head, “but no matter;
God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so
profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to
preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet
always so dear.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès; “and I tell you that I will save you
yet.”

“Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing
towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter
and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in
five minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an
hour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Dantès, his heart wrung with anguish.

“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of
life are now exhausted in me, and death,” he continued, looking at his
paralyzed arm and leg, “has but half its work to do. If, after having
made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not
recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for
I can no longer support myself.”

Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.

“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my wretched
existence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a
priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment of
separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the
prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!”

The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the
old man’s bed.

“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of
the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by
time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes
pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight
of so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom
all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo—avail
yourself of the fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough.”

A violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dantès raised his head and
saw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood
had ascended from the chest to the head.

“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s hand
convulsively—“adieu!”

“Oh, no,—no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!
Help—help—help!”

“Hush! hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not separate us if
you save me!”

“You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,
although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you
were before.”

“Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to
endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth
to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tis
here—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand,
Dantès! Adieu! adieu!”

And raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his
faculties, he said,—“Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he
fell back on the bed.

The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen
eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture,
in place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there.

Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,
whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the
distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze
he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.

When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,
pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before,
counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial
contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a
quarter of an hour, half an hour,—no change took place. Trembling, his
hair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds
by the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the
last trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and
without having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained
extended, he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat.

0255m



The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded
the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon
them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed
body returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining
open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this
period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied to
his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart’s
pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it
stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,
the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.

It was six o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its
feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of
the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man,
and at times gave it the appearance of life. While the struggle between
day and night lasted, Dantès still doubted; but as soon as the daylight
gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then
an invincible and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not
again press the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze
on those fixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but
in vain—they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp,
carefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could
the entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.

It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began his
rounds at Dantès’ cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria’s
dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened
that the man knew anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.

Dantès was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was
going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore
returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the
exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys
came, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all
came the governor.

Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard
the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead
man’s face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner
did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out,
and words of pity fell on Dantès’ listening ears, mingled with brutal
laughter.

“Well, well,” said one, “the madman has gone to look after his
treasure. Good journey to him!”

“With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!”
said another.

“Oh,” added a third voice, “the shrouds of the Château d’If are not
dear!”

0257m



“Perhaps,” said one of the previous speakers, “as he was a churchman,
they may go to some expense in his behalf.”

“They may give him the honors of the sack.”

Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was
said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if everyone had
left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left
some turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and
motionless, hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he
heard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned,
followed by the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment’s
silence,—it was evident that the doctor was examining the dead body.
The inquiries soon commenced.

The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner
had succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions and answers
followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantès indignant, for he felt
that all the world should have for the poor abbé a love and respect
equal to his own.

“I am very sorry for what you tell me,” said the governor, replying to
the assurance of the doctor, “that the old man is really dead; for he
was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no
watching.”

“Ah,” added the turnkey, “there was no occasion for watching him; he
would have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for it, without any
attempt to escape.”

“Still,” said the governor, “I believe it will be requisite,
notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but
in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured
that the prisoner is dead.”

There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantès, still
listening, knew that the doctor was examining the corpse a second time.

“You may make your mind easy,” said the doctor; “he is dead. I will
answer for that.”

“You know, sir,” said the governor, persisting, “that we are not
content in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite
of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by
fulfilling the formalities described by law.”

“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it is a useless
precaution.”

This order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder. He heard hasty steps,
the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some minutes
afterwards a turnkey entered, saying:

“Here is the brazier, lighted.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then was heard the crackling of
burning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even
behind the wall where Dantès was listening in horror. The perspiration
poured forth upon the young man’s brow, and he felt as if he should
faint.

“You see, sir, he is really dead,” said the doctor; “this burn in the
heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered
from his captivity.”

“Wasn’t his name Faria?” inquired one of the officers who accompanied
the governor.

0259m



“Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very
learned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his
treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable.”

“It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,” said the doctor.

“You had never anything to complain of?” said the governor to the
jailer who had charge of the abbé.

“Never, sir,” replied the jailer, “never; on the contrary, he sometimes
amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife
was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her.”

“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, “I did not know that I had a rival; but I
hope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect in
consequence.”

“Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the
newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?”

“Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?” inquired a
turnkey.

“Certainly. But make haste—I cannot stay here all day.” Other
footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards
the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantès’ ears, the bed creaked, and
the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor;
then the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.

“This evening,” said the governor.

“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants.

“That is impossible,” replied the governor. “The chaplain of the
château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to
take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the
prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a
hurry, he might have had his requiem.”

“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his
profession; “he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and
not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.” A shout
of laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of
putting the body in the sack was going on.

“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.

“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey.

“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.”

“Shall we watch by the corpse?”

“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that is
all.”

Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; the
noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a
silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued,—the silence of death,
which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul of
Dantès.

Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked
carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from the
tunnel.



 Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If

On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale light
that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under its rude
folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria’s last
winding-sheet,—a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey said, cost so
little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had been placed between
Dantès and his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those
wide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the mysteries of
death; no longer could he clasp the hand which had done so much to make
his existence blessed. Faria, the beneficent and cheerful companion,
with whom he was accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed.
He seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell into
melancholy and gloomy reverie.

Alone! he was alone again! again condemned to silence—again face to
face with nothingness! Alone!—never again to see the face, never again
to hear the voice of the only human being who united him to earth! Was
not Faria’s fate the better, after all—to solve the problem of life at
its source, even at the risk of horrible suffering?

The idea of suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by
his cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the abbé’s dead
body.

“If I could die,” he said, “I should go where he goes, and should
assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,” he went on
with a smile; “I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens
the door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me.”

But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is
tossed from the depths to the top of the wave. Dantès recoiled from the
idea of so infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an
ardent desire for life and liberty.

“Die? oh, no,” he exclaimed—“not die now, after having lived and
suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now
to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I
want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back
the happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not
forget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who
knows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I
shall die in my dungeon like Faria.”

As he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before him like
one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought. Suddenly he arose,
lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain were giddy, paced twice or
thrice round the dungeon, and then paused abruptly by the bed.

“Just God!” he muttered, “whence comes this thought? Is it from thee?
Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the
place of the dead!”

Without giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and, indeed,
that he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his
desperate resolution, he bent over the appalling shroud, opened it with
the knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore
it along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied
around its head the rag he wore at night around his own, covered it
with his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried
vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the
head towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the
evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent custom;
entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to
the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle and thread, flung
off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh beneath the coarse
canvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself in the posture in
which the dead body had been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack
from the inside.

He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any
mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantès might have
waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the
governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed
earlier. In that case his last hope would have been destroyed.

Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If
while he was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that
they were bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dantès did not intend
to give them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife,
he meant to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their
alarm, escape; if they tried to catch him, he would use his knife to
better purpose.

0263m



If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would
allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was night, the
grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would
have worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped
that the weight of earth would not be so great that he could not
overcome it. If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy,
he would be stifled, and then—so much the better, all would be over.

Dantès had not eaten since the preceding evening, but he had not
thought of hunger, nor did he think of it now. His situation was too
precarious to allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one.

The first risk that Dantès ran was, that the jailer, when he brought
him his supper at seven o’clock, might perceive the change that had
been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or
fatigue, Dantès had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed
his bread and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word.
This time the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to
Dantès, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus
discover all.

When seven o’clock came, Dantès’ agony really began. His hand placed
upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while, with the
other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time
chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of
ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on
without any unusual disturbance, and Dantès knew that he had escaped
the first peril. It was a good augury.

At length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, summoned
up all his courage, held his breath, and would have been happy if at
the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of his veins. The
footsteps—they were double—paused at the door—and Dantès guessed that
the two grave-diggers had come to seek him—this idea was soon converted
into certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the
hand-bier.

The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantès’ eyes through the
coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a
third remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men,
approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.

“He’s heavy, though, for an old and thin man,” said one, as he raised
the head.

“They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones,”
said another, lifting the feet.

“Have you tied the knot?” inquired the first speaker.

“What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?” was the reply,
“I can do that when we get there.”

“Yes, you’re right,” replied the companion.

“What’s the knot for?” thought Dantès.

They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened
himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party,
lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs.
Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantès knew that
the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain
were strangely mingled.

The bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier
down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his shoes
striking on the pavement.

“Where am I?” he asked himself.

“Really, he is by no means a light load!” said the other bearer,
sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow.

Dantès’ first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt
it.

“Give us a light,” said the other bearer, “or I shall never find what I
am looking for.”

The man with the torch complied, although not asked in the most polite
terms.

“What can he be looking for?” thought Edmond. “The spade, perhaps.”

An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the grave-digger had
found the object of his search. “Here it is at last,” he said, “not
without some trouble, though.”

“Yes,” was the answer, “but it has lost nothing by waiting.”

As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy
metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a cord
was fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence.

“Well, have you tied the knot?” inquired the grave-digger, who was
looking on.

“Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you,” was the answer.

“Move on, then.” And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded.

They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door,
then went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing against the
rocks on which the château is built, reached Dantès’ ear distinctly as
they went forward.

“Bad weather!” observed one of the bearers; “not a pleasant night for a
dip in the sea.”

“Why, yes, the abbé runs a chance of being wet,” said the other; and
then there was a burst of brutal laughter.

Dantès did not comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his
head.

“Well, here we are at last,” said one of them.

“A little farther—a little farther,” said the other. “You know very
well that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the
governor told us next day that we were careless fellows.”

They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantès felt that they
took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and swung him to
and fro.

“One!” said the grave-diggers, “two! three!”

And at the same instant Dantès felt himself flung into the air like a
wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood
curdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his
rapid descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century. At
last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the ice-cold
water, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry, stifled in a moment by
his immersion beneath the waves.

Dantès had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by
a thirty-six-pound shot tied to his feet.

The sea is the cemetery of the Château d’If.

0267m




 Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen

Dantès, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence
of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was
for every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack,
extricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts
to free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still
lower. He then bent his body, and by a desperate effort severed the
cord that bound his legs, at the moment when it seemed as if he were
actually strangled. With a mighty leap he rose to the surface of the
sea, while the shot dragged down to the depths the sack that had so
nearly become his shroud.

Dantès waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to avoid
being seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces from where
he had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and tempestuous sky, across
which the wind was driving clouds that occasionally suffered a
twinkling star to appear; before him was the vast expanse of waters,
sombre and terrible, whose waves foamed and roared as if before the
approach of a storm. Behind him, blacker than the sea, blacker than the
sky, rose phantom-like the vast stone structure, whose projecting crags
seemed like arms extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock
was a torch lighting two figures.

He fancied that these two forms were looking at the sea; doubtless
these strange grave-diggers had heard his cry. Dantès dived again, and
remained a long time beneath the water. This was an easy feat to him,
for he usually attracted a crowd of spectators in the bay before the
lighthouse at Marseilles when he swam there, and was unanimously
declared to be the best swimmer in the port. When he came up again the
light had disappeared.

He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pomègue are the nearest
islands of all those that surround the Château d’If, but Ratonneau and
Pomègue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume. Tiboulen and
Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantès’ venture. The islands of
Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Château d’If; Dantès,
nevertheless, determined to make for them. But how could he find his
way in the darkness of the night?

At this moment he saw the light of Planier, gleaming in front of him
like a star. By leaving this light on the right, he kept the Island of
Tiboulen a little on the left; by turning to the left, therefore, he
would find it. But, as we have said, it was at least a league from the
Château d’If to this island. Often in prison Faria had said to him,
when he saw him idle and inactive:

“Dantès, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be
drowned if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly
exercised and prepared for exertion.”

These words rang in Dantès’ ears, even beneath the waves; he hastened
to cleave his way through them to see if he had not lost his strength.
He found with pleasure that his captivity had taken away nothing of his
power, and that he was still master of that element on whose bosom he
had so often sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantès’ efforts. He listened for
any sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top
of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness.
He fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he
redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the
château, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the
terrible château had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it,
but he _felt_ its presence.

An hour passed, during which Dantès, excited by the feeling of freedom,
continued to cleave the waves.

“Let us see,” said he, “I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is
against me, that has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken,
I must be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?”

A shudder passed over him. He sought to tread water, in order to rest
himself; but the sea was too violent, and he felt that he could not
make use of this means of recuperation.

“Well,” said he, “I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp
seizes me, and then I shall sink;” and he struck out with the energy of
despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense,
and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he
felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been
shot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put
out his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew
that he had gained the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing so
much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent
combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantès rose, advanced a few
steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on
the granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of
the wind and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter
exhaustion. At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened by the
roar of thunder. The tempest was let loose and beating the atmosphere
with its mighty wings; from time to time a flash of lightning stretched
across the heavens like a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that
rolled on in vast chaotic waves.

Dantès had not been deceived—he had reached the first of the two
islands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was barren and
without shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he resolved to
plunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but
larger, and consequently better adapted for concealment.

An overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and scarcely had
he availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth in all its fury.
Edmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath which he lay; the waves,
dashing themselves against it, wetted him with their spray. He was
safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of the warring of
the elements and the dazzling brightness of the lightning. It seemed to
him that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a
vessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of
the storm.

He then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for four-and-twenty
hours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the rainwater that
had lodged in a hollow of the rock.

As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the remotest
heights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light, between the
Island of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant,
Dantès saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a spectre before the
power of winds and waves. A second after, he saw it again, approaching
with frightful rapidity. Dantès cried at the top of his voice to warn
them of their danger, but they saw it themselves. Another flash showed
him four men clinging to the shattered mast and the rigging, while a
fifth clung to the broken rudder. The men he beheld saw him
undoubtedly, for their cries were carried to his ears by the wind.
Above the splintered mast a sail rent to tatters was waving; suddenly
the ropes that still held it gave way, and it disappeared in the
darkness of the night like a vast sea-bird.

At the same moment a violent crash was heard, and cries of distress.
Dantès from his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the
fragments the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then all was dark
again.

Dantès ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to
pieces; he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing—the
cries had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By degrees the
wind abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west, and the blue
firmament appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a red streak became
visible in the horizon, the waves whitened, a light played over them,
and gilded their foaming crests with gold. It was day.

Dantès stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle, as if
he now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his captivity in
the Château d’If he had forgotten that such scenes were ever to be
witnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and looked at both sea and
land. The gloomy building rose from the bosom of the ocean with
imposing majesty and seemed to dominate the scene. It was about five
o’clock. The sea continued to get calmer.

“In two or three hours,” thought Dantès, “the turnkey will enter my
chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in
vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men
who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered,
will be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue
the wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn everyone to refuse shelter
to a man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles
will be on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I
am cold, I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. Oh, my
God, I have suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what
I am unable to do for myself.”

As Dantès (his eyes turned in the direction of the Château d’If)
uttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of
Pomègue a small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a gull in
search of prey; and with his sailor’s eye he knew it to be a Genoese
tartan. She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was standing out
to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the waves.

“Oh,” cried Edmond, “to think that in half an hour I could join her,
did I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed back to
Marseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under pretext of
trading along the coast, these men, who are in reality smugglers, will
prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must wait. But I cannot—I
am starving. In a few hours my strength will be utterly exhausted;
besides, perhaps I have not been missed at the fortress. I can pass as
one of the sailors wrecked last night. My story will be accepted, for
there is no one left to contradict me.”

As he spoke, Dantès looked toward the spot where the fishing-vessel had
been wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of the sailors hung to a
point of the rock and some timbers that had formed part of the vessel’s
keel, floated at the foot of the crag. In an instant Dantès’ plan was
formed. He swam to the cap, placed it on his head, seized one of the
timbers, and struck out so as to cut across the course the vessel was
taking.

“I am saved!” murmured he. And this conviction restored his strength.

He soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was tacking
between the Château d’If and the tower of Planier. For an instant he
feared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should stand out to sea;
but he soon saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy,
between the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne.

However, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and
in one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of
him. He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on
board saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack. Dantès would have
shouted, but he knew that the wind would drown his voice.

It was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber, for
without it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the
vessel—certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in
attracting attention.

Dantès, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had
yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then he
advanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her
course. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his
cap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailors. This time he was
both seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At
the same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat.

An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards
him. Dantès let go of the timber, which he now thought to be useless,
and swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned too much upon his
strength, and then he realized how serviceable the timber had been to
him. His arms became stiff, his legs lost their flexibility, and he was
almost breathless.

He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of
them cried in Italian, “Courage!”

The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength
to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface,
struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a
third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were
again tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky
turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He
felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had
fainted.

When he opened his eyes Dantès found himself on the deck of the tartan.
His first care was to see what course they were taking. They were
rapidly leaving the Château d’If behind. Dantès was so exhausted that
the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.

As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his
limbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who
had cried out “Courage!” held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while
the third, an old sailor, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with
that egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped
yesterday, and which may overtake them tomorrow.

A few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the friction
of his limbs restored their elasticity.

“Who are you?” said the pilot in bad French.

“I am,” replied Dantès, in bad Italian, “a Maltese sailor. We were
coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook
us at Cape Morgiou, and we were wrecked on these rocks.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our
captain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and
fearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a
piece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my
life, and I thank you,” continued Dantès. “I was lost when one of your
sailors caught hold of my hair.”

“It was I,” said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; “and it was
time, for you were sinking.”

“Yes,” returned Dantès, holding out his hand, “I thank you again.”

“I almost hesitated, though,” replied the sailor; “you looked more like
a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair
a foot long.”

Dantès recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the
time he was at the Château d’If.

“Yes,” said he, “I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my
hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but
today the vow expires.”

“Now what are we to do with you?” said the captain.

“Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped;
but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be
sure to find employment.”

“Do you know the Mediterranean?”

“I have sailed over it since my childhood.”

“You know the best harbors?”

“There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage
over my eyes.”

“I say, captain,” said the sailor who had cried “Courage!” to Dantès,
“if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us?”

“If he says true,” said the captain doubtingly. “But in his present
condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it
afterwards.”

“I will do more than I promise,” said Dantès.

“We shall see,” returned the other, smiling.

“Where are you going?” asked Dantès.

“To Leghorn.”

“Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the
wind?”

“Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion.”

“You shall pass it by twenty fathoms.”

“Take the helm, and let us see what you know.”

The young man took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the
rudder promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailor, she
yet was tolerably obedient.

“To the sheets,” said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew,
obeyed, while the pilot looked on. “Haul taut.”

They obeyed.

“Belay.” This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dantès
had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.

“Bravo!” said the captain.

“Bravo!” repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at
this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor
they had not thought him capable of showing.

“You see,” said Dantès, quitting the helm, “I shall be of some use to
you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you
can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get,
for my food and the clothes you lend me.”

“Ah,” said the captain, “we can agree very well, if you are
reasonable.”

“Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,” returned
Dantès.

“That’s not fair,” said the seaman who had saved Dantès; “for you know
more than we do.”

“What is that to you, Jacopo?” returned the Captain. “Everyone is free
to ask what he pleases.”

“That’s true,” replied Jacopo; “I only make a remark.”

“Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of
trousers, if you have them.”

“No,” said Jacopo; “but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers.”

“That is all I want,” interrupted Dantès. Jacopo dived into the hold
and soon returned with what Edmond wanted.

“Now, then, do you wish for anything else?” said the patron.

“A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for I
have not eaten or drunk for a long time.” He had not tasted food for
forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the
gourd.

“Larboard your helm,” cried the captain to the steersman. Dantès
glanced that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with
hand in mid-air.

“Hollo! what’s the matter at the Château d’If?” said the captain.

A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantès’ attention, crowned the
summit of the bastion of the Château d’If. At the same moment the faint
report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another.

“What is this?” asked the captain.

“A prisoner has escaped from the Château d’If, and they are firing the
alarm gun,” replied Dantès. The captain glanced at him, but he had
lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure,
that suspicions, if the captain had any, died away.

0277m



“Pretty strong rum! “ said Dantès, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“At any rate,” murmured he, “if it be, so much the better, for I have
made a rare acquisition.”

0279m



Under pretence of being fatigued, Dantès asked to take the helm; the
steersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the captain, and the latter
by a sign indicated that he might abandon it to his new comrade. Dantès
could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.

“What is the day of the month?” asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside
him.

“The 28th of February.”

“In what year?”

“In what year—you ask me in what year?”

“Yes,” replied the young man, “I ask you in what year!”

“You have forgotten then?”

“I got such a fright last night,” replied Dantès, smiling, “that I have
almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?”

“The year 1829,” returned Jacopo.

It was fourteen years, day for day, since Dantès’ arrest. He was
nineteen when he entered the Château d’If; he was thirty-three when he
escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what
had become of Mercédès, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes
lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused
him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars,
Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in
his dungeon.

This oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailor in the
Mediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan,
that with every stitch of canvas set was flying before the wind to
Leghorn.



 Chapter 22. The Smugglers

Dantès had not been a day on board before he had a very clear idea of
the men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having been in the
school of the Abbé Faria, the worthy master of _La Jeune Amélie_ (the
name of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of all the tongues spoken
on the shores of that large lake called the Mediterranean, from the
Arabic to the Provençal, and this, while it spared him interpreters,
persons always troublesome and frequently indiscreet, gave him great
facilities of communication, either with the vessels he met at sea,
with the small boats sailing along the coast, or with the people
without name, country, or occupation, who are always seen on the quays
of seaports, and who live by hidden and mysterious means which we must
suppose to be a direct gift of Providence, as they have no visible
means of support. It is fair to assume that Dantès was on board a
smuggler.

At first the captain had received Dantès on board with a certain degree
of distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers of the
coast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a perpetual
battle of wits, he had at first thought that Dantès might be an
emissary of these industrious guardians of rights and duties, who
perhaps employed this ingenious means of learning some of the secrets
of his trade. But the skilful manner in which Dantès had handled the
lugger had entirely reassured him; and then, when he saw the light
plume of smoke floating above the bastion of the Château d’If, and
heard the distant report, he was instantly struck with the idea that he
had on board his vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings,
was accompanied with salutes of artillery. This made him less uneasy,
it must be owned, than if the new-comer had proved to be a customs
officer; but this supposition also disappeared like the first, when he
beheld the perfect tranquillity of his recruit.

Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was, without
the owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor and his crew
tried to “pump” him, they extracted nothing more from him; he gave
accurate descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he knew as well as
Marseilles, and held stoutly to his first story. Thus the Genoese,
subtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose favor his mild
demeanor, his nautical skill, and his admirable dissimulation, pleaded.
Moreover, it is possible that the Genoese was one of those shrewd
persons who know nothing but what they should know, and believe nothing
but what they should believe.

In this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn. Here
Edmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out whether he
could recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face for fourteen
years. He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance of what the youth
had been, and was now to find out what the man had become. His comrades
believed that his vow was fulfilled. As he had twenty times touched at
Leghorn, he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went there
to have his beard and hair cut. The barber gazed in amazement at this
man with the long, thick and black hair and beard, which gave his head
the appearance of one of Titian’s portraits. At this period it was not
the fashion to wear so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber
would only be surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should
consent voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said
nothing and went to work.

When the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin was
completely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he asked
for a looking-glass. He was now, as we have said, three-and-thirty
years of age, and his fourteen years’ imprisonment had produced a great
transformation in his appearance.

Dantès had entered the Château d’If with the round, open, smiling face
of a young and happy man, with whom the early paths of life have been
smooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past. This
was now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling mouth
had assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken resolution; his
eyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with thought; his eyes
were full of melancholy, and from their depths occasionally sparkled
gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, so long kept
from the sun, had now that pale color which produces, when the features
are encircled with black hair, the aristocratic beauty of the man of
the north; the profound learning he had acquired had besides diffused
over his features a refined intellectual expression; and he had also
acquired, being naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame
possesses which has so long concentrated all its force within itself.

0283m



To the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the solidity
of a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice, prayers, sobs, and
imprecations had changed it so that at times it was of a singularly
penetrating sweetness, and at others rough and almost hoarse.

Moreover, from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had
acquired the faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to
the hyena and the wolf. Edmond smiled when he beheld himself; it was
impossible that his best friend—if, indeed, he had any friend
left—could recognize him; he could not recognize himself.

The master of _La Jeune Amélie_, who was very desirous of retaining
amongst his crew a man of Edmond’s value, had offered to advance him
funds out of his future profits, which Edmond had accepted. His next
care on leaving the barber’s who had achieved his first metamorphosis
was to enter a shop and buy a complete sailor’s suit—a garb, as we all
know, very simple, and consisting of white trousers, a striped shirt,
and a cap.

It was in this costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt and
trousers he had lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of
the lugger, who had made him tell his story over and over again before
he could believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor the man
with thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body
soaking in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned.
Attracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of an
engagement to Dantès; but Dantès, who had his own projects, would not
agree for a longer time than three months.

_La Jeune Amélie_ had a very active crew, very obedient to their
captain, who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been a
week at Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with printed
muslins, contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on which the
excise had forgotten to put its mark. The master was to get all this
out of Leghorn free of duties, and land it on the shores of Corsica,
where certain speculators undertook to forward the cargo to France.

They sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the azure sea which had been the
first horizon of his youth, and which he had so often dreamed of in
prison. He left Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on his left, and
went towards the country of Paoli and Napoleon.

The next morning going on deck, as he always did at an early hour, the
patron found Dantès leaning against the bulwarks gazing with intense
earnestness at a pile of granite rocks, which the rising sun tinged
with rosy light. It was the Island of Monte Cristo.

_La Jeune Amélie_ left it three-quarters of a league to the larboard
and kept on for Corsica. Dantès thought, as they passed so closely to
the island whose name was so interesting to him, that he had only to
leap into the sea and in half an hour be at the promised land. But then
what could he do without instruments to discover his treasure, without
arms to defend himself? Besides, what would the sailors say? What would
the patron think? He must wait.

Fortunately, Dantès had learned how to wait; he had waited fourteen
years for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait at least six
months or a year for wealth. Would he not have accepted liberty without
riches if it had been offered to him? Besides, were not those riches
chimerical?—offspring of the brain of the poor Abbé Faria, had they not
died with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada was
singularly circumstantial, and Dantès repeated it to himself, from one
end to the other, for he had not forgotten a word.

0285m



Evening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades of
twilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but his own,
for he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to
behold it last of all, for he remained alone upon deck. The next morn
broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening
saw fires lighted on land; the position of these was no doubt a signal
for landing, for a ship’s lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead
of the streamer, and they came to within a gunshot of the shore. Dantès
noticed that the captain of _La Jeune Amélie_ had, as he neared the
land, mounted two small culverins, which, without making much noise,
can throw a four ounce ball a thousand paces or so.

But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything
proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came
off with very little noise alongside the lugger, which, no doubt, in
acknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the
sea, and the five boats worked so well that by two o’clock in the
morning all the cargo was out of _La Jeune Amélie_ and on _terra
firma_. The same night, such a man of regularity was the patron of _La
Jeune Amélie_, the profits were divided, and each man had a hundred
Tuscan livres, or about eighty francs.

But the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit towards
Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to replace
what had been discharged. The second operation was as successful as the
first, _La Jeune Amélie_ was in luck. This new cargo was destined for
the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of
Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.

There they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties; the
excise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of _La Jeune
Amélie_. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors wounded;
Dantès was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left
shoulder. Dantès was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at
being wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what
eye he could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear
suffering. He had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded
had exclaimed with the great philosopher, “Pain, thou art not an evil.”

He had, moreover, looked upon the customs officer wounded to death,
and, whether from heat of blood produced by the encounter, or the chill
of human sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him.
Dantès was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the
end he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in
his bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and
rushing towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all
the kindness of a devoted comrade.

This world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither
was it so wicked as Dantès thought it, since this man, who had nothing
to expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his share of the
prize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him fall.
Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and with certain
herbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the smugglers by the old
Sardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond then resolved to try
Jacopo, and offered him in return for his attention a share of his
prize-money, but Jacopo refused it indignantly.

As a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from the first
bestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain degree of
affection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively felt that
Edmond had a right to superiority of position—a superiority which
Edmond had concealed from all others. And from this time the kindness
which Edmond showed him was enough for the brave seaman.

Then in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on with
security over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of the
helmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails, Edmond,
with a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo, as the poor
Abbé Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him the bearings of
the coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught
him to read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call
heaven, and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds.

And when Jacopo inquired of him, “What is the use of teaching all these
things to a poor sailor like me?” Edmond replied, “Who knows? You may
one day be the captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte,
became emperor.” We had forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican.

Two months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had become as
skilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had formed an
acquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and learned all the
Masonic signs by which these half pirates recognize each other. He had
passed and re-passed his Island of Monte Cristo twenty times, but not
once had he found an opportunity of landing there.

He then formed a resolution. As soon as his engagement with the patron
of _La Jeune Amélie_ ended, he would hire a small vessel on his own
account—for in his several voyages he had amassed a hundred
piastres—and under some pretext land at the Island of Monte Cristo.
Then he would be free to make his researches, not perhaps entirely at
liberty, for he would be doubtless watched by those who accompanied
him. But in this world we must risk something. Prison had made Edmond
prudent, and he was desirous of running no risk whatever. But in vain
did he rack his imagination; fertile as it was, he could not devise any
plan for reaching the island without companionship.

Dantès was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the patron,
who had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of retaining him
in his service, took him by the arm one evening and led him to a tavern
on the Via del’ Oglio, where the leading smugglers of Leghorn used to
congregate and discuss affairs connected with their trade. Already
Dantès had visited this maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing
all these hardy free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly
two hundred leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might
not that man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all
these contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter
that was under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey
carpets, stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to find
some neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and then to try
and land these goods on the coast of France. If the venture was
successful the profit would be enormous, there would be a gain of fifty
or sixty piastres each for the crew.

The patron of _La Jeune Amélie_ proposed as a place of landing the
Island of Monte Cristo, which being completely deserted, and having
neither soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been placed in
the midst of the ocean since the time of the heathen Olympus by
Mercury, the god of merchants and robbers, classes of mankind which we
in modern times have separated if not made distinct, but which
antiquity appears to have included in the same category.

At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantès started with joy; he rose to
conceal his emotion, and took a turn around the smoky tavern, where all
the languages of the known world were jumbled in a _lingua franca_.

When he again joined the two persons who had been discussing the
matter, it had been decided that they should touch at Monte Cristo and
set out on the following night. Edmond, being consulted, was of opinion
that the island afforded every possible security, and that great
enterprises to be well done should be done quickly.

Nothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were given to get
under weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make the
neutral island by the following day.

0289m




 Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo

Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which
sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an
evil destiny, Dantès was about to secure the opportunity he wished for,
by simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring
any suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way.

The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions,
good and evil, passed through Dantès’ mind. If he closed his eyes, he
saw Cardinal Spada’s letter written on the wall in characters of
flame—if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He
ascended into grottos paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and
the roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as
subterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed,
wonderstruck, filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then
returned to daylight, when he discovered that his prizes had all
changed into common pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter the
marvellous grottos, but they had suddenly receded, and now the path
became a labyrinth, and then the entrance vanished, and in vain did he
tax his memory for the magic and mysterious word which opened the
splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless,
the treasure disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom
for a moment he had hoped to carry it off.

The day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night had
been, but it brought reason to the aid of imagination, and Dantès was
then enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and
unsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for
departure, and these preparations served to conceal Dantès’ agitation.
He had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he
was almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always
clear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with
celerity and pleasure.

The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the
superiority of Dantès over the crew and himself. He saw in the young
man his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter,
that he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure alliance. At
seven o’clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past
seven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The
sea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed
beneath a bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his
beacon lights, each of which is a world. Dantès told them that all
hands might turn in, and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for
so they called Dantès) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went
to their bunks contentedly.

This frequently happened. Dantès, cast from solitude into the world,
frequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and what
solitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship
floating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in
the silence of immensity, and under the eye of Heaven?

Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up
by his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When
the patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and
every sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an
hour. The Island of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond
resigned the lugger to the master’s care, and went and lay down in his
hammock; but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his
eyes for a moment.

Two hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about to double
the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the
flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo
reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dantès
ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La Pianosa
to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by two or
three knots. About five o’clock in the evening the island was distinct,
and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness
of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast
at its setting.

Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the
variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest
blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and
a mist passed over his eyes. Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune
is staked on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond
felt in his paroxysms of hope.

Night came, and at ten o’clock they anchored. _La Jeune Amélie_ was
first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself,
Dantès could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first to jump on
shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have “kissed his
mother earth.” It was dark, but at eleven o’clock the moon rose in the
midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, “ascending
high,” played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second
Pelion.

The island was familiar to the crew of _La Jeune Amélie_,—it was one of
her regular haunts. As to Dantès, he had passed it on his voyage to and
from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo.

“Where shall we pass the night?” he inquired.

“Why, on board the tartan,” replied the sailor.

“Should we not do better in the grottos?”

“What grottos?”

“Why, the grottos—caves of the island.”

“I do not know of any grottos,” replied Jacopo.

The cold sweat sprang forth on Dantès’ brow.

“What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?” he asked.

“None.”

For a moment Dantès was speechless; then he remembered that these caves
might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the
sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to
discover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and
Dantès therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides,
a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which _La Jeune Amélie_
replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had
come.

The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was
well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast
anchor within a cable’s length of shore.

Then the landing began. Dantès reflected, as he worked, on the shout of
joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he
gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart;
but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he
had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual
questions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, aroused
suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his
painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and the
glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but
transitory.

No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a
fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantès declared his intention to go
and kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to
rock, his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for
solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dantès did not
oppose this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust.
Scarcely, however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, having
killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request
them to cook it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This
and some dried fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of
fare.

Dantès went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him.
Having reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath
him, his companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy
preparing the repast which Edmond’s skill as a marksman had augmented
with a capital dish.

Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile of a
man superior to his fellows.

“In two hours’ time,” said he, “these persons will depart richer by
fifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to
gain fifty more; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred
francs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans
and the insolence of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their
riches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance tomorrow deception
will so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a
contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!” exclaimed
Edmond, “that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be
mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to
continue to lead this low and wretched life.”

Thus Dantès, who but three months before had no desire but liberty had
now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in
Dantès, but in Providence, who, while limiting the power of man, has
filled him with boundless desires.

Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn
by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never
before trod, Dantès approached the spot where he supposed the grottos
must have existed. Keeping along the shore, and examining the smallest
object with serious attention, he thought he could trace, on certain
rocks, marks made by the hand of man.

Time, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as
it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have
respected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree
of regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the
marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes
laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to
separate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the
guide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes.
Might it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them,
in order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event
of a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so
complete. This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements
of a man desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying
marks have attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and
had the dark and wondrous island indeed faithfully guarded its precious
secret?

0295m



It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the
inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the
marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock,
placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to
lead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end
of the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore
turned round and retraced his steps.

Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from
a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at
the moment when they were taking the dainty animal from the spit, they
saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock,
and they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed
his direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they
watched his daring progress, Edmond’s foot slipped, and they saw him
stagger on the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards
him, for all loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo
reached him first.

He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had
rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little
rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been so
beneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened
his eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness
in his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to
the shore; but when they touched him, although under Jacopo’s
directions, he declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to
be moved.

It may be supposed that Dantès did not now think of his dinner, but he
insisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for fasting, should
have their meal. As for himself, he declared that he had only need of a
little rest, and that when they returned he should be easier. The
sailors did not require much urging. They were hungry, and the smell of
the roasted kid was very savory, and your tars are not very
ceremonious. An hour afterwards they returned. All that Edmond had been
able to do was to drag himself about a dozen paces forward to lean
against a moss-grown rock.

But, instead of growing easier, Dantès’ pains appeared to increase in
violence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in the morning in
order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France,
between Nice and Fréjus, urged Dantès to try and rise. Edmond made
great exertions in order to comply; but at each effort he fell back,
moaning and turning pale.

“He has broken his ribs,” said the commander, in a low voice. “No
matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will
try and carry him on board the tartan.”

Dantès declared, however, that he would rather die where he was than
undergo the agony which the slightest movement cost him.

“Well,” said the patron, “let what may happen, it shall never be said
that we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening.”

This very much astonished the sailors, although, not one opposed it.
The patron was so strict that this was the first time they had ever
seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in its execution. Dantès
would not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules
should be made in his favor.

“No, no,” he said to the patron, “I was awkward, and it is just that I
pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a
gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and
a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for
me.”

“But you’ll die of hunger,” said the patron.

“I would rather do so,” was Edmond’s reply, “than suffer the
inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me.”

The patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in
the little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for sea
when her toilet should be completed.

“What are we to do, Maltese?” asked the captain. “We cannot leave you
here so, and yet we cannot stay.”

“Go, go!” exclaimed Dantès.

“We shall be absent at least a week,” said the patron, “and then we
must run out of our course to come here and take you up again.”

“Why,” said Dantès, “if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat,
desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my
passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me.”
The patron shook his head.

“Listen, Captain Baldi; there’s one way of settling this,” said Jacopo.
“Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man.”

“And give up your share of the venture,” said Edmond, “to remain with
me?”

“Yes,” said Jacopo, “and without any hesitation.”

“You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate,” replied Edmond,
“and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do
not wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up,
and I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent
for bruises.”

A peculiar smile passed over Dantès’ lips; he squeezed Jacopo’s hand
warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain—and remain
alone.

The smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail, but
not without turning about several times, and each time making signs of
a cordial farewell, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if
he could not move the rest of his body.

Then, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile,—“’Tis strange
that it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and
devotion.” Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock,
from which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan
complete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing
herself as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set
sail.

At the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was
impossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot
where he was. Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid among
the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand,
his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the
marks he had noted terminated.

“And now,” he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman,
which Faria had related to him, “now, Open Sesame!”



 Chapter 24. The Secret Cave

The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays fell
full on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the heat.
Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with a
monotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees
waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took he
disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off
he saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the island
was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone, guided by the hand of
God.

He felt an indescribable sensation somewhat akin to dread—that dread of
the daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are watched and
observed. This feeling was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was
about to begin his labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his
gun, mounted to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed
round in every direction.

But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could
distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its
historical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that to
the experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of Genoa the
proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was at the
brigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that had just
set sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes.

The first was just disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other,
following an opposite direction, was about to round the Island of
Corsica.

This sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He
saw that he was on the highest point of the island,—a statue on this
vast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while the
blue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it with a
fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he
dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned
should happen in reality.

Dantès, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks, and he
had noticed that they led to a small creek, which was hidden like the
bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its
mouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance of a small
vessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from
observation.

Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been
so skilfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of
probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be
watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little barque, followed
the line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had
buried his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantès back to
the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his
theory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been
lifted to this spot, without the aid of many men?

Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it,
thought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang from the rock in order
to inspect the base on which it had formerly stood.

He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid
along this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone
had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted around it,
so as to conceal the orifice; this species of masonry had been covered
with earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the
stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to
the earth.

0301m



Dantès dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he
detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by
the hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes’ labor the wall
gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened.

Dantès went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped
off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But
the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be moved by anyone
man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès saw that he must attack the
wedge. But how?

He cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his
friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would
serve him for this purpose.

With the aid of his pickaxe, Dantès, after the manner of a labor-saving
pioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one that supported
it, filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his
handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired.

The explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its base by
the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into pieces;
thousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dantès had previously
formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure,
rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.

Dantès approached the upper rock, which now, without any support,
leaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it,
and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most susceptible to
attack, placed his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every
nerve to move the mass.

The rock, already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dantès
redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who
uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock
yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and finally
disappeared in the ocean.

On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an iron ring
let into a square flag-stone.

Dantès uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt
been crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have continued,
but his knees trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight
became so dim, that he was forced to pause.

This feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the
ring and exerted all his strength; the flag-stone yielded, and
disclosed steps that descended until they were lost in the obscurity of
a subterraneous grotto.

Anyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès turned pale,
hesitated, and reflected.

“Come,” said he to himself, “be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I
must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What,
then, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when,
after having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions
destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no
treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia,
the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has
followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done,
raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing.”

He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy
aperture that was open at his feet.

“Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the
slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of
curiosity.” And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.

“Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of
that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long
chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a
sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock,
perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master
descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his
awe-inspiring progress.”

0303m



“But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret?”
asked Dantès of himself.

“The fate,” replied he, smiling, “of those who buried Alaric, and were
interred with the corpse.”

“Yet, had he come,” thought Dantès, “he would have found the treasure,
and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could
devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in
replacing this rock. I will go down.”

Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last word of
human philosophy, “Perhaps!”

But instead of the darkness, and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he
had expected to find, Dantès saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well
as the air, entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but
by the interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from
without, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and the
waving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers
that grew from the rocks.

After having stood a few minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of which
was rather warm than damp, Dantès’ eye, habituated as it was to
darkness, could pierce even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which
was of granite that sparkled like diamonds.

“Alas,” said Edmond, smiling, “these are the treasures the cardinal has
left; and the good abbé, seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has
indulged in fallacious hopes.”

But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by heart.
“In the farthest angle of the second opening,” said the cardinal’s
will. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to seek the
second. Dantès continued his search. He reflected that this second
grotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he examined the stones,
and sounded one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed,
masked for precaution’s sake.

The pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of
Dantès’ forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to him
that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper echo; he
eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception that no one but
a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all probability, the opening
must be.

However, he, like Cæsar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in order
to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with his
pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding nothing
that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall whence
issued the consoling sound he had before heard.

He again struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing
occurred. As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used
in the ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in
flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had been
closed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and painted to
imitate granite. Dantès struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which
entered someway between the interstices.

It was there he must dig.

But by some strange play of emotion, in proportion as the proofs that
Faria, had not been deceived became stronger, so did his heart give
way, and a feeling of discouragement stole over him. This last proof,
instead of giving him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe
descended, or rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand
over his brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an
excuse, a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in
reality because he felt that he was about to faint.

The island was deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery
glance; afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the
blue ocean.

Dantès had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such a
moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again entered the
cavern.

The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now like a feather in his
grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall. After several blows he
perceived that the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed
one upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of
his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the
stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his feet.

He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe
to draw the stones towards him one by one. The aperture was already
sufficiently large for him to enter, but by waiting, he could still
cling to hope, and retard the certainty of deception. At last, after
renewed hesitation, Dantès entered the second grotto.

The second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the first; the air
that could only enter by the newly formed opening had the mephitic
smell Dantès was surprised not to find in the outer cavern. He waited
in order to allow pure air to displace the foul atmosphere, and then
went on.

At the left of the opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dantès’
eye there was no darkness. He glanced around this second grotto; it
was, like the first, empty.

The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time had at
length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dantès’ fate would be
decided.

He advanced towards the angle, and summoning all his resolution,
attacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth blow the
pickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral knell,
never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the hearer. Had
Dantès found nothing he could not have become more ghastly pale.

He again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and encountered the same
resistance, but not the same sound.

“It is a casket of wood bound with iron,” thought he.

At this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the opening; Dantès
seized his gun, sprang through the opening, and mounted the stair. A
wild goat had passed before the mouth of the cave, and was feeding at a
little distance. This would have been a favorable occasion to secure
his dinner; but Dantès feared lest the report of his gun should attract
attention.

He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it at the
fire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast, and descended
with this torch.

He wished to see everything. He approached the hole he had dug, and
now, with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in reality
struck against iron and wood. He planted his torch in the ground and
resumed his labor.

In an instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared,
and Dantès could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the
middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was still
untarnished, the arms of the Spada family—viz., a sword, _en pale_, on
an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted
by a cardinal’s hat.

Dantès easily recognized them, Faria had so often drawn them for him.
There was no longer any doubt: the treasure was there—no one would have
been at such pains to conceal an empty casket. In an instant he had
cleared every obstacle away, and he saw successively the lock, placed
between two padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved as
things were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the commonest
metals precious.

Dantès seized the handles, and strove to lift the coffer; it was
impossible. He sought to open it; lock and padlock were fastened; these
faithful guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Dantès
inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe between the coffer and the lid,
and pressing with all his force on the handle, burst open the
fastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn and fell, still holding in
their grasp fragments of the wood, and the chest was open.

0307m



Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it beside
him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see
in the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are
visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless
with amazement.

Three compartments divided the coffer. In the first, blazed piles of
golden coin; in the second, were ranged bars of unpolished gold, which
possessed nothing attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond
grasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell
on one another, sounded like hail against glass.

After having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed
through the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock,
from whence he could behold the sea. He was alone—alone with these
countless, these unheard-of treasures! Was he awake, or was it but a
dream? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality?

He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not strength
enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as if to prevent
his senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly about the rocks of
Monte Cristo, terrifying the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with
his wild cries and gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to
believe the evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found
himself before this mine of gold and jewels.

This time he fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively,
uttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and
more happy, for only now did he begin to realize his felicity.

He then set himself to work to count his fortune. There were a thousand
ingots of gold, each weighing from two to three pounds; then he piled
up twenty-five thousand crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our
money, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors;
and he saw that the complement was not half empty. And he measured ten
double handfuls of pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many of which,
mounted by the most famous workmen, were valuable beyond their
intrinsic worth.

Dantès saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised
in the cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a
small quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few hours’
sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.

It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous
emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime.



 Chapter 25. The Unknown

Day, for which Dantès had so eagerly and impatiently waited with open
eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantès resumed his search.
Again he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the previous evening,
and strained his view to catch every peculiarity of the landscape; but
it wore the same wild, barren aspect when seen by the rays of the
morning sun which it had done when surveyed by the fading glimmer of
eve.

Descending into the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled his pockets
with gems, put the box together as well and securely as he could,
sprinkled fresh sand over the spot from which it had been taken, and
then carefully trod down the earth to give it everywhere a uniform
appearance; then, quitting the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping
on it broken masses of rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite,
filling the interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted
rapidly growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn,
then carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced
every trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as
savage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he
impatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte
Cristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost
incalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession satisfied
not the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to dwell among
mankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence which are always
accorded to wealth—that first and greatest of all the forces within the
grasp of man.

On the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dantès
recognized the rig and handling of _La Jeune Amélie_, and dragging
himself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met his
companions with an assurance that, although considerably better than
when they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late
accident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To this
question the smugglers replied that, although successful in landing
their cargo in safety, they had scarcely done so when they received
intelligence that a guard-ship had just quitted the port of Toulon and
was crowding all sail towards them. This obliged them to make all the
speed they could to evade the enemy, when they could but lament the
absence of Dantès, whose superior skill in the management of a vessel
would have availed them so materially. In fact, the pursuing vessel had
almost overtaken them when, fortunately, night came on, and enabled
them to double the Cape of Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit.
Upon the whole, however, the trip had been sufficiently successful to
satisfy all concerned; while the crew, and particularly Jacopo,
expressed great regrets that Dantès had not been an equal sharer with
themselves in the profits, which amounted to no less a sum than fifty
piastres each.

0311m



Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the
faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all
the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island;
but as _La Jeune Amélie_ had merely come to Monte Cristo to fetch him
away, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded with the captain to
Leghorn.

Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the house of a Jew, a dealer in
precious stones, to whom he disposed of four of his smallest diamonds
for five thousand francs each. Dantès half feared that such valuable
jewels in the hands of a poor sailor like himself might excite
suspicion; but the cunning purchaser asked no troublesome questions
concerning a bargain by which he gained a round profit of at least
eighty per cent.

The following day Dantès presented Jacopo with an entirely new vessel,
accompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred piastres, that he
might provide himself with a suitable crew and other requisites for his
outfit, upon condition that he would go at once to Marseilles for the
purpose of inquiring after an old man named Louis Dantès, residing in
the Allées de Meilhan, and also a young woman called Mercédès, an
inhabitant of the Catalan village.

Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this magnificent
present, which Dantès hastened to account for by saying that he had
merely been a sailor from whim and a desire to spite his family, who
did not allow him as much money as he liked to spend; but that on his
arrival at Leghorn he had come into possession of a large fortune, left
him by an uncle, whose sole heir he was. The superior education of
Dantès gave an air of such extreme probability to this statement that
it never once occurred to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy.

The term for which Edmond had engaged to serve on board _La Jeune
Amélie_ having expired, Dantès took leave of the captain, who at first
tried all his powers of persuasion to induce him to remain as one of
the crew, but having been told the history of the legacy, he ceased to
importune him further.

The following morning Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with directions
from Dantès to join him at the Island of Monte Cristo.

Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantès proceeded to make
his final adieus on board _La Jeune Amélie_, distributing so liberal a
gratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good wishes of all,
and expressions of cordial interest in all that concerned him. To the
captain he promised to write when he had made up his mind as to his
future plans. Then Dantès departed for Genoa.

At the moment of his arrival a small yacht was under trial in the bay;
this yacht had been built by order of an Englishman, who, having heard
that the Genoese excelled all other builders along the shores of the
Mediterranean in the construction of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous
of possessing a specimen of their skill; the price agreed upon between
the Englishman and the Genoese builder was forty thousand francs.
Dantès, struck with the beauty and capability of the little vessel,
applied to its owner to transfer it to him, offering sixty thousand
francs, upon condition that he should be allowed to take immediate
possession. The proposal was too advantageous to be refused, the more
so as the person for whom the yacht was intended had gone upon a tour
through Switzerland, and was not expected back in less than three weeks
or a month, by which time the builder reckoned upon being able to
complete another. A bargain was therefore struck. Dantès led the owner
of the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired with the latter for a
few minutes to a small back parlor, and upon their return the Jew
counted out to the shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand francs in
bright gold pieces.

The delighted builder then offered his services in providing a suitable
crew for the little vessel, but this Dantès declined with many thanks,
saying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone, and his principal
pleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself; the only thing the
builder could oblige him in would be to contrive a sort of secret
closet in the cabin at his bed’s head, the closet to contain three
divisions, so constructed as to be concealed from all but himself. The
builder cheerfully undertook the commission, and promised to have these
secret places completed by the next day, Dantès furnishing the
dimensions and plan in accordance with which they were to be
constructed.

0313m



Two hours afterward Dantès sailed from the port of Genoa, under the
inspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to see the
rich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht. But their
wonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the perfect skill with
which Dantès handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated
with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest
touch; and Dantès required but a short trial of his beautiful craft to
acknowledge that the Genoese had not without reason attained their high
reputation in the art of shipbuilding.

The spectators followed the little vessel with their eyes as long as it
remained visible; they then turned their conjectures upon her probable
destination. Some insisted she was making for Corsica, others the
Island of Elba; bets were offered to any amount that she was bound for
Spain; while Africa was positively reported by many persons as her
intended course; but no one thought of Monte Cristo.

Yet thither it was that Dantès guided his vessel, and at Monte Cristo
he arrived at the close of the second day; his boat had proved herself
a first-class sailor, and had come the distance from Genoa in
thirty-five hours. Dantès had carefully noted the general appearance of
the shore, and, instead of landing at the usual place, he dropped
anchor in the little creek. The island was utterly deserted, and bore
no evidence of having been visited since he went away; his treasure was
just as he had left it.

Early on the following morning he commenced the removal of his riches,
and ere nightfall the whole of his immense wealth was safely deposited
in the compartments of the secret locker.

A week passed by. Dantès employed it in manœuvring his yacht round the
island, studying it as a skilful horseman would the animal he destined
for some important service, till at the end of that time he was
perfectly conversant with its good and bad qualities. The former Dantès
proposed to augment, the latter to remedy.

Upon the eighth day he discerned a small vessel under full sail
approaching Monte Cristo. As it drew near, he recognized it as the boat
he had given to Jacopo. He immediately signalled it. His signal was
returned, and in two hours afterwards the new-comer lay at anchor
beside the yacht.

A mournful answer awaited each of Edmond’s eager inquiries as to the
information Jacopo had obtained. Old Dantès was dead, and Mercédès had
disappeared.

Dantès listened to these melancholy tidings with outward calmness; but,
leaping lightly ashore, he signified his desire to be quite alone. In a
couple of hours he returned. Two of the men from Jacopo’s boat came on
board the yacht to assist in navigating it, and he gave orders that she
should be steered direct to Marseilles. For his father’s death he was
in some manner prepared; but he knew not how to account for the
mysterious disappearance of Mercédès.

Without divulging his secret, Dantès could not give sufficiently clear
instructions to an agent. There were, besides, other particulars he was
desirous of ascertaining, and those were of a nature he alone could
investigate in a manner satisfactory to himself. His looking-glass had
assured him, during his stay at Leghorn, that he ran no risk of
recognition; moreover, he had now the means of adopting any disguise he
thought proper. One fine morning, then, his yacht, followed by the
little fishing-boat, boldly entered the port of Marseilles, and
anchored exactly opposite the spot from whence, on the
never-to-be-forgotten night of his departure for the Château d’If, he
had been put on board the boat destined to convey him thither.

0315m



Still Dantès could not view without a shudder the approach of a
gendarme who accompanied the officers deputed to demand his bill of
health ere the yacht was permitted to hold communication with the
shore; but with that perfect self-possession he had acquired during his
acquaintance with Faria, Dantès coolly presented an English passport he
had obtained from Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing which a
French passport would not have afforded, he was informed that there
existed no obstacle to his immediate debarkation.

The first person to attract the attention of Dantès, as he landed on
the Canebière, was one of the crew belonging to the _Pharaon_. Edmond
welcomed the meeting with this fellow—who had been one of his own
sailors—as a sure means of testing the extent of the change which time
had worked in his own appearance. Going straight towards him, he
propounded a variety of questions on different subjects, carefully
watching the man’s countenance as he did so; but not a word or look
implied that he had the slightest idea of ever having seen before the
person with whom he was then conversing.

Giving the sailor a piece of money in return for his civility, Dantès
proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone many steps he heard the man
loudly calling him to stop.

Dantès instantly turned to meet him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the honest fellow, in almost breathless
haste, “but I believe you made a mistake; you intended to give me a
two-franc piece, and see, you gave me a double Napoleon.”

“Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling mistake,
as you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give you another
double Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and be able to ask
your messmates to join you.”

So extreme was the surprise of the sailor, that he was unable even to
thank Edmond, whose receding figure he continued to gaze after in
speechless astonishment. “Some nabob from India,” was his comment.

Dantès, meanwhile, went on his way. Each step he trod oppressed his
heart with fresh emotion; his first and most indelible recollections
were there; not a tree, not a street, that he passed but seemed filled
with dear and cherished memories. And thus he proceeded onwards till he
arrived at the end of the Rue de Noailles, from whence a full view of
the Allées de Meilhan was obtained. At this spot, so pregnant with fond
and filial remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees
tottered under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung
for support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the
ground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually passing
there. Recovering himself, however, he wiped the perspiration from his
brows, and stopped not again till he found himself at the door of the
house in which his father had lived.

The nasturtiums and other plants, which his father had delighted to
train before his window, had all disappeared from the upper part of the
house.

Leaning against the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a time at the upper
stories of the shabby little house. Then he advanced to the door, and
asked whether there were any rooms to be let. Though answered in the
negative, he begged so earnestly to be permitted to visit those on the
fifth floor, that, in despite of the oft-repeated assurance of the
_concierge_ that they were occupied, Dantès succeeded in inducing the
man to go up to the tenants, and ask permission for a gentleman to be
allowed to look at them.

The tenants of the humble lodging were a young couple who had been
scarcely married a week; and seeing them, Dantès sighed heavily.
Nothing in the two small chambers forming the apartments remained as it
had been in the time of the elder Dantès; the very paper was different,
while the articles of antiquated furniture with which the rooms had
been filled in Edmond’s time had all disappeared; the four walls alone
remained as he had left them.

The bed belonging to the present occupants was placed as the former
owner of the chamber had been accustomed to have his; and, in spite of
his efforts to prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in tears as
he reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed his last,
vainly calling for his son.

The young couple gazed with astonishment at the sight of their
visitor’s emotion, and wondered to see the large tears silently chasing
each other down his otherwise stern and immovable features; but they
felt the sacredness of his grief, and kindly refrained from questioning
him as to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him to
indulge his sorrow alone.

0317m



When he withdrew from the scene of his painful recollections, they both
accompanied him downstairs, reiterating their hope that he would come
again whenever he pleased, and assuring him that their poor dwelling
would ever be open to him.

As Edmond passed the door on the fourth floor, he paused to inquire
whether Caderousse the tailor still dwelt there; but he received for
reply, that the person in question had got into difficulties, and at
the present time kept a small inn on the route from Bellegarde to
Beaucaire.

Having obtained the address of the person to whom the house in the
Allées de Meilhan belonged, Dantès next proceeded thither, and, under
the name of Lord Wilmore (the name and title inscribed on his
passport), purchased the small dwelling for the sum of twenty-five
thousand francs, at least ten thousand more than it was worth; but had
its owner asked half a million, it would unhesitatingly have been
given.

The very same day the occupants of the apartments on the fifth floor of
the house, now become the property of Dantès, were duly informed by the
notary who had arranged the necessary transfer of deeds, etc., that the
new landlord gave them their choice of any of the rooms in the house,
without the least augmentation of rent, upon condition of their giving
instant possession of the two small chambers they at present inhabited.

This strange event aroused great wonder and curiosity in the
neighborhood of the Allées de Meilhan, and a multitude of theories were
afloat, none of which was anywhere near the truth. But what raised
public astonishment to a climax, and set all conjecture at defiance,
was the knowledge that the same stranger who had in the morning visited
the Allées de Meilhan had been seen in the evening walking in the
little village of the Catalans, and afterwards observed to enter a poor
fisherman’s hut, and to pass more than an hour in inquiring after
persons who had either been dead or gone away for more than fifteen or
sixteen years.

But on the following day the family from whom all these particulars had
been asked received a handsome present, consisting of an entirely new
fishing-boat, with two seines and a tender.

The delighted recipients of these munificent gifts would gladly have
poured out their thanks to their generous benefactor, but they had seen
him, upon quitting the hut, merely give some orders to a sailor, and
then springing lightly on horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte
d’Aix.



 Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn

Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of
France may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town of
Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,—a little nearer to the former
than to the latter,—a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung,
creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a
grotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of
entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backed
upon the Rhône. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a
garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, on the side opposite to
the main entrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy
olives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their
withered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict.
Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes,
and eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a
tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this
unattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped
summit dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun.

All these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which
the Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others
being the Durance and the Parliament.

In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid
ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no
doubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of the
country to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in those
parched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a
grasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scene
with its strident, monotonous note.

For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man
and his wife, with two servants,—a chambermaid named Trinette, and a
hostler called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the
requirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had
revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and
the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which this
prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utter
ruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhône from
which it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a
hundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithful
description.

The innkeeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of
age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those
southern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked
nose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like
his beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in
spite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads.
His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of
brown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing
himself from morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the
lookout for guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day,
exposed to the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other
protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it,
after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This man was our old
acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse.

His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine
Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighborhood
of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its women are
proverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the
devastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by
the ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained
nearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or
stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his
daily watch at the door—a duty he performed with so much the greater
willingness, as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless
plaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking
out into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her husband
would calmly return an unvarying reply, in these philosophic words:

“Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.”

The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle
from the fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated
between Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the
inhabitants of that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling
every person by some particular and distinctive appellation, her
husband had bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of her
sweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in all probability, his
rude gutteral language would not have enabled him to pronounce.

Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to
the will of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not writhe under
the double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers
and his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish partner’s
murmurs and lamentations.

0323m



Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and
moderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to
display. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place
without himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the
picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the
south of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by
the Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming
fashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed
equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains,
necklaces, parti-colored scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests,
elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the
shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad
in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the
pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter
feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and
merry music from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable
hostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit
it afforded.

Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before the
door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven
grass—on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly,
endeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate—to
the deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he was
aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as he
went, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the
entrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who
might be passing.

At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door,
the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonely
as a desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one
interminable line of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall,
meagre trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that
no one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty
to regulate his hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in
such a formidable Sahara.

Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes
longer, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching
from the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer, he
would easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse,
between whom the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to
exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy
pace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a
three-cornered hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the
pair came on with a fair degree of rapidity.

Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether
for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to
say. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his
steed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure
him. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen
door, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton
handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that
streamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with
the end of his iron-shod stick.

At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring
assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his
sharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved
how little he was accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy
footstep was heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the
upper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, the host of the
Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter.

0319m



“You are welcome, sir, most welcome!” repeated the astonished
Caderousse. “Now, then, Margotin,” cried he, speaking to the dog, “will
you be quiet? Pray don’t heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites.
I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this
dreadfully hot day.” Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the
traveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: “A
thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the honor to
receive under my poor roof. What would the abbé please to have? What
refreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service.”

The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching
gaze—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar
scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in the
countenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at
his own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he
deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said,
speaking with a strong Italian accent, “You are, I presume, M.
Caderousse?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the host, even more surprised at the question than
he had been by the silence which had preceded it; “I am Gaspard
Caderousse, at your service.”

“Gaspard Caderousse,” rejoined the priest. “Yes,—Christian and surname
are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan,
on the fourth floor?”

0325m



“I did.”

“And you followed the business of a tailor?”

“True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at
Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will
in time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there
nothing I can offer you by way of refreshment?”

“Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your
permission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off.”

“As you please, sir,” said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the
present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of
Cahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in
the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor
and kitchen.

Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration of
five minutes, he found the abbé seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his
elbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by
the unusual command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to
him, and had established himself very comfortably between his knees,
his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixed
earnestly on the traveller’s face.

“Are you quite alone?” inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before
him the bottle of wine and a glass.

“Quite, quite alone,” replied the man—“or, at least, practically so,
for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself,
is laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance,
poor thing!”

“You are married, then?” said the priest, with a show of interest,
glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment.

“Ah, sir,” said Caderousse with a sigh, “it is easy to perceive I am
not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for
being honest.” The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance.

“Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself,” continued the
innkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbé’s gaze; “I can
boast with truth of being an honest man; and,” continued he
significantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, “that is
more than everyone can say nowadays.”

0327m



“So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,” said the
abbé; “for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will
be rewarded, and the wicked punished.”

“Such words as those belong to your profession,” answered Caderousse,
“and you do well to repeat them; but,” added he, with a bitter
expression of countenance, “one is free to believe them or not, as one
pleases.”

“You are wrong to speak thus,” said the abbé; “and perhaps I may, in my
own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.”

“What mean you?” inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise.

“In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am
in search of.”

“What proofs do you require?”

“Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor
named Dantès?”

“Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself
were intimate friends!” exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flushed
darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him,
while the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with
feverish scrutiny.

“You remind me,” said the priest, “that the young man concerning whom I
asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.”

“Said to bear the name!” repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and
eager. “Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation
of Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor
Edmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous
and happy?”

“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the
felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.”

A deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse,
who turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes
with the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.

“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” murmured Caderousse. “Well, there, sir, is
another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and
that none but the wicked prosper. Ah,” continued Caderousse, speaking
in the highly colored language of the South, “the world grows worse and
worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said
to do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?”

“You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès,” observed the
abbé, without taking any notice of his companion’s vehemence.

“And so I did,” replied Caderousse; “though once, I confess, I envied
him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by
everything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely
lamented his unhappy fate.”

There was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of the
abbé was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the
innkeeper.

“You knew the poor lad, then?” continued Caderousse.

“I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to
him the consolations of religion.”

“And of what did he die?” asked Caderousse in a choking voice.

“Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they
have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of
imprisonment?” Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration
that gathered on his brow.

0329m



“But the strangest part of the story is,” resumed the abbé, “that
Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer,
that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention.”

“And so he was,” murmured Caderousse. “How should he have been
otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth.”

“And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he
had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any
foul spot or stain have fallen on it.”

And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, seemed to
rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was
rapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse.

“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “who had been his companion in
misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second
restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he
bestowed on Dantès upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his
gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantès had
nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.
Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers,
who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor,
Dantès carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of
prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a
diamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune.”

“Then, I suppose,” asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, “that
it was a stone of immense value?”

“Why, everything is relative,” answered the abbé. “To one in Edmond’s
position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at
fifty thousand francs.”

“Bless me!” exclaimed Caderousse, “fifty thousand francs! Surely the
diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that.”

“No,” replied the abbé, “it was not of such a size as that; but you
shall judge for yourself. I have it with me.”

The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the
priest’s garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the
treasure. Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with
black shagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes
of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of
admirable workmanship.

“And that diamond,” cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eager
admiration, “you say, is worth fifty thousand francs?”

“It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,” replied the abbé,
as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its
brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated
innkeeper.

“But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you
his heir?”

“No, merely his testamentary executor. ‘I once possessed four dear and
faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed’ he said;
‘and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss.
The name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.’” The innkeeper
shivered.

“‘Another of the number,’” continued the abbé, without seeming to
notice the emotion of Caderousse, “‘is called Danglars; and the third,
in spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for
me.’”

A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about
to break in upon the abbé’s speech, when the latter, waving his hand,
said, “Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations
to make, you can do so afterwards. ‘The third of my friends, although
my rival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand; that of my
betrothed was’—Stay, stay,” continued the abbé, “I have forgotten what
he called her.”

“Mercédès,” said Caderousse eagerly.

“True,” said the abbé, with a stifled sigh, “Mercédès it was.”

“Go on,” urged Caderousse.

“Bring me a _carafe_ of water,” said the abbé.

Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouring
some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé,
resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty
glass on the table:

“Where did we leave off?”

“The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.”

“To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for you
understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you
understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“‘You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal
parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only
persons who have loved me upon earth.’”

“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned four
persons.”

“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s
bequest, was his own father.”

“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the
contending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die.”

“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strong
effort to appear indifferent; “but from the length of time that has
elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain any
particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?”

“I do not know who could if I could not,” said Caderousse. “Why, I
lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a
year after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.”

“Of what did he die?”

“Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; his
acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying
moments, I say he died of——”

Caderousse paused.

“Of what?” asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.

“Why, of downright starvation.”

“Starvation!” exclaimed the abbé, springing from his seat. “Why, the
vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The
very dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some
pitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a
Christian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other
men who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it
is impossible!—utterly impossible!”

“What I have said, I have said,” answered Caderousse.

“And you are a fool for having said anything about it,” said a voice
from the top of the stairs. “Why should you meddle with what does not
concern you?”

The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La
Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of
voices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on
the lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing
conversation.

“Mind your own business, wife,” replied Caderousse sharply. “This
gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not
permit me to refuse.”

“Politeness, you simpleton!” retorted La Carconte. “What have you to do
with politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common
prudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying
to extract all he can from you?”

“I pledge you my word, madam,” said the abbé, “that my intentions are
good; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me
candidly.”

“Ah, that’s all very fine,” retorted the woman. “Nothing is easier than
to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when
poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell
all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly
forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold
trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the
unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions
come.”

“Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you.
Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my
instrumentality, that I solemnly promise you.”

La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again
drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two
speakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to
hear every word they uttered. Again the abbé had been obliged to
swallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to
overpower him.

When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, “It appears, then,
that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by
everyone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have
perished by so dreadful a death.”

“Why, he was not altogether forsaken,” continued Caderousse, “for
Mercédès the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but
somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for
Fernand—the very person,” added Caderousse with a bitter smile, “that
you named just now as being one of Dantès’ faithful and attached
friends.”

“And was he not so?” asked the abbé.

“Gaspard, Gaspard!” murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs,
“mind what you are saying!”

Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and
annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbé, said, “Can a man
be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself?
But Dantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he
believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was
cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might
have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his
enemies. And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his
native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I
cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the
dead than the hatred of the living.”

“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.

“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired
the abbé of Caderousse.

“Do I? No one better.”

“Speak out then, say what it was!”

“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if
you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”

“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!”

“So you will say nothing?” asked the abbé.

“Why, what good would it do?” asked Caderousse. “If the poor lad were
living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were
his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not
hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing
to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with
him.”

“You prefer, then,” said the abbé, “that I should bestow on men you say
are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful
friendship?”

“That is true enough,” returned Caderousse. “You say truly, the gift of
poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars;
besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the
ocean.”

“Remember,” chimed in La Carconte, “those two could crush you at a
single blow!”

“How so?” inquired the abbé. “Are these persons, then, so rich and
powerful?”

“Do you not know their history?”

“I do not. Pray relate it to me!”

Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, “No, truly,
it would take up too much time.”

“Well, my good friend,” returned the abbé, in a tone that indicated
utter indifference on his part, “you are at liberty, either to speak or
be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples
and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty
as conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My
first business will be to dispose of this diamond.”

So saying, the abbé again drew the small box from his pocket, opened
it, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of
brilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.

“Wife, wife!” cried he in a hoarse voice, “come here!”

“Diamond!” exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber
with a tolerably firm step; “what diamond are you talking about?”

“Why, did you not hear all we said?” inquired Caderousse. “It is a
beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantès, to be sold, and the money
divided between his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand,
Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand
francs.”

“Oh, what a magnificent jewel!” cried the astonished woman.

“The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does
it not?” asked Caderousse.

“It does,” replied the abbé; “with the addition of an equal division of
that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I believe myself at
liberty to divide equally with the four survivors.”

“And why among us four?” inquired Caderousse.

“As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to
him.”

“I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wife
in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.

“Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly; “no more do I, and that
was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked
upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps
crime.”

“Remember,” answered the abbé calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its
case in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that I
do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of
both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last
wishes.”

The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of
perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbé rise from
his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse
were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his
wife exchanged looks of deep meaning.

0335m



“There, you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might
all be ours, if we chose!”

“Do you believe it?”

“Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!”

“Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part, I wash my
hands of the affair.”

So saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber,
her body convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, in
spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she
turned round, and called out, in a warning tone, to her husband,
“Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!”

“I have both reflected and decided,” answered he.

La Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked
beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her
armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.

“Well,” asked the abbé, as he returned to the apartment below, “what
have you made up your mind to do?”

“To tell you all I know,” was the reply.

“I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,” said the priest. “Not
because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to
conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could
distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so
much the better, that is all.”

“I hope it may be so,” replied Caderousse, his face flushed with
cupidity.

“I am all attention,” said the abbé.

“Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse; “we might be interrupted in the
most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as
well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.”

With these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and,
by way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he was
accustomed to do at night.

During this time the abbé had chosen his place for listening at his
ease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself
would be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the
narrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or rather
clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to
Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to
him.

“Remember, this is no affair of mine,” said the trembling voice of La
Carconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the
scene that was enacting below.

“Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse; “say no more about it; I will
take all the consequences upon myself.”

And he began his story.



 Chapter 27. The Story

First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.”

“What is that?” inquired the abbé.

“Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that
you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the
persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they
only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces
like glass.”

“Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé. “I am a priest, and
confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry
out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then,
without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I
do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to
speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to
God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I
have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.”

This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage.

“Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, I
even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor
Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.”

“Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbé; “Edmond talked
to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.”

“The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head;
“perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?”

“Yes.” answered the abbé; “Edmond related to me everything until the
moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.”

“At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.”

“Was it not his betrothal feast?”

“It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending;
a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès was
arrested.”

“Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès
himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never
beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of
anyone of them.”

“Well, when Dantès was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the
particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his
home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up
and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for
I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for
myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the
poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my
heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast.

“The next day Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. de
Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old
man; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a
sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she
wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old
man would not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave
this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the
world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first
thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard
all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should
persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head
night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.”

“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?”
asked the abbé.

“Ah, sir,” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be
consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he
seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and
I could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his
door he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you,
sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it
was more than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter,
and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am
very glad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt
such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory
or heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at
once, for I could not bear it.’”

“Poor father!” murmured the priest.

“From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M.
Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and,
although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer.
One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and
the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to
console him, he said to her,—‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead;
and instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite
happy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’

“However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off after
a time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and
so at last old Dantès was left all to himself, and I only saw from time
to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle
they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he
sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the
poor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’
rent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week,
which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into
my apartment when he left his.

“For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on
the fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at all
risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw
him so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told
M. Morrel and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately, M.
Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of
the bowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I
never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription.

“From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for not
eating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet.”

The abbé uttered a kind of groan.

“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse.

“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.”

“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even
more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M.
Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against
his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were
actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and
M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his
purse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s
order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine
days of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had
caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond
again, tell him I die blessing him.’”

The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and
pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.

“And you believe he died——”

“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as
that we two are Christians.”

The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was
standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed
his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks.

“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice.

“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.”

“Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember too,” he added in
an almost menacing tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell
me, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, and
the father with famine?”

“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from
ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.”

“How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on.”

“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”

“Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent?”

“Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.”

“And where was this letter written?”

“At La Réserve, the day before the betrothal feast.”

“’Twas so, then—’twas so, then,” murmured the abbé. “Oh, Faria, Faria,
how well did you judge men and things!”

“What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse.

“Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest; “go on.”

“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that
his writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the
post.”

“But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.”

“I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?”

The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly,—“No one;
but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an
eye-witness.”

“True, true!” said Caderousse in a choking voice, “I was there.”

“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if
not, you were an accomplice.”

“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess
that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct
understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in
such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest
they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”

“Next day—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had
been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantès
was arrested.”

“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars
restrained me. ‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did
really put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a
letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this
letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his
accomplices.’ I confess I had my fears, in the state in which politics
then were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was
not criminal.”

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“I understand—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse; “and remorse preys on me night and
day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action,
the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my
life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a
moment of selfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she
complains, ‘Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.’” And
Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.

“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to
accuse yourself is to deserve pardon.”

“Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me.”

“He did not know,” said the abbé.

“But he knows it all now,” interrupted Caderousse; “they say the dead
know everything.”

There was a brief silence; the abbé rose and paced up and down
pensively, and then resumed his seat.

“You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,” he said; “who was
he?”

“The owner of the _Pharaon_ and patron of Dantès.”

“And what part did he play in this sad drama?” inquired the abbé.

“The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty
times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote,
implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second
restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told
you, he came to see Dantès’ father, and offered to receive him in his
own house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already
said, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the
old man’s debts, and buried him decently; and so Edmond’s father died,
as he had lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still
by me—a large one, made of red silk.”

“And,” asked the abbé, “is M. Morrel still alive?”

“Yes,” replied Caderousse.

“In that case,” replied the abbé, “he should be a man blessed of God,
rich, happy.”

Caderousse smiled bitterly. “Yes, happy as myself,” said he.

“What! M. Morrel unhappy?” exclaimed the abbé.

“He is reduced almost to the last extremity—nay, he is almost at the
point of dishonor.”

“How?”

“Yes,” continued Caderousse, “so it is; after five-and-twenty years of
labor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade of
Marseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five ships in two
years, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and his
only hope now is in that very _Pharaon_ which poor Dantès commanded,
and which is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and
indigo. If this ship founders, like the others, he is a ruined man.”

“And has the unfortunate man wife or children?” inquired the abbé.

“Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel;
he has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whose
family now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a ruined man; he
has, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and, as you may suppose,
all this, instead of lessening, only augments his sorrows. If he were
alone in the world he would blow out his brains, and there would be an
end.”

“Horrible!” ejaculated the priest.

“And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,” added Caderousse. “You
see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of—am in
destitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and
I unable to do anything in the world for her; I shall die of hunger, as
old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth.”

“How is that?”

“Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men
have been reduced to misery.”

“What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the most
guilty?”

“What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on the
recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier
into a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in the
commissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with that
money he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his
capital; and, having first married his banker’s daughter, who left him
a widower, he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne,
daughter of M. de Servieux, the king’s chamberlain, who is in high
favor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron,
and now he is the Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du
Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his
antechamber, and I know not how many millions in his strongbox.”

“Ah!” said the abbé, in a peculiar tone, “he is happy.”

“Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret
known but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue;
but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.”

“And Fernand?”

“Fernand? Why, much the same story.”

“But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or
resources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me.”

“And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some
strange secret that no one knows.”

“But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or
high position?”

“Both, sir—he has both fortune and position—both.”

“This must be impossible!”

“It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days
before the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons
left him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a
special levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too;
but as I was older than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I
was only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army,
went to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny.
The night after that battle he was sentry at the door of a general who
carried on a secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the
general was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to
accompany him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed
the general.

“Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on
the throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to
France with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of the
general, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was a
captain in 1823, during the Spanish war—that is to say, at the time
when Danglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and
being sent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen,
found Danglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the
support of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received
promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths
known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by
the royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this brief
campaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and
received the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion
of Honor.”

“Destiny! destiny!” murmured the abbé.

“Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended,
Fernand’s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to
endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had
begun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens—it
was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government,
without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to
volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and serve
in Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll.

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Some time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was the
name he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of
instructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he
died he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him a
considerable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was
gazetted lieutenant-general.”

“So that now——?” inquired the abbé.

“So that now,” continued Caderousse, “he owns a magnificent house—No.
27, Rue du Helder, Paris.”

The abbé opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an
effort at self-control, he said, “And Mercédès—they tell me that she
has disappeared?”

“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise
the next day with still more splendor.”

“Has she made a fortune also?” inquired the abbé, with an ironical
smile.

“Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,”
replied Caderousse.

“Go on,” said the abbé; “it seems as if I were listening to the story
of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell
me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might.”

“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which
deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate
M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of her
despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of
Fernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded
as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone.

“Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news of
Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with
despair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of
two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her
home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew,
turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the
uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.

“It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of
her past life had returned to her.

“Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport which he took for
love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and
seeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then,
it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated—he was only not
precisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other was
absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought
Mercédès burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but
the thought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested
to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too,
old Dantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were
not, he would return to us.’

“The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès,
perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been
there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned
of the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his
first coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; at the second
he reminded her that he loved her.

“Mercédès begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for
Edmond.”

“So that,” said the abbé, with a bitter smile, “that makes eighteen
months in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire?” Then he
murmured the words of the English poet, “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”

“Six months afterwards,” continued Caderousse, “the marriage took place
in the church of Accoules.”

“The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the
priest; “there was only a change of bridegrooms.”

“Well, Mercédès was married,” proceeded Caderousse; “but although in
the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she
passed La Réserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had
been celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had
she looked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not
more at his ease—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of
Edmond’s return—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to
depart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated
with the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left
Marseilles.”

“Did you ever see Mercédès again?” inquired the priest.

“Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her;
she was attending to the education of her son.”

The abbé started. “Her son?” said he.

“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.”

“But, then, to be able to instruct her child,” continued the abbé, “she
must have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that
she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.”

“Oh,” replied Caderousse, “did he know so little of his lovely
betrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to
be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’s
fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing
fortune. She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe,
between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she
might forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the
weight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured,”
continued Caderousse; “no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her;
she is rich, a countess, and yet——”

Caderousse paused.

“And yet what?” asked the abbé.

“Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,” said Caderousse.

“What makes you believe this?”

“Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends
would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even
receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his
valet-de-chambre.”

“Then you did not see either of them?”

“No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me.”

“How was that?”

“As I went away a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twenty
louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who at once shut the
blind.”

“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé.

“Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I had
nothing to ask of him.”

“Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond’s
misfortunes?”

“No; I only know that some time after Edmond’s arrest, he married
Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt
he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars,
as high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor,
wretched, and forgotten.”

“You are mistaken, my friend,” replied the abbé; “God may seem
sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there
always comes a moment when he remembers—and behold—a proof!”

As he spoke, the abbé took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it
to Caderousse, said, “Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.”

“What, for me only?” cried Caderousse, “ah, sir, do not jest with me!”

“This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one
friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, and
sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish that
this sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.”

0351m



“Oh, sir,” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with the
other wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,—“Oh, sir, do
not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.”

“I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of
such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange——”

Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand.

The abbé smiled.

“In exchange,” he continued, “give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel
left on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in
your hands.”

Caderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oaken
cupboard, opened it, and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk,
round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbé
took it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond.

“Oh, you are a man of God, sir,” cried Caderousse; “for no one knew
that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.”

“Which,” said the abbé to himself, “you would have done.” The abbé
rose, took his hat and gloves. “Well,” he said, “all you have told me
is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular.”

“See, sir,” replied Caderousse, “in this corner is a crucifix in holy
wood—here on this shelf is my wife’s testament; open this book, and I
will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you by
my soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to
you as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear
of God at the day of the last judgment!”

“’Tis well,” said the abbé, convinced by his manner and tone that
Caderousse spoke the truth. “’Tis well, and may this money profit you!
Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other.”

The abbé with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks of
Caderousse, opened the door himself, got out and mounted his horse,
once more saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells,
and then returned by the road he had travelled in coming.

When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte, paler and
trembling more than ever.

“Is, then, all that I have heard really true?” she inquired.

“What? That he has given the diamond to us only?” inquired Caderousse,
half bewildered with joy; “yes, nothing more true! See, here it is.”

The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a gloomy voice,
“Suppose it’s false?”

Caderousse started and turned pale.

“False!” he muttered. “False! Why should that man give me a false
diamond?”

0349m



“To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!”

Caderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such an
idea.

“Oh!” he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the red
handkerchief tied round his head, “we will soon find out.”

“In what way?”

“Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from
Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife,
and I shall be back in two hours,” and Caderousse left the house in
haste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the
priest had taken.

“Fifty thousand francs!” muttered La Carconte when left alone; “it is a
large sum of money, but it is not a fortune.”


VOLUME TWO

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20019m




 Chapter 28. The Prison Register

The day after that in which the scene we have just described had taken
place on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of about
thirty or two-and-thirty, dressed in a bright blue frock coat, nankeen
trousers, and a white waistcoat, having the appearance and accent of an
Englishman, presented himself before the mayor of Marseilles.

“Sir,” said he, “I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, of
Rome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house
of Morrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs or
thereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy at
reports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I
have come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information.”

“Sir,” replied the mayor. “I know very well that during the last four
or five years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost
four or five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but
it is not for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of ten
thousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his
finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and I
shall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has up
to this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality.
This is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourself
to M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles;
he has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel’s hands, and
if there be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount
than mine, you will most probably find him better informed than
myself.”

The Englishman seemed to appreciate this extreme delicacy, made his bow
and went away, proceeding with a characteristic British stride towards
the street mentioned.

M. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on
perceiving him, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate
that it was not the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de
Boville, he was in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the
faculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at
the moment, did not allow either his memory or his imagination to stray
to the past.

The Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in terms
nearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor of
Marseilles.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed M. de Boville, “your fears are unfortunately but
too well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two
hundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two
hundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be
married in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were
payable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th
of next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these
payments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to
tell me that if his ship, the _Pharaon_, did not come into port on the
15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment.”

“But,” said the Englishman, “this looks very much like a suspension of
payment.”

“It looks more like bankruptcy!” exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.

The Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “From which
it would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable
apprehension?”

“To tell you the truth, I consider it lost.”

“Well, then, I will buy it of you!”

“You?”

“Yes, I!”

“But at a tremendous discount, of course?”

“No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house,” added the Englishman
with a laugh, “does not do things in that way.”

“And you will pay——”

“Ready money.”

20023m



And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, which
might have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of
joy passed across M. de Boville’s countenance, yet he made an effort at
self-control, and said:

“Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not
realize six per cent of this sum.”

“That’s no affair of mine,” replied the Englishman, “that is the affair
of the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have,
perhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm.
But all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in
exchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage.”

“Of course, that is perfectly just,” cried M. de Boville. “The
commission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five per
cent, or even more? Whatever you say.”

“Sir,” replied the Englishman, laughing, “I am like my house, and do
not do such things—no, the commission I ask is quite different.”

“Name it, sir, I beg.”

“You are the inspector of prisons?”

“I have been so these fourteen years.”

“You keep the registers of entries and departures?”

“I do.”

“To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners?”

“There are special reports on every prisoner.”

“Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abbé, who
disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the
Château d’If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his
death.”

“What was his name?”

“The Abbé Faria.”

“Oh, I recollect him perfectly,” cried M. de Boville; “he was crazy.”

“So they said.”

“Oh, he was, decidedly.”

“Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it?”

“He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums to
the government if they would liberate him.”

“Poor devil!—and he is dead?”

“Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February.”

“You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well.”

“I recollect this, because the poor devil’s death was accompanied by a
singular incident.”

“May I ask what that was?” said the Englishman with an expression of
curiosity, which a close observer would have been astonished at
discovering in his phlegmatic countenance.

“Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbé’s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant
from that of one of Bonaparte’s emissaries,—one of those who had
contributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very
resolute and very dangerous man.”

“Indeed!” said the Englishman.

“Yes,” replied M. de Boville; “I myself had occasion to see this man in
1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of
soldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget
his countenance!”

20025m



The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

“And you say, sir,” he interposed, “that the two dungeons——”

“Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this
Edmond Dantès——”

“This dangerous man’s name was——”

“Edmond Dantès. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantès had procured
tools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the
prisoners held communication with one another.”

“This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape?”

“No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbé Faria had an
attack of catalepsy, and died.”

“That must have cut short the projects of escape.”

“For the dead man, yes,” replied M. de Boville, “but not for the
survivor; on the contrary, this Dantès saw a means of accelerating his
escape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Château
d’If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the
dead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they
had sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment.”

“It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,” remarked the
Englishman.

“As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and,
fortunately, by his own act disembarrassed the government of the fears
it had on his account.”

“How was that?”

“How? Do you not comprehend?”

“No.”

“The Château d’If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into
the sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet.”

“Well?” observed the Englishman as if he were slow of comprehension.

“Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw him
into the sea.”

“Really!” exclaimed the Englishman.

“Yes, sir,” continued the inspector of prisons. “You may imagine the
amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the
rocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.”

“That would have been difficult.”

“No matter,” replied De Boville, in supreme good-humor at the certainty
of recovering his two hundred thousand francs,—“no matter, I can fancy
it.” And he shouted with laughter.

“So can I,” said the Englishman, and he laughed too; but he laughed as
the English do, “at the end of his teeth.”

“And so,” continued the Englishman who first gained his composure, “he
was drowned?”

“Unquestionably.”

“So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner
at the same time?”

“Precisely.”

20027m



“But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose?”
inquired the Englishman.

“Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantès’ relations,
if he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead or
alive.”

“So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do
so with easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it.”

“Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please.”

“So be it,” said the Englishman. “But to return to these registers.”

“True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me.”

“Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to me
very curious.”

“Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abbé,
who really was gentleness itself.”

“Yes, you will much oblige me.”

“Go into my study here, and I will show it to you.”

And they both entered M. de Boville’s study. Everything was here
arranged in perfect order; each register had its number, each file of
papers its place. The inspector begged the Englishman to seat himself
in an armchair, and placed before him the register and documents
relative to the Château d’If, giving him all the time he desired for
the examination, while De Boville seated himself in a corner, and began
to read his newspaper. The Englishman easily found the entries relative
to the Abbé Faria; but it seemed that the history which the inspector
had related interested him greatly, for after having perused the first
documents he turned over the leaves until he reached the deposition
respecting Edmond Dantès. There he found everything arranged in due
order,—the accusation, examination, Morrel’s petition, M. de
Villefort’s marginal notes. He folded up the accusation quietly, and
put it as quietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the
name of Noirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application
dated 10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by the deputy procureur’s
advice, exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on
the throne) the services Dantès had rendered to the imperial
cause—services which Villefort’s certificates rendered indisputable.
Then he saw through the whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, kept
back by Villefort, had become, under the second restoration, a terrible
weapon against him in the hands of the king’s attorney. He was no
longer astonished when he searched on to find in the register this
note, placed in a bracket against his name:

Edmond Dantès.

An inveterate Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from the
Island of Elba.

To be kept in strict solitary confinement, and to be closely watched
and guarded.

Beneath these lines was written in another hand: “See note
above—nothing can be done.”

He compared the writing in the bracket with the writing of the
certificate placed beneath Morrel’s petition, and discovered that the
note in the bracket was the same writing as the certificate—that is to
say, was in Villefort’s handwriting.

20029m



As to the note which accompanied this, the Englishman understood that
it might have been added by some inspector who had taken a momentary
interest in Dantès’ situation, but who had, from the remarks we have
quoted, found it impossible to give any effect to the interest he had
felt.

As we have said, the inspector, from discretion, and that he might not
disturb the Abbé Faria’s pupil in his researches, had seated himself in
a corner, and was reading _Le Drapeau Blanc_. He did not see the
Englishman fold up and place in his pocket the accusation written by
Danglars under the arbor of La Réserve, and which had the postmark,
“Marseilles, 27th February, delivery 6 o’clock, P.M.”

But it must be said that if he had seen it, he attached so little
importance to this scrap of paper, and so much importance to his two
hundred thousand francs, that he would not have opposed whatever the
Englishman might do, however irregular it might be.

“Thanks,” said the latter, closing the register with a slam, “I have
all I want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simple
assignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash,
and I will hand you over the money.”

He rose, gave his seat to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony,
and quickly drew up the required assignment, while the Englishman
counted out the bank-notes on the other side of the desk.



 Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son

Anyone who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well
acquainted with the interior of Morrel’s warehouse, and had returned at
this date, would have found a great change. Instead of that air of
life, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a flourishing and
prosperous business establishment—instead of merry faces at the
windows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the long corridors—instead
of the court filled with bales of goods, re-echoing with the cries and
the jokes of porters, one would have immediately perceived all aspect
of sadness and gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks that used to fill
the deserted corridor and the empty office, but two remained. One was a
young man of three or four-and-twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel’s
daughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his
friends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed
cashier, called “Cocles,” or “Cock-eye,” a nickname given him by the
young men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive,
and which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not,
in all probability, have replied to anyone who addressed him by it.

Cocles remained in M. Morrel’s service, and a most singular change had
taken place in his position; he had at the same time risen to the rank
of cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He was, however, the
same Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but inflexible on the subject of
arithmetic, the only point on which he would have stood firm against
the world, even against M. Morrel; and strong in the
multiplication-table, which he had at his fingers’ ends, no matter what
scheme or what trap was laid to catch him.

In the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles was the
only one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of affection; on
the contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats that one by one
forsake the doomed ship even before the vessel weighs anchor, so all
the numerous clerks had by degrees deserted the office and the
warehouse. Cocles had seen them go without thinking of inquiring the
cause of their departure. Everything was as we have said, a question of
arithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all
payments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him
that the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the
river that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.

Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles’ belief; the last month’s
payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had
detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same
evening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a melancholy smile,
threw them into an almost empty drawer, saying:

“Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers.”

Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M. Morrel,
himself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, flattered him more
than a present of fifty crowns. But since the end of the month M.
Morrel had passed many an anxious hour.

In order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his
resources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get
bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to such an
extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife’s and
daughter’s jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the end of
the month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted. Credit,
owing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and to meet the
one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the present month, and
the one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the next month to M.
de Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the return of the
_Pharaon_, of whose departure he had learnt from a vessel which had
weighed anchor at the same time, and which had already arrived in
harbor.

But this vessel which, like the _Pharaon_, came from Calcutta, had been
in for a fortnight, while no intelligence had been received of the
_Pharaon_.

20033m



Such was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview with M.
de Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of
Rome, presented himself at M. Morrel’s.

Emmanuel received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of
every new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor,
come in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man,
wishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview, questioned
the new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had nothing to say to
M. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M. Morrel in person.

Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young
man bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel’s apartment. Cocles went
first, and the stranger followed him. On the staircase they met a
beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the
stranger.

“M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?” said the
cashier.

“Yes; I think so, at least,” said the young girl hesitatingly. “Go and
see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman.”

“It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,” returned the
Englishman. “M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has
only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson &
French of Rome, with whom your father does business.”

The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger
and Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered the office
where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he possessed,
opened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the second staircase,
conducted the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which
he closed behind him, and after having left the clerk of the house of
Thomson & French alone, returned and signed to him that he could enter.

The Englishman entered, and found Morrel seated at a table, turning
over the formidable columns of his ledger, which contained the list of
his liabilities. At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the
ledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen
him seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the
worthy merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this
history, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time and
sorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look, once so
firm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as if he feared
being forced to fix his attention on some particular thought or person.

The Englishman looked at him with an air of curiosity, evidently
mingled with interest. “Monsieur,” said Morrel, whose uneasiness was
increased by this examination, “you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?”

“The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me.”

“He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or
400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict
punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and
charged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money
otherwise.”

Morrel sighed deeply, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was
covered with perspiration.

“So then, sir,” said Morrel, “you hold bills of mine?”

“Yes, and for a considerable sum.”

“What is the amount?” asked Morrel with a voice he strove to render
firm.

20035m



“Here is,” said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from his
pocket, “an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville,
the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of
course, that you owe this sum to him?”

“Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent
nearly five years ago.”

“When are you to pay?”

“Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.”

“Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all
signed by you, and assigned to our house by the holders.”

“I recognize them,” said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he thought
that, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to honor his
own signature. “Is this all?”

“No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been
assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner
of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500
francs.”

It is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered during this
enumeration. “Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred
francs,” repeated he.

“Yes, sir,” replied the Englishman. “I will not,” continued he, after a
moment’s silence, “conceal from you, that while your probity and
exactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the
report is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your
liabilities.”

At this almost brutal speech Morrel turned deathly pale.

“Sir,” said he, “up to this time—and it is now more than
four-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from
my father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years—never
has anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored.”

“I know that,” replied the Englishman. “But as a man of honor should
answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same
punctuality?”

Morrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who spoke with more assurance
than he had hitherto shown.

“To questions frankly put,” said he, “a straightforward answer should
be given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely;
for its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous
accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if
the _Pharaon_ should be lost, and this last resource be gone——”

The poor man’s eyes filled with tears.

“Well,” said the other, “if this last resource fail you?”

“Well,” returned Morrel, “it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but,
already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I
shall be forced to suspend payment.”

“Have you no friends who could assist you?”

Morrel smiled mournfully.

“In business, sir,” said he, “one has no friends, only correspondents.”

“It is true,” murmured the Englishman; “then you have but one hope.”

“But one.”

“The last?”

“The last.”

“So that if this fail——”

“I am ruined,—completely ruined!”

“As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.”

“I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes,
passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in
hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed
me of the arrival of this ship.”

“And it is not yours?”

“No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, _La Gironde_; she comes from India also;
but she is not mine.”

“Perhaps she has spoken to the _Pharaon_, and brings you some tidings
of her?”

“Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to
receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is
still hope.” Then in a low voice Morrel added,—“This delay is not
natural. The _Pharaon_ left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to
have been here a month ago.”

“What is that?” said the Englishman. “What is the meaning of that
noise?”

“Oh, my God!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is it?”

A loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and
half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his
strength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained
opposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger
gazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but
it seemed that Morrel expected something—something had occasioned the
noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard
footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of
several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of
the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.

“There are only two persons who have the key to that door,” murmured
Morrel, “Cocles and Julie.”

At this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes
bathed with tears, appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting
himself by the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice
failed him.

“Oh, father!” said she, clasping her hands, “forgive your child for
being the bearer of evil tidings.”

Morrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, father, father!” murmured she, “courage!”

“The _Pharaon_ has gone down, then?” said Morrel in a hoarse voice. The
young girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative sign with her
head as she lay on her father’s breast.

“And the crew?” asked Morrel.

“Saved,” said the girl; “saved by the crew of the vessel that has just
entered the harbor.”

Morrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation
and sublime gratitude.

“Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least thou strikest but me alone.”

A tear moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman.

“Come in, come in,” said Morrel, “for I presume you are all at the
door.”

Scarcely had he uttered those words when Madame Morrel entered weeping
bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber were visible
the rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of
these men the Englishman started and advanced a step; then restrained
himself, and retired into the farthest and most obscure corner of the
apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her husband and took one of his
hands in hers, Julie still lay with her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel
stood in the centre of the chamber and seemed to form the link between
Morrel’s family and the sailors at the door.

“How did this happen?” said Morrel.

“Draw nearer, Penelon,” said the young man, “and tell us all about it.”

An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the
remains of a hat between his hands.

“Good-day, M. Morrel,” said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles
the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.

“Good-day, Penelon,” returned Morrel, who could not refrain from
smiling through his tears, “where is the captain?”

“The captain, M. Morrel,—he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please
God, it won’t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and
hearty.”

“Well, now tell your story, Penelon.”

20039m



Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth,
turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the
antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began.

“You see, M. Morrel,” said he, “we were somewhere between Cape Blanc
and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a
week’s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I was at the helm I
should tell you—and says, ‘Penelon, what do you think of those clouds
coming up over there?’ I was just then looking at them myself. ‘What do
I think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they
have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they
didn’t mean mischief.’—‘That’s my opinion too,’ said the captain, ‘and
I’ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas.
Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying
jib.’ It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel.
‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘we have still too much canvas set; all hands
lower the mainsail!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed
under mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails. ‘Well, Penelon,’ said the
captain, ‘what makes you shake your head?’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘I still
think you’ve got too much on.’ ‘I think you’re right,’ answered he, ‘we
shall have a gale.’ ‘A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest,
or I don’t know what’s what.’ You could see the wind coming like the
dust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business. ‘Take
in two reefs in the top-sails,’ cried the captain; ‘let go the
bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the
reef-tackles on the yards.’”

20041m



“That was not enough for those latitudes,” said the Englishman; “I
should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker.”

His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made everyone start. Penelon
put his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who thus
criticized the manœuvres of his captain.

“We did better than that, sir,” said the old sailor respectfully; “we
put the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck
our top-sails and scudded under bare poles.”

“The vessel was very old to risk that,” said the Englishman.

“Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for
twelve hours we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘I think we
are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.’ I gave him
the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. ‘All
hands to the pumps!’ I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the
more we pumped the more came in. ‘Ah,’ said I, after four hours’ work,
‘since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.’ ‘Is that the
example you set, Penelon?’ cries the captain; ‘very well, wait a
minute.’ He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols.
‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said
he.”

“Well done!” said the Englishman.

20043m



“There’s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,” continued
the sailor; “and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone
down, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but
still it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve
hours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five.
‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel
will have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship,
let us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.’
Now,” continued Penelon, “you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to
his ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told
twice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to
say, ‘Get along—save yourselves.’ We soon launched the boat, and all
eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did
not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the
waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was
time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the
broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then
the other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the
_Pharaon_. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or
drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the
rest, when we saw _La Gironde_; we made signals of distress, she
perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M.
Morrel, that’s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it
true, you fellows there?” A general murmur of approbation showed that
the narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and sufferings.

“Well, well,” said M. Morrel, “I know there was no one in fault but
destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his
name. What wages are due to you?”

“Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.”

“Yes, but we will talk of it.”

“Well, then, three months,” said Penelon.

“Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,” said
Morrel. “At another time,” added he, “I should have said, Give them,
besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed,
and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think
me mean on this account.”

Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.

“As for that, M. Morrel,” said he, again turning his quid, “as for
that——”

“As for what?”

“The money.”

“Well——”

“Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present,
and that we will wait for the rest.”

“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” cried Morrel gratefully; “take it—take
it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are
free to do so.”

These last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon
nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered.

“What, M. Morrel!” said he in a low voice, “you send us away; you are
then angry with us!”

“No, no,” said M. Morrel, “I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do
not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not
want any sailors.”

“No more ships!” returned Penelon; “well, then, you’ll build some;
we’ll wait for you.”

“I have no money to build ships with, Penelon,” said the poor owner
mournfully, “so I cannot accept your kind offer.”

“No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the
_Pharaon_, under bare poles.”

“Enough, enough!” cried Morrel, almost overpowered; “leave me, I pray
you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and
see that my orders are executed.”

“At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?” asked Penelon.

“Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go.” He made a sign to Cocles, who went
first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear. “Now,”
said the owner to his wife and daughter, “leave me; I wish to speak
with this gentleman.”

20045m



And he glanced towards the clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained
motionless in the corner during this scene, in which he had taken no
part, except the few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at
this person whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired;
but, as she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating
glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent spectator
would have been surprised to see on his stern features. The two men
were left alone. “Well, sir,” said Morrel, sinking into a chair, “you
have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you.”

“I see,” returned the Englishman, “that a fresh and unmerited
misfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to
serve you.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Morrel.

“Let me see,” continued the stranger, “I am one of your largest
creditors.”

“Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due.”

“Do you wish for time to pay?”

“A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life.”

“How long a delay do you wish for?”

Morrel reflected. “Two months,” said he.

“I will give you three,” replied the stranger.

“But,” asked Morrel, “will the house of Thomson & French consent?”

“Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June.”

“Yes.”

“Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of
September at eleven o’clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven),
I shall come to receive the money.”

“I shall expect you,” returned Morrel; “and I will pay you—or I shall
be dead.” These last words were uttered in so low a tone that the
stranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the old ones
destroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with three months
before him to collect his resources. The Englishman received his thanks
with the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him
with grateful blessings, conducted him to the staircase. The stranger
met Julie on the stairs; she pretended to be descending, but in reality
she was waiting for him. “Oh, sir”—said she, clasping her hands.

“Mademoiselle,” said the stranger, “one day you will receive a letter
signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ Do exactly what the letter bids you,
however strange it may appear.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Julie.

“Do you promise?”

“I swear to you I will.”

“It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl
you are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you
by giving you Emmanuel for a husband.”

Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the
baluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to descend. In the
court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in
either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them. “Come
with me, my friend,” said the Englishman; “I wish to speak to you.”



 Chapter 30. The Fifth of September

The extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French, at the
moment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor shipowner so
decided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared to believe that
fate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite upon him. The same
day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had occurred;
and a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity, returned to the family.
Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not only engagements with the house
of Thomson & French, who had shown themselves so considerate towards
him; and, as he had said, in business he had correspondents, and not
friends. When he thought the matter over, he could by no means account
for this generous conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him;
and could only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this: “We
had better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those
300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and get
only six or eight per cent of our money back again.”

Unfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel’s
correspondents did not take this view; and some even came to a contrary
decision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his office with
scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted by the
Englishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality. Cocles thus
remained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel alone who
remembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000
francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills,
for which, as well as the debt due to the inspector of prisons, he had
time granted, he must be a ruined man.

The opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the reverses
which had successively weighed down Morrel, it was impossible for him
to remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the astonishment when at the
end of the month, he cancelled all his obligations with his usual
punctuality. Still confidence was not restored to all minds, and the
general opinion was that the complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner
had been postponed only until the end of the month.

The month passed, and Morrel made extraordinary efforts to get in all
his resources. Formerly his paper, at any date, was taken with
confidence, and was even in request. Morrel now tried to negotiate
bills at ninety days only, and none of the banks would give him credit.
Fortunately, Morrel had some funds coming in on which he could rely;
and, as they reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his
engagements when the end of July came.

The agent of Thomson & French had not been again seen at Marseilles;
the day after, or two days after his visit to Morrel, he had
disappeared; and as in that city he had had no intercourse but with the
mayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no
trace except in the memories of these three persons. As to the sailors
of the _Pharaon_, they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they
also had disappeared.

Captain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from Palma.
He delayed presenting himself at Morrel’s, but the owner, hearing of
his arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon’s
recital, of the captain’s brave conduct during the storm, and tried to
console him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain
Gaumard had not dared to apply for.

As he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up.
Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was
newly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much
embarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place,
passed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with his
great eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which Morrel
as usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel attributed
Penelon’s embarrassment to the elegance of his attire; it was evident
the good fellow had not gone to such an expense on his own account; he
was, no doubt, engaged on board some other vessel, and thus his
bashfulness arose from the fact of his not having, if we may so express
ourselves, worn mourning for the _Pharaon_ longer. Perhaps he had come
to tell Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer him employment
from his new master.

“Worthy fellows!” said Morrel,  as he went away, “may your new master
love you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!”

20049m



August rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to renew
his credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was known at
Marseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and then it was said
that the bills would go to protest at the end of the month, and that
Morrel had gone away and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier
Cocles, to meet the creditors. But, contrary to all expectation, when
the 31st of August came, the house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared
behind the grating of the counter, examined all bills presented with
the usual scrutiny, and, from first to last, paid all with the usual
precision. There came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had
fully anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills
which the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and
then, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure
was put off until the end of September.

On the 1st, Morrel returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme
anxiety, for from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel
had thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under
great obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was owing
that Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with whom he
had laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at this moment
that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of francs, and had
unlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a crown from his
pocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his word for a loan, and
Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars, but had kept
away from some instinctive motive, and had delayed as long as possible
availing himself of this last resource. And Morrel was right, for he
returned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.

Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter a complaint, or say one harsh
word. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel’s
hand with friendly warmth, and then going to his private room on the
second floor had sent for Cocles.

“Then,” said the two women to Emmanuel, “we are indeed ruined.”

It was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie should
write to her brother, who was in garrison at Nîmes, to come to them as
speedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively that they
required all their strength to support the blow that impended. Besides,
Maximilian Morrel, though hardly two-and-twenty, had great influence
over his father.

He was a strong-minded, upright young man. At the time when he decided
on his profession his father had no desire to choose for him, but had
consulted young Maximilian’s taste. He had at once declared for a
military life, and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly
through the Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the
53rd of the line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected
promotion on the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was
noted for his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on
a soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the name
of “the stoic.” We need hardly say that many of those who gave him this
epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know
what it meant.

This was the young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid
to sustain them under the serious trial which they felt they would soon
have to endure. They had not mistaken the gravity of this event, for
the moment after Morrel had entered his private office with Cocles,
Julie saw the latter leave it pale, trembling, and his features
betraying the utmost consternation. She would have questioned him as he
passed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with
unusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and
exclaimed:

“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could
ever have believed it!”

A moment afterwards Julie saw him go upstairs carrying two or three
heavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money.

Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted the
money. All his funds amounted to 6,000 or 8,000 francs, his bills
receivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the best of
everything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting to 287,500
francs. He had not even the means for making a possible settlement on
account.

However, when Morrel went down to his dinner, he appeared very calm.
This calmness was more alarming to the two women than the deepest
dejection would have been. After dinner Morrel usually went out and
used to take his coffee at the club of the Phocéens, and read the
_Semaphore_; this day he did not leave the house, but returned to his
office.

As to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the day he
went into the courtyard, seated himself on a stone with his head bare
and exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort the women,
but his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well acquainted with
the business of the house, not to feel that a great catastrophe hung
over the Morrel family. Night came, the two women had watched, hoping
that when he left his room Morrel would come to them, but they heard
him pass before their door, and trying to conceal the noise of his
footsteps. They listened; he went into his sleeping-room, and fastened
the door inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and half an
hour after Julie had retired, she rose, took off her shoes, and went
stealthily along the passage, to see through the keyhole what her
husband was doing.

In the passage she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy
herself, had anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame
Morrel.

“He is writing,” she said.

They had understood each other without speaking. Madame Morrel looked
again through the keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel
remarked, what her daughter had not observed, that her husband was
writing on stamped paper. The terrible idea that he was writing his
will flashed across her; she shuddered, and yet had not strength to
utter a word.

Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as
usual, came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he
placed his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her
for a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her
mother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed that
her father’s heart beat violently.

The next two days passed in much the same way. On the evening of the
4th of September, M. Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his
study. Julie trembled at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen.
Why did her father ask for this key which she always kept, and which
was only taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl
looked at Morrel.

“What have I done wrong, father,” she said, “that you should take this
key from me?”

“Nothing, my dear,” replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his
eyes at this simple question,—“nothing, only I want it.”

Julie made a pretence to feel for the key. “I must have left it in my
room,” she said.

And she went out, but instead of going to her apartment she hastened to
consult Emmanuel.

“Do not give this key to your father,” said he, “and tomorrow morning,
if possible, do not quit him for a moment.”

She questioned Emmanuel, but he knew nothing, or would not say what he
knew.

During the night, between the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel
remained listening for every sound, and, until three o’clock in the
morning, she heard her husband pacing the room in great agitation. It
was three o’clock when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and
daughter passed the night together. They had expected Maximilian since
the previous evening. At eight o’clock in the morning Morrel entered
their chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible
in his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he
had slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his
daughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and
kissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel’s request, was
following her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her
quickly:

“Remain with your mother, dearest.” Julie wished to accompany him. “I
wish you to do so,” said he.

This was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said it in a
tone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to disobey. She
remained at the same spot standing mute and motionless. An instant
afterwards the door opened, she felt two arms encircle her, and a mouth
pressed her forehead. She looked up and uttered an exclamation of joy.

20053m



“Maximilian, my dearest brother!” she cried.

At these words Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son’s
arms.

“Mother,” said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel and
her daughter, “what has occurred—what has happened? Your letter has
frightened me, and I have come hither with all speed.”

“Julie,” said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, “go and
tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.”

The young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of
the staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.

“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” inquired the man, with a
strong Italian accent.

“Yes, sir,” replied Julie with hesitation; “what is your pleasure? I do
not know you.”

“Read this letter,” he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated. “It
concerns the best interests of your father,” said the messenger.

The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly
and read:

“Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask
the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the
apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in
red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should
receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly.
Remember your oath.

“Sinbad the Sailor.”

The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to
question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again
over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a
postscript. She read:

“It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and
alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else
go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything
about it.”

This postscript decreased greatly the young girl’s happiness. Was there
nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence
had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl
of her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it;
indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that
inspire the greatest terror.

Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular
impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied,
but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on
the day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father’s,
related the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made,
and showed him the letter.

“You must go, then, mademoiselle,” said Emmanuel.

“Go there?” murmured Julie.

“Yes; I will accompany you.”

“But did you not read that I must be alone?” said Julie.

“And you shall be alone,” replied the young man. “I will await you at
the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to
make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you
shall have cause to complain to me!”

“Then, Emmanuel?” said the young girl with hesitation, “it is your
opinion that I should obey this invitation?”

“Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?”

“But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?” she asked.

Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide
immediately made him reply.

“Listen,” he said; “today is the 5th of September, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred
thousand francs to pay?”

“Yes, we know that.”

“Well, then,” continued Emmanuel, “we have not fifteen thousand francs
in the house.”

“What will happen then?”

“Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone
who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to
declare himself a bankrupt.”

“Oh, come, then, come!” cried she, hastening away with the young man.

During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young
man knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had
befallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of
living and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached
such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the
apartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study,
but he rapped there in vain.

While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door
open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study,
M. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment
quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of
whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot,
pressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat.
Maximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his
father’s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on
Morrel’s breast.

“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to
do with that brace of pistols under your coat?”

“Oh, this is what I feared!” said Morrel.

“Father, father, in Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young man, “what are
these weapons for?”

“Maximilian,” replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, “you are a
man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you.”

And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian
followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed
it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on
which he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open
ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his
affairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he
possessed was 15,257 francs.

“Read!” said Morrel.

The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What
could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures?

“And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this
disastrous result?” asked the young man, after a moment’s pause.

“I have,” replied Morrel.

“You have no money coming in on which you can rely?”

“None.”

“You have exhausted every resource?”

“All.”

“And in half an hour,” said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, “our name is
dishonored!”

“Blood washes out dishonor,” said Morrel.

“You are right, father; I understand you.” Then extending his hand
towards one of the pistols, he said, “There is one for you and one for
me—thanks!”

Morrel caught his hand. “Your mother—your sister! Who will support
them?”

A shudder ran through the young man’s frame. “Father,” he said, “do you
reflect that you are bidding me to live?”

“Yes, I do so bid you,” answered Morrel, “it is your duty. You have a
calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I
make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as
if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.”

The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime
resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he
took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank.

“Be it so, then, my father,” he said, extending his hand to Morrel,
“die in peace, my father; I will live.”

Morrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but
Maximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were
pressed against each other for a moment.

“You know it is not my fault,” said Morrel.

20057m



Maximilian smiled. “I know, father, you are the most honorable man I
have ever known.”

“Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your
mother and sister.”

“My father,” said the young man, bending his knee, “bless me!” Morrel
took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and
kissing his forehead several times said:

“Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three
generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice
which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On
seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you.
To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me.
Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work,
labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself,
your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day
to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and
fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn,
that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very
office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day
done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I
should do.’”

“My father, my father!” cried the young man, “why should you not live?”

“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be
converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man
who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a
bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse
is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would
avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last
home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your
head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first
time, he has been compelled to break his word.’”

The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.

“And now,” said Morrel, “leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your
mother and sister away.”

“Will you not see my sister once more?” asked Maximilian. A last but
final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this
interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head. “I
saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.”

“Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?” inquired
Maximilian in a faltering voice.

“Yes; my son, and a sacred command.”

“Say it, my father.”

“The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or,
it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had
any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to
receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted,
but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my
son, and respect this man.”

“Father, I will,” said Maximilian.

“And now, once more, adieu,” said Morrel. “Go, leave me; I would be
alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom.”

The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of
will and not the power of execution.

“Hear me, Maximilian,” said his father. “Suppose I were a soldier like
you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be
killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now,
‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable
to shame!’”

“Yes, yes,” said the young man, “yes;” and once again embracing his
father with convulsive pressure, he said, “Be it so, my father.”

And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel
remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then
putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment’s interval,
Cocles appeared.

It was no longer the same man—the fearful revelations of the three last
days had crushed him. This thought—the house of Morrel is about to stop
payment—bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise
have done.

“My worthy Cocles,” said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, “do
you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months
ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.”

Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the
anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes
fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The
hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.

What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony
cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was
surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced
himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly
plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the
world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings,
one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation
and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on.
The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and
murmured his daughter’s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and
wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient
farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock,
counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds.

He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed
on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he
cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came
forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his
heart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its
hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his
study opened. Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of
Cocles, “The agent of Thomson & French.”

He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard
a cry—it was his daughter’s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol
fell from his hands.

“My father!” cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with
joy—“saved, you are saved!” And she threw herself into his arms,
holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.

20061m



“Saved, my child!” said Morrel; “what do you mean?”

“Yes, saved—saved! See, see!” said the young girl.

Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague
remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end
was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a
diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of
parchment: _Julie’s Dowry_.

Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this
moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer
fell upon his heart.

“Explain, my child,” he said, “Explain, my child,” he said,
“explain—where did you find this purse?”

“In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a
mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.”

“But,” cried Morrel, “this purse is not yours!” Julie handed to her
father the letter she had received in the morning.

“And did you go alone?” asked Morrel, after he had read it.

“Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the
corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when
I returned.”

“Monsieur Morrel!” exclaimed a voice on the stairs; “Monsieur Morrel!”

“It is his voice!” said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his
countenance full of animation and joy.

“The _Pharaon_!” he cried; “the _Pharaon_!”

“What!—what!—the _Pharaon_! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel
is lost.”

“The _Pharaon_, sir—they signal the _Pharaon_! The _Pharaon_ is
entering the harbor!”

Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his
understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such
incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in.

“Father,” cried Maximilian, “how could you say the _Pharaon_ was lost?
The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into
port.”

20063m



“My dear friends,” said Morrel, “if this be so, it must be a miracle of
heaven! Impossible, impossible!”

But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his
hand, the acceptance receipted—the splendid diamond.

“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Cocles, “what can it mean?—the _Pharaon_?”

“Come, dear ones,” said Morrel, rising from his seat, “let us go and
see, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!”

They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been
afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Canebière.
There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel.
“The _Pharaon_! the _Pharaon_!” said every voice.

And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship
bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, “The
_Pharaon_, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.” She was the exact duplicate of
the other _Pharaon_, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and
indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain
Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M.
Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of
the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the
testimony.

As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and
amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with
his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the
sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a
low tone:

“Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and
wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your
good deeds.”

20064m



And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his
hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights
of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted
“Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!”

Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a
yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity
of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping
with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around
him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to
be seeking in the skies.

“And now,” said the unknown, “farewell kindness, humanity, and
gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have
been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of
vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!”

At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal,
the yacht instantly put out to sea.



 Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor

Towards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to the
first society of Paris, the Viscount Albert de Morcerf and the Baron
Franz d’Épinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see the Carnival
at Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last three or four years
had inhabited Italy, should act as _cicerone_ to Albert.

As it is no inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at Rome,
especially when you have no great desire to sleep on the Piazza del
Popolo, or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the
proprietor of the Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, to reserve
comfortable apartments for them. Signor Pastrini replied that he had
only two rooms and a parlor on the third floor, which he offered at the
low charge of a louis per diem. They accepted his offer; but wishing to
make the best use of the time that was left, Albert started for Naples.
As for Franz, he remained at Florence, and after having passed a few
days in exploring the paradise of the Cascine, and spending two or
three evenings at the houses of the Florentine nobility, he took a
fancy into his head (having already visited Corsica, the cradle of
Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the waiting-place of Napoleon.

One evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron ring
that secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his coat and
lay down, and said to the crew,—“To the Island of Elba!”

The boat shot out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning Franz
disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after having
followed the traces which the footsteps of the giant have left, and
re-embarked for Marciana.

Two hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was assured that
red partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in
killing a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he
returned to the boat very much out of temper.

“Ah, if your excellency chose,” said the captain, “you might have
capital sport.”

“Where?”

“Do you see that island?” continued the captain, pointing to a conical
pile rising from the indigo sea.

“Well, what is this island?”

“The Island of Monte Cristo.”

“But I have no permission to shoot over this island.”

“Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is
uninhabited.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the young man. “A desert island in the midst of the
Mediterranean must be a curiosity.”

“It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not
contain an acre of land capable of cultivation.”

“To whom does this island belong?”

“To Tuscany.”

“What game shall I find there!”

“Thousands of wild goats.”

“Who live upon the stones, I suppose,” said Franz with an incredulous
smile.

“No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices
of the rocks.”

“Where can I sleep?”

“On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your
excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like—we can sail as
well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars.”

As Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were not yet
available, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in the
affirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a low tone.
“Well,” asked he, “what now? Is there any difficulty in the way?”

“No.” replied the captain, “but we must warn your excellency that the
island is an infected port.”

“What do you mean?”

“Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge
for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and
Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have
to perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn.”

“The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why,
that’s as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a
wait—too long.”

“But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo?”

“Oh, I shall not,” cried Franz.

“Nor I, nor I,” chorused the sailors.

“Then steer for Monte Cristo.”

The captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat was soon
sailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until all was in
order, and when the sail was filled, and the four sailors had taken
their places—three forward, and one at the helm—he resumed the
conversation. “Gaetano,” said he to the captain, “you tell me Monte
Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very
different kind of game from the goats.”

“Yes, your excellency, and it is true.”

“I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of
Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in
the romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat.”

“Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who
were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet,
every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency
heard that the French _chargé d’affaires_ was robbed six months ago
within five hundred paces of Velletri?”

“Oh, yes, I heard that.”

“Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would
hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English
yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita
Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but,
doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has
met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who
have surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some
desert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses
of a forest.”

“But,” asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the
boat, “why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French,
Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?”

“Why?” said Gaetano with a smile.

“Yes, why?”

“Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their
own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand
and foot, they attach to everyone’s neck a four-and-twenty-pound ball,
a large hole is chopped in the vessel’s bottom, and then they leave
her. At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and
settle down. First one gun’l goes under, then the other. Then they lift
and sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there’s a noise
like a cannon—that’s the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes
out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last
groan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool
in the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but
the eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the
sea. Do you understand now,” said the captain, “why no complaints are
made to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port?”

It is probable that if Gaetano had related this previous to proposing
the expedition, Franz would have hesitated, but now that they had
started, he thought it would be cowardly to draw back. He was one of
those men who do not rashly court danger, but if danger presents
itself, combat it with the most unalterable coolness. Calm and
resolute, he treated any peril as he would an adversary in a
duel,—calculated its probable method of approach; retreated, if at all,
as a point of strategy and not from cowardice; was quick to see an
opening for attack, and won victory at a single thrust.

“Bah!” said he, “I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria—I have
sailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even the
shadow of a bandit or a pirate.”

“I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your project,”
replied Gaetano, “but you questioned me, and I have answered; that’s
all.”

“Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish to enjoy
it as long as possible, steer for Monte Cristo.”

The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an hour, and
they were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As they drew near
the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that
they could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like
cannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes and trees growing in the
crevices. As for the sailors, although they appeared perfectly tranquil
yet it was evident that they were on the alert, and that they carefully
watched the glassy surface over which they were sailing, and on which a
few fishing-boats, with their white sails, were alone visible.

They were within fifteen miles of Monte Cristo when the sun began to
set behind Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing
their rugged peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant
Adamastor, rose dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting the
light that gilded its massive peaks so that the voyagers were in
shadow. Little by little the shadow rose higher and seemed to drive
before it the last rays of the expiring day; at last the reflection
rested on the summit of the mountain, where it paused an instant, like
the fiery crest of a volcano, then gloom gradually covered the summit
as it had covered the base, and the island now only appeared to be a
gray mountain that grew continually darker; half an hour after, the
night was quite dark.

Fortunately, the mariners were used to these latitudes, and knew every
rock in the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst of this obscurity
Franz was not without uneasiness—Corsica had long since disappeared,
and Monte Cristo itself was invisible; but the sailors seemed, like the
lynx, to see in the dark, and the pilot who steered did not evince the
slightest hesitation.

An hour had passed since the sun had set, when Franz fancied he saw, at
a quarter of a mile to the left, a dark mass, but he could not
precisely make out what it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the
sailors by mistaking a floating cloud for land, he remained silent;
suddenly a great light appeared on the strand; land might resemble a
cloud, but the fire was not a meteor.

“What is this light?” asked he.

“Hush!” said the captain; “it is a fire.”

“But you told me the island was uninhabited?”

“I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also that it
served sometimes as a harbor for smugglers.”

“And for pirates?”

“And for pirates,” returned Gaetano, repeating Franz’s words. “It is
for that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for, as you
see, the fire is behind us.”

“But this fire?” continued Franz. “It seems to me rather reassuring
than otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would not light a
fire.”

“Oh, that goes for nothing,” said Gaetano. “If you can guess the
position of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire
cannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the sea.”

“You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant
neighbors?”

“That is what we must find out,” returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on
this terrestrial star.

“How can you find out?”

“You shall see.”

Gaetano consulted with his companions, and after five minutes’
discussion a manœuvre was executed which caused the vessel to tack
about, they returned the way they had come, and in a few minutes the
fire disappeared, hidden by an elevation of the land. The pilot again
changed the course of the boat, which rapidly approached the island,
and was soon within fifty paces of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and
the boat came to rest. All this was done in silence, and from the
moment that their course was changed not a word was spoken.

Gaetano, who had proposed the expedition, had taken all the
responsibility on himself; the four sailors fixed their eyes on him,
while they got out their oars and held themselves in readiness to row
away, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult. As for
Franz, he examined his arms with the utmost coolness; he had two
double-barrelled guns and a rifle; he loaded them, looked at the
priming, and waited quietly.

During this time the captain had thrown off his vest and shirt, and
secured his trousers round his waist; his feet were naked, so he had no
shoes and stockings to take off; after these preparations he placed his
finger on his lips, and lowering himself noiselessly into the sea, swam
towards the shore with such precaution that it was impossible to hear
the slightest sound; he could only be traced by the phosphorescent line
in his wake. This track soon disappeared; it was evident that he had
touched the shore.

Everyone on board remained motionless for half an hour, when the same
luminous track was again observed, and the swimmer was soon on board.

“Well?” exclaimed Franz and the sailors in unison.

“They are Spanish smugglers,” said he; “they have with them two
Corsican bandits.”

“And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish
smugglers?”

“Alas,” returned the captain with an accent of the most profound pity,
“we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits are hard
pressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a vessel, and good
fellows like us on board, they come and demand hospitality of us; you
can’t refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we receive them, and for
greater security we stand out to sea. This costs us nothing, and saves
the life, or at least the liberty, of a fellow-creature, who on the
first occasion returns the service by pointing out some safe spot where
we can land our goods without interruption.”

“Ah!” said Franz, “then you are a smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?”

“Your excellency, we must live somehow,” returned the other, smiling
impenetrably.

“Then you know the men who are now on Monte Cristo?”

“Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each other by
signs.”

“And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?”

“Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves.”

“But these two Corsican bandits?” said Franz, calculating the chances
of peril.

“It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the
authorities.”

“How so?”

“Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was not in
a Corsican’s nature to revenge himself.”

“What do you mean by having made a stiff?—having assassinated a man?”
said Franz, continuing his investigation.

“I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different
thing,” returned the captain.

“Well,” said the young man, “let us demand hospitality of these
smugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it?”

“Without doubt.”

“How many are they?”

“Four, and the two bandits make six.”

“Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be able
to hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to Monte Cristo.”

“Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due precautions.”

“By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I do
more than permit, I exhort you.”

“Silence, then!” said Gaetano.

Everyone obeyed. For a man who, like Franz, viewed his position in its
true light, it was a grave one. He was alone in the darkness with
sailors whom he did not know, and who had no reason to be devoted to
him; who knew that he had several thousand francs in his belt, and who
had often examined his weapons,—which were very beautiful,—if not with
envy, at least with curiosity. On the other hand, he was about to land,
without any other escort than these men, on an island which had,
indeed, a very religious name, but which did not seem to Franz likely
to afford him much hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and bandits.
The history of the scuttled vessels, which had appeared improbable
during the day, seemed very probable at night; placed as he was between
two possible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and his
gun in his hand.

The sailors had again hoisted sail, and the vessel was once more
cleaving the waves. Through the darkness Franz, whose eyes were now
more accustomed to it, could see the looming shore along which the boat
was sailing, and then, as they rounded a rocky point, he saw the fire
more brilliant than ever, and about it five or six persons seated. The
blaze illumined the sea for a hundred paces around. Gaetano skirted the
light, carefully keeping the boat in the shadow; then, when they were
opposite the fire, he steered to the centre of the circle, singing a
fishing song, of which his companions sung the chorus.

At the first words of the song the men seated round the fire arose and
approached the landing-place, their eyes fixed on the boat, evidently
seeking to know who the new-comers were and what were their intentions.
They soon appeared satisfied and returned (with the exception of one,
who remained at the shore) to their fire, at which the carcass of a
goat was roasting. When the boat was within twenty paces of the shore,
the man on the beach, who carried a carbine, presented arms after the
manner of a sentinel, and cried, “Who comes there?” in Sardinian.

Franz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few words
with this man which the traveller did not understand, but which
evidently concerned him.

“Will your excellency give your name, or remain _incognito_?” asked the
captain.

“My name must rest unknown,” replied Franz; “merely say I am a
Frenchman travelling for pleasure.”

As soon as Gaetano had transmitted this answer, the sentinel gave an
order to one of the men seated round the fire, who rose and disappeared
among the rocks. Not a word was spoken, everyone seemed occupied, Franz
with his disembarkment, the sailors with their sails, the smugglers
with their goat; but in the midst of all this carelessness it was
evident that they mutually observed each other.

The man who had disappeared returned suddenly on the opposite side to
that by which he had left; he made a sign with his head to the
sentinel, who, turning to the boat, said, “_S’accommodi_.” The Italian
_s’accommodi_ is untranslatable; it means at once, “Come, enter, you
are welcome; make yourself at home; you are the master.” It is like
that Turkish phrase of Molière’s that so astonished the bourgeois
gentleman by the number of things implied in its utterance.

The sailors did not wait for a second invitation; four strokes of the
oar brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to shore, exchanged a few
words with the sentinel, then his comrades disembarked, and lastly came
Franz. One of his guns was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had the
other, and a sailor held his rifle; his dress, half artist, half dandy,
did not excite any suspicion, and, consequently, no disquietude. The
boat was moored to the shore, and they advanced a few paces to find a
comfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the spot they chose did not suit
the smuggler who filled the post of sentinel, for he cried out:

“Not that way, if you please.”

Gaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced to the opposite side, while
two sailors kindled torches at the fire to light them on their way.

They advanced about thirty paces, and then stopped at a small esplanade
surrounded with rocks, in which seats had been cut, not unlike
sentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of the rocks grew a few dwarf oaks
and thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a torch, and saw by the mass
of cinders that had accumulated that he was not the first to discover
this retreat, which was, doubtless, one of the halting-places of the
wandering visitors of Monte Cristo.

As for his suspicions, once on _terra firma_, once that he had seen the
indifferent, if not friendly, appearance of his hosts, his anxiety had
quite disappeared, or rather, at sight of the goat, had turned to
appetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing could
be more easy than to prepare a supper when they had in their boat,
bread, wine, half a dozen partridges, and a good fire to roast them by.

“Besides,” added he, “if the smell of their roast meat tempts you, I
will go and offer them two of our birds for a slice.”

“You are a born diplomat,” returned Franz; “go and try.”

Meanwhile the sailors had collected dried sticks and branches with
which they made a fire. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the aroma of
the roasted meat, when the captain returned with a mysterious air.

“Well,” said Franz, “anything new?—do they refuse?”

“On the contrary,” returned Gaetano, “the chief, who was told you were
a young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him.”

“Well,” observed Franz, “this chief is very polite, and I see no
objection—the more so as I bring my share of the supper.”

“Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper; but he
makes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he will receive
you at his house.”

“His house? Has he built one here, then?”

“No, but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they say.”

“You know this chief, then?”

“I have heard talk of him.”

“Favorably or otherwise?”

“Both.”

“The deuce!—and what is this condition?”

“That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he
himself bids you.”

Franz looked at Gaetano, to see, if possible, what he thought of this
proposal. “Ah,” replied he, guessing Franz’s thought, “I know this is a
serious matter.”

“What should you do in my place?”

“I, who have nothing to lose,—I should go.”

20075m



“You would accept?”

“Yes, were it only out of curiosity.”

“There is something very peculiar about this chief, then?”

“Listen,” said Gaetano, lowering his voice, “I do not know if what they
say is true”—he stopped to see if anyone was near.

“What do they say?”

“That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is
nothing.”

“What nonsense!” said Franz, reseating himself.

“It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the _Saint
Ferdinand_, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that such
treasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales.”

“Do you know,” observed Franz, “that with such stories you make me
think of Ali Baba’s enchanted cavern?”

“I tell you what I have been told.”

“Then you advise me to accept?”

“Oh, I don’t say that; your excellency will do as you please; I should
be sorry to advise you in the matter.”

Franz pondered the matter for a few moments, concluded that a man so
rich could not have any intention of plundering him of what little he
had, and seeing only the prospect of a good supper, accepted. Gaetano
departed with the reply. Franz was prudent, and wished to learn all he
possibly could concerning his host. He turned towards the sailor, who,
during this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking the partridges with the
air of a man proud of his office, and asked him how these men had
landed, as no vessel of any kind was visible.

“Never mind that,” returned the sailor, “I know their vessel.”

“Is it a very beautiful vessel?”

“I would not wish for a better to sail round the world.”

“Of what burden is she?”

“About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather. She is
what the English call a yacht.”

“Where was she built?”

“I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese.”

“And how did a leader of smugglers,” continued Franz, “venture to build
a vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa?”

“I did not say that the owner was a smuggler,” replied the sailor.

“No; but Gaetano did, I thought.”

“Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not then
spoken to anyone.”

“And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he?”

“A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure.”

“Come,” thought Franz, “he is still more mysterious, since the two
accounts do not agree.”

“What is his name?”

“If you ask him, he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be his
real name.”

“Sinbad the Sailor?”

“Yes.”

“And where does he reside?”

“On the sea.”

“What country does he come from?”

“I do not know.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Sometimes.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Your excellency will judge for yourself.”

“Where will he receive me?”

“No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of.”

“Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and found this
island deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace?”

“Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the grotto
all over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any opening;
they say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic word.”

“Decidedly,” muttered Franz, “this is an Arabian Nights’ adventure.”

“His excellency waits for you,” said a voice, which he recognized as
that of the sentinel. He was accompanied by two of the yacht’s crew.

Franz drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and presented it to the
man who had spoken to him. Without uttering a word, they bandaged his
eyes with a care that showed their apprehensions of his committing some
indiscretion. Afterwards he was made to promise that he would not make
the least attempt to raise the bandage. He promised.

Then his two guides took his arms, and he went on, guided by them, and
preceded by the sentinel. After going about thirty paces, he smelt the
appetizing odor of the kid that was roasting, and knew thus that he was
passing the bivouac; they then led him on about fifty paces farther,
evidently advancing towards that part of the shore where they would not
allow Gaetano to go—a refusal he could now comprehend.

Presently, by a change in the atmosphere, he knew that they were
entering a cave; after going on for a few seconds more he heard a
crackling, and it seemed to him as though the atmosphere again changed,
and became balmy and perfumed. At length his feet touched on a thick
and soft carpet, and his guides let go their hold of him. There was a
moment’s silence, and then a voice, in excellent French, although, with
a foreign accent, said:

“Welcome, sir. I beg you will remove your bandage.”

It may be supposed, then, Franz did not wait for a repetition of this
permission, but took off the handkerchief, and found himself in the
presence of a man from thirty-eight to forty years of age, dressed in a
Tunisian costume, that is to say, a red cap with a long blue silk
tassel, a vest of black cloth embroidered with gold, pantaloons of deep
red, large and full gaiters of the same color, embroidered with gold
like the vest, and yellow slippers; he had a splendid cashmere round
his waist, and a small sharp and crooked cangiar was passed through his
girdle.

Although of a paleness that was almost livid, this man had a remarkably
handsome face; his eyes were penetrating and sparkling; his nose, quite
straight, and projecting direct from the brow, was of the pure Greek
type, while his teeth, as white as pearls, were set off to admiration
by the black moustache that encircled them.

His pallor was so peculiar, that it seemed to pertain to one who had
been long entombed, and who was incapable of resuming the healthy glow
and hue of life. He was not particularly tall, but extremely well made,
and, like the men of the South, had small hands and feet. But what
astonished Franz, who had treated Gaetano’s description as a fable, was
the splendor of the apartment in which he found himself.

The entire chamber was lined with crimson brocade, worked with flowers
of gold. In a recess was a kind of divan, surmounted with a stand of
Arabian swords in silver scabbards, and the handles resplendent with
gems; from the ceiling hung a lamp of Venetian glass, of beautiful
shape and color, while the feet rested on a Turkey carpet, in which
they sunk to the instep; tapestry hung before the door by which Franz
had entered, and also in front of another door, leading into a second
apartment which seemed to be brilliantly illuminated.

The host gave Franz time to recover from his surprise, and, moreover,
returned look for look, not even taking his eyes off him.

“Sir,” he said, after a pause, “a thousand excuses for the precaution
taken in your introduction hither; but as, during the greater portion
of the year, this island is deserted, if the secret of this abode were
discovered, I should doubtless, find on my return my temporary
retirement in a state of great disorder, which would be exceedingly
annoying, not for the loss it occasioned me, but because I should not
have the certainty I now possess of separating myself from all the rest
of mankind at pleasure. Let me now endeavor to make you forget this
temporary unpleasantness, and offer you what no doubt you did not
expect to find here—that is to say, a tolerable supper and pretty
comfortable beds.”

“_Ma foi_, my dear sir,” replied Franz, “make no apologies. I have
always observed that they bandage people’s eyes who penetrate enchanted
palaces, for instance, those of Raoul in the _Huguenots_, and really I
have nothing to complain of, for what I see makes me think of the
wonders of the _Arabian Nights_.”

20079m



“Alas! I may say with Lucullus, if I could have anticipated the honor
of your visit, I would have prepared for it. But such as is my
hermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to
share, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready?”

At this moment the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, black as ebony,
and dressed in a plain white tunic, made a sign to his master that all
was prepared in the dining-room.

“Now,” said the unknown to Franz, “I do not know if you are of my
opinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or
three hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to
address one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of
hospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me
one by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself,
that I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called
‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”

“And I,” replied Franz, “will tell you, as I only require his wonderful
lamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at
this moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from
going away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been
conveyed by some good genius.”

“Well, then, Signor Aladdin,” replied the singular Amphitryon, “you
heard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the
dining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way?”

At these words, moving aside the tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest.
Franz now looked upon another scene of enchantment; the table was
splendidly covered, and once convinced of this important point he cast
his eyes around him. The dining-room was scarcely less striking than
the room he had just left; it was entirely of marble, with antique
bas-reliefs of priceless value; and at the four corners of this
apartment, which was oblong, were four magnificent statues, having
baskets in their hands. These baskets contained four pyramids of most
splendid fruit; there were Sicily pine-apples, pomegranates from
Malaga, oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches from France, and dates
from Tunis.

The supper consisted of a roast pheasant garnished with Corsican
blackbirds; a boar’s ham with jelly, a quarter of a kid with tartar
sauce, a glorious turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between these large
dishes were smaller ones containing various dainties. The dishes were
of silver, and the plates of Japanese china.

Franz rubbed his eyes in order to assure himself that this was not a
dream. Ali alone was present to wait at table, and acquitted himself so
admirably, that the guest complimented his host thereupon.

“Yes,” replied he, while he did the honors of the supper with much ease
and grace—“yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does
all he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he
has a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for
having kept it on his shoulders.”

Ali approached his master, took his hand, and kissed it.

“Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad,” said Franz, “to ask you the
particulars of this kindness?”

20081m



“Oh, they are simple enough,” replied the host. “It seems the fellow
had been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than
etiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey
to have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue
the first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always
had a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his
tongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali
a splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of
having. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the
poor devil’s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass
with which I had shivered his highness’s yataghan to pieces, the Bey
yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that
the poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless
clause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse
of the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to
appear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe.”

Franz remained a moment silent and pensive, hardly knowing what to
think of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with which his host related
the brief narrative.

“And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed,” he said,
by way of changing the conversation, “you pass your life in
travelling?”

“Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be
able to accomplish it,” said the unknown with a singular smile; “and I
made some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season.”

Although Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes
gave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity.

“You have suffered a great deal, sir?” said Franz inquiringly.

Sinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied, “What makes
you suppose so?”

“Everything,” answered Franz,—“your voice, your look, your pallid
complexion, and even the life you lead.”

“I?—I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am
king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I
get tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like
one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by
delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I
have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or
appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you
had tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never
return to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish
there.”

“Revenge, for instance!” observed Franz.

The unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate
into the depth of the heart and thoughts. “And why revenge?” he asked.

“Because,” replied Franz, “you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by
society, has a fearful account to settle with it.”

“Ah!” responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which
displayed his white and sharp teeth. “You have not guessed rightly.
Such as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I
shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little
blue cloak.”

“And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?”

“Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you
that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long—it will happen one
day or the other.”

20083m



“And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?”

“I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain
arrangements.”

“I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to
repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality
displayed to me at Monte Cristo.”

“I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure,” replied the host,
“but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability,
_incognito_.”

The supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the
unknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to
which his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or
rather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them
on the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with
a silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table
roused Franz’s curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of
greenish paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was
perfectly unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the
cup contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting
his eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment.

“You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can
you?”

“No, I really cannot.”

“Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia
which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.”

“But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through
mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human
name; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which,
to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?”

“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad;
“we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without
regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing
it. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste
this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.
Are you a man of imagination—a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of
possibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you
advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of
unfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the
greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a
king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe
like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the
universe, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you
will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not
tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is
only to do thus? look!”

At these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance
so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his
lips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent
backwards. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite
sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired:

“What, then, is this precious stuff?”

“Did you ever hear,” he replied, “of the Old Man of the Mountain, who
attempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste?”

“Of course I have.”

“Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the
mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were
magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens
isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and
there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which
transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs,
ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took
for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous,
so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave
it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck
down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing
that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life
of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a
slight foretaste.”

“Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that—by name at least.”

“That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish—the purest and
most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria,—the hashish of Abou-Gor, the
celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a
palace, inscribed with these words, _A grateful world to the dealer in
happiness_.”

“Do you know,” said Franz, “I have a very great inclination to judge
for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies.”

“Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin—judge, but do not confine yourself
to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a
fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle
in nature against this divine substance,—in nature which is not made
for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat,
the dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme,
then the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what
changes occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with
the joys of the assumed existence, that you would desire to live no
longer, but to dream thus forever. When you return to this mundane
sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan
spring for a Lapland winter—to quit paradise for earth—heaven for hell!
Taste the hashish, guest of mine—taste the hashish.”

Franz’s only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous
preparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and lift
it to his mouth.

“_Diable!_” he said, after having swallowed the divine preserve. “I do
not know if the result will be as agreeable as you describe, but the
thing does not appear to me as palatable as you say.”

“Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the
substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea,
porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did
you like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their
pheasants with assafœtida, and the Chinese eat swallows’ nests? Eh? no!
Well, it is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in
the world will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which
now appears to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the
adjoining chamber, which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us
coffee and pipes.”

They both arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad—and whom we
have occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some
title by which to distinguish him—gave some orders to the servant,
Franz entered still another apartment.

It was simply yet richly furnished. It was round, and a large divan
completely encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all covered
with magnificent skins as soft and downy as the richest carpets; there
were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, striped tiger-skins from
Bengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted beautifully, like those
that appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, fox-skins from Norway,
and so on; and all these skins were strewn in profusion one on the
other, so that it seemed like walking over the most mossy turf, or
reclining on the most luxurious bed.

Both laid themselves down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes
and amber mouthpieces were within reach, and all prepared so that there
was no need to smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them took one, which
Ali lighted and then retired to prepare the coffee.

There was a moment’s silence, during which Sinbad gave himself up to
thoughts that seemed to occupy him incessantly, even in the midst of
his conversation; and Franz abandoned himself to that mute reverie,
into which we always sink when smoking excellent tobacco, which seems
to remove with its fume all the troubles of the mind, and to give the
smoker in exchange all the visions of the soul. Ali brought in the
coffee.

“How do you take it?” inquired the unknown; “in the French or Turkish
style, strong or weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? As you please;
it is ready in all ways.”

“I will take it in the Turkish style,” replied Franz.

“And you are right,” said his host; “it shows you have a tendency for
an Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know
how to live. As for me,” he added, with one of those singular smiles
which did not escape the young man, “when I have completed my affairs
in Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me
again, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan.”

20087m



“_Ma foi_,” said Franz, “it would be the easiest thing in the world;
for I feel eagle’s wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those
wings I could make a tour of the world in four-and-twenty hours.”

“Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings,
and fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over
you; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we
are here to ease your fall.”

He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience
and withdrew, but not to any distance.

As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the
bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the
events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the
first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be
aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy
lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses
seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it
was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen
before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all
the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of
the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his
sailors,—songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a
divine harmony had their notes been taken down,—he saw the Island of
Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the
waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer,
the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose
to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or
Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city.

At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without
shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued
strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to
descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that
which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from
such perfumes as set the mind a-dreaming, and such fires as burn the
very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from
Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed
to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows
of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the
chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps
which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure.

They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy,
with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair.
They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated
courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian
angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm
shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow
before these marble wantons.

Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and
approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in
their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves,
and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which
saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which
the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that
held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a
voluptuous kiss.

It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about
him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a
dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips
of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so
that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug,
love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were
pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like
embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more
his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle
that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and
exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the
enchantment of his marvellous dream.



 Chapter 32. The Waking

When Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He
thought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity
scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he
rose to his seat, and found himself lying on his bournous in a bed of
dry heather, very soft and odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as if
the statues had been but shadows from the tomb, they had vanished at
his waking.

He advanced several paces towards the point whence the light came, and
to all the excitement of his dream succeeded the calmness of reality.
He found that he was in a grotto, went towards the opening, and through
a kind of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The air and water
were shining in the beams of the morning sun; on the shore the sailors
were sitting, chatting and laughing; and at ten yards from them the
boat was at anchor, undulating gracefully on the water.

There for some time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which played on his
brow, and listened to the dash of the waves on the beach, that left
against the rocks a lace of foam as white as silver. He was for some
time without reflection or thought for the divine charm which is in the
things of nature, specially after a fantastic dream; then gradually
this view of the outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand, reminded him
of the illusiveness of his vision, and once more awakened memory. He
recalled his arrival on the island, his presentation to a smuggler
chief, a subterranean palace full of splendor, an excellent supper, and
a spoonful of hashish.

It seemed, however, even in the very face of open day, that at least a
year had elapsed since all these things had passed, so deep was the
impression made in his mind by the dream, and so strong a hold had it
taken of his imagination. Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid
the sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the
shadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise,
his head was perfectly clear, and his body refreshed; he was free from
the slightest headache; on the contrary, he felt a certain degree of
lightness, a faculty for absorbing the pure air, and enjoying the
bright sunshine more vividly than ever.

He went gayly up to the sailors, who rose as soon as they perceived
him; and the patron, accosting him, said:

“The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and
desires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his
leave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important
business calls him to Malaga.”

“So, then, Gaetano,” said Franz, “this is, then, all reality; there
exists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right
royally, and has departed while I was asleep?”

“He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all
her sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all
probability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew.”

So saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction in which a small vessel was
making sail towards the southern point of Corsica. Franz adjusted his
telescope, and directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano was not mistaken.
At the stern the mysterious stranger was standing up looking towards
the shore, and holding a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as he
had been on the previous evening, and waved his pocket-handkerchief to
his guest in token of adieu. Franz returned the salute by shaking his
handkerchief as an exchange of signals. After a second, a slight cloud
of smoke was seen at the stern of the vessel, which rose gracefully as
it expanded in the air, and then Franz heard a slight report.

“There, do you hear?” observed Gaetano; “he is bidding you adieu.”

The young man took his carbine and fired it in the air, but without any
idea that the noise could be heard at the distance which separated the
yacht from the shore.

“What are your excellency’s orders?” inquired Gaetano.

“In the first place, light me a torch.”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” replied the patron, “to find the entrance to
the enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it
would amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too
have had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has
come over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch,”
he added, “and give it to his excellency.”

Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, and entered the subterranean
grotto, followed by Gaetano. He recognized the place where he had
awaked by the bed of heather that was there; but it was in vain that he
carried his torch all round the exterior surface of the grotto. He saw
nothing, unless that, by traces of smoke, others had before him
attempted the same thing, and, like him, in vain. Yet he did not leave
a foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without
strict scrutiny; he did not see a fissure without introducing the blade
of his hunting sword into it, or a projecting point on which he did not
lean and press in the hopes it would give way. All was vain; and he
lost two hours in his attempts, which were at last utterly useless. At
the end of this time he gave up his search, and Gaetano smiled.

When Franz appeared again on the shore, the yacht only seemed like a
small white speck on the horizon. He looked again through his glass,
but even then he could not distinguish anything.

Gaetano reminded him that he had come for the purpose of shooting
goats, which he had utterly forgotten. He took his fowling-piece, and
began to hunt over the island with the air of a man who is fulfilling a
duty, rather than enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter of
an hour he had killed a goat and two kids. These animals, though wild
and agile as chamois, were too much like domestic goats, and Franz
could not consider them as game. Moreover, other ideas, much more
enthralling, occupied his mind. Since, the evening before, he had
really been the hero of one of the tales of the _Thousand and One
Nights_, and he was irresistibly attracted towards the grotto.

Then, in spite of the failure of his first search, he began a second,
after having told Gaetano to roast one of the two kids. The second
visit was a long one, and when he returned the kid was roasted and the
repast ready. Franz was sitting on the spot where he was on the
previous evening when his mysterious host had invited him to supper;
and he saw the little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the wave,
continuing her flight towards Corsica.

“Why,” he remarked to Gaetano, “you told me that Signor Sinbad was
going to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of
Porto-Vecchio.”

“Don’t you remember,” said the patron, “I told you that among the crew
there were two Corsican brigands?”

“True; and he is going to land them,” added Franz.

“Precisely so,” replied Gaetano. “Ah, he is one who fears neither God
nor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his
course to do a poor devil a service.”

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“But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of
the country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,” said
Franz.

“And what cares he for that,” replied Gaetano with a laugh, “or any
authorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the
first place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any
frigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on
the coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere?”

It was perfectly clear that the Signor Sinbad, Franz’s host, had the
honor of being on excellent terms with the smugglers and bandits along
the whole coast of the Mediterranean, and so enjoyed exceptional
privileges. As to Franz, he had no longer any inducement to remain at
Monte Cristo. He had lost all hope of detecting the secret of the
grotto; he consequently despatched his breakfast, and, his boat being
ready, he hastened on board, and they were soon under way. At the
moment the boat began her course they lost sight of the yacht, as it
disappeared in the gulf of Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the last
trace of the preceding night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish,
statues,—all became a dream for Franz.

The boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the
sun rose, they had lost sight of Monte Cristo.

When Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment
at least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his
affairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he
should rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.

He set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane
by the mail-coach. An apartment, as we have said, had been retained
beforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini’s hotel. But
this was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with
people, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur
which precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great
events in every year,—the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the
Feast of St. Peter.

All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy,
between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station
between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of
poetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six
times, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking.

At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually
increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel.
On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to
hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that
there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his
card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan
succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for
having made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the
candlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller
and was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared.

The apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms
looked on to the street—a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as
an inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very
rich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the
host was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller
belonged.

“Very good, signor Pastrini,” said Franz; “but we must have some supper
instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.”

“As to supper,” replied the landlord, “you shall be served immediately;
but as for the carriage——”

“What as to the carriage?” exclaimed Albert. “Come, come, Signor
Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.”

“Sir,” replied the host, “we will do all in our power to procure you
one—this is all I can say.”

“And when shall we know?” inquired Franz.

“Tomorrow morning,” answered the innkeeper.

“Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly
enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common
days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast
days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and
there’s an end of it.”

“I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a
carriage.”

“Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the
journey, but that’s no matter.”

“There are no horses.”

Albert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not
understand.

“Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?” he said, “but can’t
we have post-horses?”

“They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but
those absolutely requisite for posting.”

“What are we to say to this?” asked Franz.

“I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am
accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is
supper ready, Signor Pastrini?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“Well, then, let us sup.”

“But the carriage and horses?” said Franz.

“Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a
question of how much shall be charged for them.” Morcerf then, with
that delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to
a full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept
soundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a
coach with six horses.



 Chapter 33. Roman Bandits

The next morning Franz woke first, and instantly rang the bell. The
sound had not yet died away when Signor Pastrini himself entered.

“Well, excellency,” said the landlord triumphantly, and without waiting
for Franz to question him, “I feared yesterday, when I would not
promise you anything, that you were too late—there is not a single
carriage to be had—that is, for the three last days”

“Yes,” returned Franz, “for the very three days it is most needed.”

“What is the matter?” said Albert, entering; “no carriage to be had?”

“Just so,” returned Franz, “you have guessed it.”

“Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place.”

“That is to say, excellency,” replied Pastrini, who was desirous of
keeping up the dignity of the capital of the Christian world in the
eyes of his guest, “that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday
to Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you
please.”

“Ah, that is something,” said Albert; “today is Thursday, and who knows
what may arrive between this and Sunday?”

“Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive,” replied Franz, “which
will make it still more difficult.”

“My friend,” said Morcerf, “let us enjoy the present without gloomy
forebodings for the future.”

“At least we can have a window?”

“Where?”

“In the Corso.”

“Ah, a window!” exclaimed Signor Pastrini,—“utterly impossible; there
was only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has
been let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.”

The two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction.

“Well,” said Franz to Albert, “do you know what is the best thing we
can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of
obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.”

“Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival,
and I will, though I see it on stilts.”

“Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster
pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete
success.”

“Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday
morning?”

“_Parbleu!_” said Albert, “do you think we are going to run about on
foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers’ clerks?”

“I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you
beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.”

“And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next
apartments,” said Franz, “I warn you, that as I have been four times
before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give
you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then
you will make a good profit.”

“But, excellency”—said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point.

“Now go,” returned Franz, “or I shall go myself and bargain with your
_affettatore_, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has
plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out
of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will
lose the preference, and that will be your fault.”

“Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency,” returned Signor
Pastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he
confesses defeat; “I will do all I can, and I hope you will be
satisfied.”

“And now we understand each other.”

“When do you wish the carriage to be here?”

“In an hour.”

“In an hour it will be at the door.”

An hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance
which was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the
occasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would
have thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three
days of the Carnival.

“Excellency,” cried the _cicerone_, seeing Franz approach the window,
“shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?”

Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse
was to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was
the “excellency,” the vehicle was the “carriage,” and the Hôtel de
Londres was the “palace.” The genius for laudation characteristic of
the race was in that phrase.

Franz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their
excellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the _cicerone_
sprang into the seat behind.

“Where do your excellencies wish to go?” asked he.

“To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,” returned Albert.
But Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter’s, and a
month to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter’s alone.

Suddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch—it
was half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz
ordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the
Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter’s by daylight.
When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same
pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been.

He was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall,
and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the
Colosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on
the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of
Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra.

They sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet;
he gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in
person. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and
began accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted.

“Excellency,” said Pastrini, “I am delighted to have your approbation,
but it was not for that I came.”

“Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?” asked Albert,
lighting his cigar.

“No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any
longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told
anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.”

“It is much more convenient at Paris,—when anything cannot be done, you
pay double, and it is done directly.”

“That is what all the French say,” returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat
piqued; “for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.”

“But,” said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair
on its hind legs, “only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel.
Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their
walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Café de Paris.”

It is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street,
appeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the
only restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good
terms with its waiters.

Signor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he
was musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear.

“But,” said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host’s meditations,
“you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?”

20099m



“Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?”

“I have.”

“You intend visiting _Il Colosseo_.”

“You mean the Colosseum?”

“It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by
the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the
Porta San Giovanni?”

“These are my words exactly.”

“Well, this route is impossible.”

“Impossible!”

“Very dangerous, to say the least.”

“Dangerous!—and why?”

“On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.”

“Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?” inquired Albert; “he may be
very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at
Paris.”

“What! do you not know him?”

“I have not that honor.”

“You have never heard his name?”

“Never.”

“Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the
Gasparones were mere children.”

“Now then, Albert,” cried Franz, “here is a bandit for you at last.”

“I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of
what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin. ‘Once upon
a time——’ Well, go on.”

Signor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more
reasonable of the two; we must do him justice,—he had had a great many
Frenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them.

“Excellency,” said he gravely, addressing Franz, “if you look upon me
as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your
interest I——”

“Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “but
that he will not believe what you are going to tell us,—but I will
believe all you say; so proceed.”

“But if your excellency doubt my veracity——”

“Signor Pastrini,” returned Franz, “you are more susceptible than
Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while
you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come,
sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.”

“I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had
since the days of Mastrilla.”

“Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the
coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to re-enter by
the Porta San Giovanni?”

20101m



“This,” replied Signor Pastrini, “that you will go out by one, but I
very much doubt your returning by the other.”

“Why?” asked Franz.

“Because, after nightfall, you are not safe fifty yards from the
gates.”

“On your honor, is that true?” cried Albert.

“Count,” returned Signor Pastrini, hurt at Albert’s repeated doubts of
the truth of his assertions, “I do not say this to you, but to your
companion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to
be laughed at.”

“My dear fellow,” said Albert, turning to Franz, “here is an admirable
adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and
double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him—we
bring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who
asks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a
carriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage,
and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and
proclaim us, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, the preservers of their
country.”

Whilst Albert proposed this scheme, Signor Pastrini’s face assumed an
expression impossible to describe.

“And pray,” asked Franz, “where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and
other deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage?”

“Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my
hunting-knife. And you?”

“I shared the same fate at Aquapendente.”

“Do you know, Signor Pastrini,” said Albert, lighting a second cigar at
the first, “that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that
it seems to be due to an arrangement of their own.”

Doubtless Signor Pastrini found this pleasantry compromising, for he
only answered half the question, and then he spoke to Franz, as the
only one likely to listen with attention. “Your excellency knows that
it is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits.”

“What!” cried Albert, whose courage revolted at the idea of being
plundered tamely, “not make any resistance!”

“No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits
who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces
at you?”

“Eh, _parbleu!_—they should kill me.”

The innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say, “Your
friend is decidedly mad.”

“My dear Albert,” returned Franz, “your answer is sublime, and worthy
the ‘_Let him die_,’ of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer,
the safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify
a whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a
motive.”

Albert poured himself out a glass of _lacryma Christi_, which he sipped
at intervals, muttering some unintelligible words.

“Well, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “now that my companion is quieted,
and you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this
Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman?—young or old?—tall or
short? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Jean
Sbogar or Lara, we may recognize him.”

“You could not apply to anyone better able to inform you on all these
points, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell
into his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me,
recollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a
present of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me.”

“Let us see the watch,” said Albert.

Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a magnificent Bréguet, bearing the
name of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and a count’s coronet.

“Here it is,” said he.

“_Peste!_” returned Albert, “I compliment you on it; I have its
fellow”—he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket—“and it cost me
3,000 francs.”

“Let us hear the history,” said Franz, motioning Signor Pastrini to
seat himself.

“Your excellencies permit it?” asked the host.

“_Pardieu!_” cried Albert, “you are not a preacher, to remain
standing!”

The host sat down, after having made each of them a respectful bow,
which meant that he was ready to tell them all they wished to know
concerning Luigi Vampa.

“You tell me,” said Franz, at the moment Signor Pastrini was about to
open his mouth, “that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child—he is
still a young man, then?”

“A young man? he is only two-and-twenty;—he will gain himself a
reputation.”

“What do you think of that, Albert?—at two-and-twenty to be thus
famous?”

“Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, who have all made
some noise in the world, were quite behind him.”

“So,” continued Franz, “the hero of this history is only
two-and-twenty?”

“Scarcely so much.”

“Is he tall or short?”

“Of the middle height—about the same stature as his excellency,”
returned the host, pointing to Albert.

“Thanks for the comparison,” said Albert, with a bow.

“Go on, Signor Pastrini,” continued Franz, smiling at his friend’s
susceptibility. “To what class of society does he belong?”

“He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice,
situated between Palestrina and the Lake of Gabri; he was born at
Pampinara, and entered the count’s service when he was five years old;
his father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by
the wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the
little Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he
was seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to
be taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his
flock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little
hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was
called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and
that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be
short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child
accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road
that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the
morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and
the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At
the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough—he
must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make
three alphabets—one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out
to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the
letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the
flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at
Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a
sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of
slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write.
The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a
present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but
nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well
with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to
the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him
read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with
the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi
purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to
everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep,
houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of
objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had
commenced.

20105m



“A girl of six or seven—that is, a little younger than Vampa—tended
sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone
and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other,
let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed
together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock
from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their
respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they
kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and
Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself.
Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as
he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness
and enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic.
None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able
to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His
disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make
them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a
look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded
beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might
have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and
gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received
every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of
all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in
ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her
friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired
peasant near Rome.

“The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each
other, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different
characters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their
conversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an
army, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly
attired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they
had thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated
their flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the
reality of their humble position.

“One day the young shepherd told the count’s steward that he had seen a
wolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The
steward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an
excellent barrel, made at Brescia, and carrying a ball with the
precision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock,
and had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a
sculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what
change it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a
fresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen
or twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be
farther from his thoughts.

“For a long time a gun had been the young man’s greatest ambition. In
every country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the
first desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once
renders him capable of defence or attack, and, by rendering its owner
terrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all
his leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious
weapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a
mark—the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the
Sabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding
excursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon
became so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at
the report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever
he pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand.

20107m



“One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood near which they were
usually stationed, but the wolf had scarcely advanced ten yards ere he
was dead. Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the dead animal on his
shoulders, and carried him to the farm. These exploits had gained Luigi
considerable reputation. The man of superior abilities always finds
admirers, go where he will. He was spoken of as the most adroit, the
strongest, and the most courageous _contadino_ for ten leagues around;
and although Teresa was universally allowed to be the most beautiful
girl of the Sabines, no one had ever spoken to her of love, because it
was known that she was beloved by Vampa. And yet the two young people
had never declared their affection; they had grown together like two
trees whose roots are mingled, whose branches intertwined, and whose
intermingled perfume rises to the heavens. Only their wish to see each
other had become a necessity, and they would have preferred death to a
day’s separation.

“Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this time, a band of
brigands that had established itself in the Lepini mountains began to
be much spoken of. The brigands have never been really extirpated from
the neighborhood of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but when a chief
presents himself he rarely has to wait long for a band of followers.

“The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in the Abruzzo, driven out of the
kingdom of Naples, where he had carried on a regular war, had crossed
the Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken refuge on the banks of the
Amasine between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove to collect a band of
followers, and followed the footsteps of Decesaris and Gasparone, whom
he hoped to surpass. Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, and
Pampinara had disappeared. Their disappearance at first caused much
disquietude; but it was soon known that they had joined Cucumetto.
After some time Cucumetto became the object of universal attention; the
most extraordinary traits of ferocious daring and brutality were
related of him.

“One day he carried off a young girl, the daughter of a surveyor of
Frosinone. The bandit’s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first
to him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is
abandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings. When
their parents are sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a messenger is
sent to negotiate; the prisoner is hostage for the security of the
messenger; should the ransom be refused, the prisoner is irrevocably
lost. The young girl’s lover was in Cucumetto’s troop; his name was
Carlini. When she recognized her lover, the poor girl extended her arms
to him, and believed herself safe; but Carlini felt his heart sink, for
he but too well knew the fate that awaited her. However, as he was a
favorite with Cucumetto, as he had for three years faithfully served
him, and as he had saved his life by shooting a dragoon who was about
to cut him down, he hoped the chief would have pity on him. He took
Cucumetto one side, while the young girl, seated at the foot of a huge
pine that stood in the centre of the forest, made a veil of her
picturesque head-dress to hide her face from the lascivious gaze of the
bandits. There he told the chief all—his affection for the prisoner,
their promises of mutual fidelity, and how every night, since he had
been near, they had met in some neighboring ruins.

20109m



“It so happened that night that Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a
village, so that he had been unable to go to the place of meeting.
Cucumetto had been there, however, by accident, as he said, and had
carried the maiden off. Carlini besought his chief to make an exception
in Rita’s favor, as her father was rich, and could pay a large ransom.
Cucumetto seemed to yield to his friend’s entreaties, and bade him find
a shepherd to send to Rita’s father at Frosinone.

“Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling her she was saved, and bidding
her write to her father, to inform him what had occurred, and that her
ransom was fixed at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours’ delay was all
that was granted—that is, until nine the next morning. The instant the
letter was written, Carlini seized it, and hastened to the plain to
find a messenger. He found a young shepherd watching his flock. The
natural messengers of the bandits are the shepherds who live between
the city and the mountains, between civilized and savage life. The boy
undertook the commission, promising to be in Frosinone in less than an
hour. Carlini returned, anxious to see his mistress, and announce the
joyful intelligence. He found the troop in the glade, supping off the
provisions exacted as contributions from the peasants; but his eye
vainly sought Rita and Cucumetto among them.

“He inquired where they were, and was answered by a burst of laughter.
A cold perspiration burst from every pore, and his hair stood on end.
He repeated his question. One of the bandits rose, and offered him a
glass filled with Orvietto, saying, ‘To the health of the brave
Cucumetto and the fair Rita.’ At this moment Carlini heard a woman’s
cry; he divined the truth, seized the glass, broke it across the face
of him who presented it, and rushed towards the spot whence the cry
came. After a hundred yards he turned the corner of the thicket; he
found Rita senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini,
Cucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. The two brigands looked at each
other for a moment—the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips,
the other with the pallor of death on his brow. A terrible battle
between the two men seemed imminent; but by degrees Carlini’s features
relaxed, his hand, which had grasped one of the pistols in his belt,
fell to his side. Rita lay between them. The moon lighted the group.

“‘Well,’ said Cucumetto, ‘have you executed your commission?’

“‘Yes, captain,’ returned Carlini. ‘At nine o’clock tomorrow Rita’s
father will be here with the money.’

“‘It is well; in the meantime, we will have a merry night; this young
girl is charming, and does credit to your taste. Now, as I am not
egotistical, we will return to our comrades and draw lots for her.’

“‘You have determined, then, to abandon her to the common law?’ said
Carlini.

“‘Why should an exception be made in her favor?’

“‘I thought that my entreaties——’

“‘What right have you, any more than the rest, to ask for an
exception?’

“‘It is true.’

“‘But never mind,’ continued Cucumetto, laughing, ‘sooner or later your
turn will come.’ Carlini’s teeth clenched convulsively.

“‘Now, then,’ said Cucumetto, advancing towards the other bandits, ‘are
you coming?’

“‘I follow you.’

20111m



“Cucumetto departed, without losing sight of Carlini, for, doubtless,
he feared lest he should strike him unawares; but nothing betrayed a
hostile design on Carlini’s part. He was standing, his arms folded,
near Rita, who was still insensible. Cucumetto fancied for a moment the
young man was about to take her in his arms and fly; but this mattered
little to him now Rita had been his; and as for the money, three
hundred piastres distributed among the band was so small a sum that he
cared little about it. He continued to follow the path to the glade;
but, to his great surprise, Carlini arrived almost as soon as himself.

“‘Let us draw lots! let us draw lots!’ cried all the brigands, when
they saw the chief.

“Their demand was fair, and the chief inclined his head in sign of
acquiescence. The eyes of all shone fiercely as they made their demand,
and the red light of the fire made them look like demons. The names of
all, including Carlini, were placed in a hat, and the youngest of the
band drew forth a ticket; the ticket bore the name of Diavolaccio. He
was the man who had proposed to Carlini the health of their chief, and
to whom Carlini replied by breaking the glass across his face. A large
wound, extending from the temple to the mouth, was bleeding profusely.
Diavolaccio, seeing himself thus favored by fortune, burst into a loud
laugh.

“‘Captain,’ said he, ‘just now Carlini would not drink your health when
I proposed it to him; propose mine to him, and let us see if he will be
more condescending to you than to me.’

“Everyone expected an explosion on Carlini’s part; but to their great
surprise, he took a glass in one hand and a flask in the other, and
filling it,—

“‘Your health, Diavolaccio,’ said he calmly, and he drank it off,
without his hand trembling in the least. Then sitting down by the fire,
‘My supper,’ said he; ‘my expedition has given me an appetite.’

“‘Well done, Carlini!’ cried the brigands; ‘that is acting like a good
fellow;’ and they all formed a circle round the fire, while Diavolaccio
disappeared.

“Carlini ate and drank as if nothing had happened. The bandits looked
on with astonishment at this singular conduct until they heard
footsteps. They turned round, and saw Diavolaccio bearing the young
girl in his arms. Her head hung back, and her long hair swept the
ground. As they entered the circle, the bandits could perceive, by the
firelight, the unearthly pallor of the young girl and of Diavolaccio.
This apparition was so strange and so solemn, that everyone rose, with
the exception of Carlini, who remained seated, and ate and drank
calmly. Diavolaccio advanced amidst the most profound silence, and laid
Rita at the captain’s feet. Then everyone could understand the cause of
the unearthly pallor in the young girl and the bandit. A knife was
plunged up to the hilt in Rita’s left breast. Everyone looked at
Carlini; the sheath at his belt was empty.

“‘Ah, ah,’ said the chief, ‘I now understand why Carlini stayed
behind.’

“All savage natures appreciate a desperate deed. No other of the
bandits would, perhaps, have done the same; but they all understood
what Carlini had done.

“‘Now, then,’ cried Carlini, rising in his turn, and approaching the
corpse, his hand on the butt of one of his pistols, ‘does anyone
dispute the possession of this woman with me?’

“‘No,’ returned the chief, ‘she is thine.’

“Carlini raised her in his arms, and carried her out of the circle of
firelight. Cucumetto placed his sentinels for the night, and the
bandits wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay down before the
fire. At midnight the sentinel gave the alarm, and in an instant all
were on the alert. It was Rita’s father, who brought his daughter’s
ransom in person.

“‘Here,’ said he, to Cucumetto, ‘here are three hundred piastres; give
me back my child.

“But the chief, without taking the money, made a sign to him to follow.
The old man obeyed. They both advanced beneath the trees, through whose
branches streamed the moonlight. Cucumetto stopped at last, and pointed
to two persons grouped at the foot of a tree.

“‘There,’ said he, ‘demand thy child of Carlini; he will tell thee what
has become of her;’ and he returned to his companions.

“The old man remained motionless; he felt that some great and
unforeseen misfortune hung over his head. At length he advanced toward
the group, the meaning of which he could not comprehend. As he
approached, Carlini raised his head, and the forms of two persons
became visible to the old man’s eyes. A woman lay on the ground, her
head resting on the knees of a man, who was seated by her; as he raised
his head, the woman’s face became visible. The old man recognized his
child, and Carlini recognized the old man.

“‘I expected thee,’ said the bandit to Rita’s father.

“‘Wretch!’ returned the old man, ‘what hast thou done?’ and he gazed
with terror on Rita, pale and bloody, a knife buried in her bosom. A
ray of moonlight poured through the trees, and lighted up the face of
the dead.

“‘Cucumetto had violated thy daughter,’ said the bandit; ‘I loved her,
therefore I slew her; for she would have served as the sport of the
whole band.’ The old man spoke not, and grew pale as death. ‘Now,’
continued Carlini, ‘if I have done wrongly, avenge her;’ and
withdrawing the knife from the wound in Rita’s bosom, he held it out to
the old man with one hand, while with the other he tore open his vest.

“‘Thou hast done well!’ returned the old man in a hoarse voice;
‘embrace me, my son.’

20115m



Carlini threw himself, sobbing like a child, into the arms of his
mistress’s father. These were the first tears the man of blood had ever
wept.

“‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘aid me to bury my child.’ Carlini fetched
two pickaxes; and the father and the lover began to dig at the foot of
a huge oak, beneath which the young girl was to repose. When the grave
was formed, the father embraced her first, and then the lover;
afterwards, one taking the head, the other the feet, they placed her in
the grave. Then they knelt on each side of the grave, and said the
prayers of the dead. Then, when they had finished, they cast the earth
over the corpse, until the grave was filled. Then, extending his hand,
the old man said; ‘I thank you, my son; and now leave me alone.’

“‘Yet——’ replied Carlini.

“‘Leave me, I command you.’

“Carlini obeyed, rejoined his comrades, folded himself in his cloak,
and soon appeared to sleep as soundly as the rest. It had been resolved
the night before to change their encampment. An hour before daybreak,
Cucumetto aroused his men, and gave the word to march. But Carlini
would not quit the forest, without knowing what had become of Rita’s
father. He went toward the place where he had left him. He found the
old man suspended from one of the branches of the oak which shaded his
daughter’s grave. He then took an oath of bitter vengeance over the
dead body of the one and the tomb of the other. But he was unable to
complete this oath, for two days afterwards, in an encounter with the
Roman carbineers, Carlini was killed. There was some surprise, however,
that, as he was with his face to the enemy, he should have received a
ball between his shoulders. That astonishment ceased when one of the
brigands remarked to his comrades that Cucumetto was stationed ten
paces in Carlini’s rear when he fell. On the morning of the departure
from the forest of Frosinone he had followed Carlini in the darkness,
and heard this oath of vengeance, and, like a wise man, anticipated it.

“They told ten other stories of this bandit chief, each more singular
than the other. Thus, from Fondi to Perusia, everyone trembles at the
name of Cucumetto.

“These narratives were frequently the theme of conversation between
Luigi and Teresa. The young girl trembled very much at hearing the
stories; but Vampa reassured her with a smile, tapping the butt of his
good fowling-piece, which threw its ball so well; and if that did not
restore her courage, he pointed to a crow, perched on some dead branch,
took aim, touched the trigger, and the bird fell dead at the foot of
the tree. Time passed on, and the two young people had agreed to be
married when Vampa should be twenty and Teresa nineteen years of age.
They were both orphans, and had only their employers’ leave to ask,
which had been already sought and obtained. One day when they were
talking over their plans for the future, they heard two or three
reports of firearms, and then suddenly a man came out of the wood, near
which the two young persons used to graze their flocks, and hurried
towards them. When he came within hearing, he exclaimed:

‘I am pursued; can you conceal me?’

“They knew full well that this fugitive must be a bandit; but there is
an innate sympathy between the Roman brigand and the Roman peasant and
the latter is always ready to aid the former. Vampa, without saying a
word, hastened to the stone that closed up the entrance to their
grotto, drew it away, made a sign to the fugitive to take refuge there,
in a retreat unknown to everyone, closed the stone upon him, and then
went and resumed his seat by Teresa. Instantly afterwards four
carbineers, on horseback, appeared on the edge of the wood; three of
them appeared to be looking for the fugitive, while the fourth dragged
a brigand prisoner by the neck. The three carbineers looked about
carefully on every side, saw the young peasants, and galloping up,
began to question them. They had seen no one.

“‘That is very annoying,’ said the brigadier; for the man we are
looking for is the chief.’

“‘Cucumetto?’ cried Luigi and Teresa at the same moment.

“‘Yes,’ replied the brigadier; ‘and as his head is valued at a thousand
Roman crowns, there would have been five hundred for you, if you had
helped us to catch him.’ The two young persons exchanged looks. The
brigadier had a moment’s hope. Five hundred Roman crowns are three
thousand lire, and three thousand lire are a fortune for two poor
orphans who are going to be married.

“‘Yes, it is very annoying,’ said Vampa; ‘but we have not seen him.’

“Then the carbineers scoured the country in different directions, but
in vain; then, after a time, they disappeared. Vampa then removed the
stone, and Cucumetto came out. Through the crevices in the granite he
had seen the two young peasants talking with the carbineers, and
guessed the subject of their parley. He had read in the countenances of
Luigi and Teresa their steadfast resolution not to surrender him, and
he drew from his pocket a purse full of gold, which he offered to them.
But Vampa raised his head proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes sparkled when
she thought of all the fine gowns and gay jewellery she could buy with
this purse of gold.

“Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had assumed the form of a brigand
instead of a serpent, and this look from Teresa showed to him that she
was a worthy daughter of Eve, and he returned to the forest, pausing
several times on his way, under the pretext of saluting his protectors.

“Several days elapsed, and they neither saw nor heard of Cucumetto. The
time of the Carnival was at hand. The Count of San-Felice announced a
grand masked ball, to which all that were distinguished in Rome were
invited. Teresa had a great desire to see this ball. Luigi asked
permission of his protector, the steward, that she and he might be
present amongst the servants of the house. This was granted. The ball
was given by the Count for the particular pleasure of his daughter
Carmela, whom he adored. Carmela was precisely the age and figure of
Teresa, and Teresa was as handsome as Carmela. On the evening of the
ball Teresa was attired in her best, her most brilliant ornaments in
her hair, and gayest glass beads,—she was in the costume of the women
of Frascati. Luigi wore the very picturesque garb of the Roman peasant
at holiday time. They both mingled, as they had leave to do, with the
servants and peasants.

“The _festa_ was magnificent; not only was the villa brilliantly
illuminated, but thousands of colored lanterns were suspended from the
trees in the garden; and very soon the palace overflowed to the
terraces, and the terraces to the garden-walks. At each cross-path was
an orchestra, and tables spread with refreshments; the guests stopped,
formed quadrilles, and danced in any part of the grounds they pleased.
Carmela was attired like a woman of Sonnino. Her cap was embroidered
with pearls, the pins in her hair were of gold and diamonds, her girdle
was of Turkey silk, with large embroidered flowers, her bodice and
skirt were of cashmere, her apron of Indian muslin, and the buttons of
her corset were of jewels. Two of her companions were dressed, the one
as a woman of Nettuno, and the other as a woman of La Riccia. Four
young men of the richest and noblest families of Rome accompanied them
with that Italian freedom which has not its parallel in any other
country in the world. They were attired as peasants of Albano,
Velletri, Civita-Castellana, and Sora. We need hardly add that these
peasant costumes, like those of the young women, were brilliant with
gold and jewels.

“Carmela wished to form a quadrille, but there was one lady wanting.
Carmela looked all around her, but not one of the guests had a costume
similar to her own, or those of her companions. The Count of San-Felice
pointed out Teresa, who was hanging on Luigi’s arm in a group of
peasants.

“‘Will you allow me, father?’ said Carmela.

“‘Certainly,’ replied the count, ‘are we not in Carnival time?’

“Carmela turned towards the young man who was talking with her, and
saying a few words to him, pointed with her finger to Teresa. The young
man looked, bowed in obedience, and then went to Teresa, and invited
her to dance in a quadrille directed by the count’s daughter. Teresa
felt a flush pass over her face; she looked at Luigi, who could not
refuse his assent. Luigi slowly relinquished Teresa’s arm, which he had
held beneath his own, and Teresa, accompanied by her elegant cavalier,
took her appointed place with much agitation in the aristocratic
quadrille. Certainly, in the eyes of an artist, the exact and strict
costume of Teresa had a very different character from that of Carmela
and her companions; and Teresa was frivolous and coquettish, and thus
the embroidery and muslins, the cashmere waist-girdles, all dazzled
her, and the reflection of sapphires and diamonds almost turned her
giddy brain.

“Luigi felt a sensation hitherto unknown arising in his mind. It was
like an acute pain which gnawed at his heart, and then thrilled through
his whole body. He followed with his eye each movement of Teresa and
her cavalier; when their hands touched, he felt as though he should
swoon; every pulse beat with violence, and it seemed as though a bell
were ringing in his ears. When they spoke, although Teresa listened
timidly and with downcast eyes to the conversation of her cavalier, as
Luigi could read in the ardent looks of the good-looking young man that
his language was that of praise, it seemed as if the whole world was
turning round with him, and all the voices of hell were whispering in
his ears ideas of murder and assassination. Then fearing that his
paroxysm might get the better of him, he clutched with one hand the
branch of a tree against which he was leaning, and with the other
convulsively grasped the dagger with a carved handle which was in his
belt, and which, unwittingly, he drew from the scabbard from time to
time.

“Luigi was jealous!

“He felt that, influenced by her ambitions and coquettish disposition,
Teresa might escape him.

“The young peasant girl, at first timid and scared, soon recovered
herself. We have said that Teresa was handsome, but this is not all;
Teresa was endowed with all those wild graces which are so much more
potent than our affected and studied elegancies. She had almost all the
honors of the quadrille, and if she were envious of the Count of
San-Felice’s daughter, we will not undertake to say that Carmela was
not jealous of her. And with overpowering compliments her handsome
cavalier led her back to the place whence he had taken her, and where
Luigi awaited her. Twice or thrice during the dance the young girl had
glanced at Luigi, and each time she saw that he was pale and that his
features were agitated, once even the blade of his knife, half drawn
from its sheath, had dazzled her eyes with its sinister glare. Thus, it
was almost tremblingly that she resumed her lover’s arm. The quadrille
had been most perfect, and it was evident there was a great demand for
a repetition, Carmela alone objecting to it, but the Count of
San-Felice besought his daughter so earnestly, that she acceded.

“One of the cavaliers then hastened to invite Teresa, without whom it
was impossible for the quadrille to be formed, but the young girl had
disappeared.

“The truth was, that Luigi had not felt the strength to support another
such trial, and, half by persuasion and half by force, he had removed
Teresa toward another part of the garden. Teresa had yielded in spite
of herself, but when she looked at the agitated countenance of the
young man, she understood by his silence and trembling voice that
something strange was passing within him. She herself was not exempt
from internal emotion, and without having done anything wrong, yet
fully comprehended that Luigi was right in reproaching her. Why, she
did not know, but yet she did not the less feel that these reproaches
were merited.

“However, to Teresa’s great astonishment, Luigi remained mute, and not
a word escaped his lips the rest of the evening. When the chill of the
night had driven away the guests from the gardens, and the gates of the
villa were closed on them for the _festa_ in-doors, he took Teresa
quite away, and as he left her at her home, he said:

“‘Teresa, what were you thinking of as you danced opposite the young
Countess of San-Felice?’

“‘I thought,’ replied the young girl, with all the frankness of her
nature, ‘that I would give half my life for a costume such as she
wore.’

“‘And what said your cavalier to you?’

“‘He said it only depended on myself to have it, and I had only one
word to say.’

“‘He was right,’ said Luigi. ‘Do you desire it as ardently as you say?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well, then, you shall have it!’

“The young girl, much astonished, raised her head to look at him, but
his face was so gloomy and terrible that her words froze to her lips.
As Luigi spoke thus, he left her. Teresa followed him with her eyes
into the darkness as long as she could, and when he had quite
disappeared, she went into the house with a sigh.

20121m



“That night a memorable event occurred, due, no doubt, to the
imprudence of some servant who had neglected to extinguish the lights.
The Villa of San-Felice took fire in the rooms adjoining the very
apartment of the lovely Carmela. Awakened in the night by the light of
the flames, she sprang out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown,
and attempted to escape by the door, but the corridor by which she
hoped to fly was already a prey to the flames. She then returned to her
room, calling for help as loudly as she could, when suddenly her
window, which was twenty feet from the ground, was opened, a young
peasant jumped into the chamber, seized her in his arms, and with
superhuman skill and strength conveyed her to the turf of the
grass-plot, where she fainted. When she recovered, her father was by
her side. All the servants surrounded her, offering her assistance. An
entire wing of the villa was burnt down; but what of that, as long as
Carmela was safe and uninjured?

“Her preserver was everywhere sought for, but he did not appear; he was
inquired after, but no one had seen him. Carmela was greatly troubled
that she had not recognized him.

“As the count was immensely rich, excepting the danger Carmela had
run,—and the marvellous manner in which she had escaped, made that
appear to him rather a favor of Providence than a real misfortune,—the
loss occasioned by the conflagration was to him but a trifle.

“The next day, at the usual hour, the two young peasants were on the
borders of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He came toward Teresa in
high spirits, and seemed to have completely forgotten the events of the
previous evening. The young girl was very pensive, but seeing Luigi so
cheerful, she on her part assumed a smiling air, which was natural to
her when she was not excited or in a passion.

“Luigi took her arm beneath his own, and led her to the door of the
grotto. Then he paused. The young girl, perceiving that there was
something extraordinary, looked at him steadfastly.

“‘Teresa,’ said Luigi, ‘yesterday evening you told me you would give
all the world to have a costume similar to that of the count’s
daughter.’

“‘Yes,’ replied Teresa with astonishment; ‘but I was mad to utter such
a wish.’

“‘And I replied, “Very well, you shall have it.”’

“‘Yes,’ replied the young girl, whose astonishment increased at every
word uttered by Luigi, ‘but of course your reply was only to please
me.’

“‘I have promised no more than I have given you, Teresa,’ said Luigi
proudly. ‘Go into the grotto and dress yourself.’

“At these words he drew away the stone, and showed Teresa the grotto,
lighted up by two wax lights, which burnt on each side of a splendid
mirror; on a rustic table, made by Luigi, were spread out the pearl
necklace and the diamond pins, and on a chair at the side was laid the
rest of the costume.

“Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and, without inquiring whence this attire
came, or even thanking Luigi, darted into the grotto, transformed into
a dressing-room.

“Luigi pushed the stone behind her, for on the crest of a small
adjacent hill which cut off the view toward Palestrina, he saw a
traveller on horseback, stopping a moment, as if uncertain of his road,
and thus presenting against the blue sky that perfect outline which is
peculiar to distant objects in southern climes. When he saw Luigi, he
put his horse into a gallop and advanced toward him.

“Luigi was not mistaken. The traveller, who was going from Palestrina
to Tivoli, had mistaken his way; the young man directed him; but as at
a distance of a quarter of a mile the road again divided into three
ways, and on reaching these the traveller might again stray from his
route, he begged Luigi to be his guide.

“Luigi threw his cloak on the ground, placed his carbine on his
shoulder, and freed from his heavy covering, preceded the traveller
with the rapid step of a mountaineer, which a horse can scarcely keep
up with. In ten minutes Luigi and the traveller reached the
cross-roads. On arriving there, with an air as majestic as that of an
emperor, he stretched his hand towards that one of the roads which the
traveller was to follow.

“‘That is your road, excellency, and now you cannot again mistake.’

“‘And here is your recompense,’ said the traveller, offering the young
herdsman some small pieces of money.

“‘Thank you,’ said Luigi, drawing back his hand; ‘I render a service, I
do not sell it.’

“‘Well,’ replied the traveller, who seemed used to this difference
between the servility of a man of the cities and the pride of the
mountaineer, ‘if you refuse wages, you will, perhaps, accept a gift.’

“‘Ah, yes, that is another thing.’

“‘Then,’ said the traveller, ‘take these two Venetian sequins and give
them to your bride, to make herself a pair of earrings.’

“‘And then do you take this poniard,’ said the young herdsman; ‘you
will not find one better carved between Albano and Civita-Castellana.’

“‘I accept it,’ answered the traveller, ‘but then the obligation will
be on my side, for this poniard is worth more than two sequins.’

“‘For a dealer perhaps; but for me, who engraved it myself, it is
hardly worth a piastre.’

“‘What is your name?’ inquired the traveller.

“‘Luigi Vampa,’ replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would
have replied, Alexander, King of Macedon. ‘And yours?’

“‘I,’ said the traveller, ‘am called Sinbad the Sailor.’”

Franz d’Épinay started with surprise.

“Sinbad the Sailor?” he said.

“Yes,” replied the narrator; “that was the name which the traveller
gave to Vampa as his own.”

“Well, and what may you have to say against this name?” inquired
Albert; “it is a very pretty name, and the adventures of the gentleman
of that name amused me very much in my youth, I must confess.”

Franz said no more. The name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may well be
supposed, awakened in him a world of recollections, as had the name of
the Count of Monte Cristo on the previous evening.

“Proceed!” said he to the host.

“Vampa put the two sequins haughtily into his pocket, and slowly
returned by the way he had gone. As he came within two or three hundred
paces of the grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He listened to know
whence this sound could proceed. A moment afterwards he thought he
heard his own name pronounced distinctly.

“The cry proceeded from the grotto. He bounded like a chamois, cocking
his carbine as he went, and in a moment reached the summit of a hill
opposite to that on which he had perceived the traveller. Three cries
for help came more distinctly to his ear. He cast his eyes around him
and saw a man carrying off Teresa, as Nessus, the centaur, carried
Deianira.

“This man, who was hastening towards the wood, was already
three-quarters of the way on the road from the grotto to the forest.
Vampa measured the distance; the man was at least two hundred paces in
advance of him, and there was not a chance of overtaking him. The young
shepherd stopped, as if his feet had been rooted to the ground; then he
put the butt of his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at the ravisher,
followed him for a second in his track, and then fired.

“The ravisher stopped suddenly, his knees bent under him, and he fell
with Teresa in his arms. The young girl rose instantly, but the man lay
on the earth struggling in the agonies of death. Vampa then rushed
towards Teresa; for at ten paces from the dying man her legs had failed
her, and she had dropped on her knees, so that the young man feared
that the ball that had brought down his enemy, had also wounded his
betrothed.

“Fortunately, she was unscathed, and it was fright alone that had
overcome Teresa. When Luigi had assured himself that she was safe and
unharmed, he turned towards the wounded man. He had just expired, with
clenched hands, his mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair on end in
the sweat of death. His eyes remained open and menacing. Vampa
approached the corpse, and recognized Cucumetto.

“From the day on which the bandit had been saved by the two young
peasants, he had been enamoured of Teresa, and had sworn she should be
his. From that time he had watched them, and profiting by the moment
when her lover had left her alone, had carried her off, and believed he
at length had her in his power, when the ball, directed by the unerring
skill of the young herdsman, had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on him
for a moment without betraying the slightest emotion; while, on the
contrary, Teresa, shuddering in every limb, dared not approach the
slain ruffian but by degrees, and threw a hesitating glance at the dead
body over the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly Vampa turned toward his
mistress:

“‘Ah,’ said he—‘good, good! You are dressed; it is now my turn to dress
myself.’

20125m



“Teresa was clothed from head to foot in the garb of the Count of
San-Felice’s daughter. Vampa took Cucumetto’s body in his arms and
conveyed it to the grotto, while in her turn Teresa remained outside.
If a second traveller had passed, he would have seen a strange thing,—a
shepherdess watching her flock, clad in a cashmere grown, with
ear-rings and necklace of pearls, diamond pins, and buttons of
sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. He would, no doubt, have believed that
he had returned to the times of Florian, and would have declared, on
reaching Paris, that he had met an Alpine shepherdess seated at the
foot of the Sabine Hill.

“At the end of a quarter of an hour Vampa quitted the grotto; his
costume was no less elegant than that of Teresa. He wore a vest of
garnet-colored velvet, with buttons of cut gold; a silk waistcoat
covered with embroidery; a Roman scarf tied round his neck; a
cartridge-box worked with gold, and red and green silk; sky-blue velvet
breeches, fastened above the knee with diamond buckles; garters of
deerskin, worked with a thousand arabesques, and a hat whereon hung
ribbons of all colors; two watches hung from his girdle, and a splendid
poniard was in his belt.

“Teresa uttered a cry of admiration. Vampa in this attire resembled a
painting by Léopold Robert or Schnetz. He had assumed the entire
costume of Cucumetto. The young man saw the effect produced on his
betrothed, and a smile of pride passed over his lips.

“‘Now,’ he said to Teresa, ‘are you ready to share my fortune, whatever
it may be?’

“‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed the young girl enthusiastically.

“‘And follow me wherever I go?’

“‘To the world’s end.’

“‘Then take my arm, and let us on; we have no time to lose.’

“The young girl did so without questioning her lover as to where he was
conducting her, for he appeared to her at this moment as handsome,
proud, and powerful as a god. They went towards the forest, and soon
entered it.

“We need scarcely say that all the paths of the mountain were known to
Vampa; he therefore went forward without a moment’s hesitation,
although there was no beaten track, but he knew his path by looking at
the trees and bushes, and thus they kept on advancing for nearly an
hour and a half. At the end of this time they had reached the thickest
part of the forest. A torrent, whose bed was dry, led into a deep
gorge. Vampa took this wild road, which, enclosed between two ridges,
and shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the pines, seemed, but for the
difficulties of its descent, that path to Avernus of which Virgil
speaks. Teresa had become alarmed at the wild and deserted look of the
plain around her, and pressed closely against her guide, not uttering a
syllable; but as she saw him advance with even step and composed
countenance, she endeavored to repress her emotion.

“Suddenly, about ten paces from them, a man advanced from behind a tree
and aimed at Vampa.

“‘Not another step,’ he said, ‘or you are a dead man.’

“‘What, then,’ said Vampa, raising his hand with a gesture of disdain,
while Teresa, no longer able to restrain her alarm, clung closely to
him, ‘do wolves rend each other?’

“‘Who are you?’ inquired the sentinel.

“‘I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice farm.’

“‘What do you want?’

“‘I would speak with your companions who are in the glade at Rocca
Bianca.’

“‘Follow me, then,’ said the sentinel; ‘or, as you know your way, go
first.’

“Vampa smiled disdainfully at this precaution on the part of the
bandit, went before Teresa, and continued to advance with the same firm
and easy step as before. At the end of ten minutes the bandit made them
a sign to stop. The two young persons obeyed. Then the bandit thrice
imitated the cry of a crow; a croak answered this signal.

“‘Good!’ said the sentry, ‘you may now go on.’

“Luigi and Teresa again set forward; as they went on Teresa clung
tremblingly to her lover at the sight of weapons and the glistening of
carbines through the trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was at the top
of a small mountain, which no doubt in former days had been a
volcano—an extinct volcano before the days when Remus and Romulus had
deserted Alba to come and found the city of Rome.

“Teresa and Luigi reached the summit, and all at once found themselves
in the presence of twenty bandits.

“‘Here is a young man who seeks and wishes to speak to you,’ said the
sentinel.

“‘What has he to say?’ inquired the young man who was in command in the
chief’s absence.

“‘I wish to say that I am tired of a shepherd’s life,’ was Vampa’s
reply.

“‘Ah, I understand,’ said the lieutenant; ‘and you seek admittance into
our ranks?’

“‘Welcome!’ cried several bandits from Ferrusino, Pampinara, and
Anagni, who had recognized Luigi Vampa.

“‘Yes, but I came to ask something more than to be your companion.’

“‘And what may that be?’ inquired the bandits with astonishment.

“‘I come to ask to be your captain,’ said the young man.

“The bandits shouted with laughter.

“‘And what have you done to aspire to this honor?’ demanded the
lieutenant.

“‘I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I
set fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my
betrothed.’

“An hour afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen captain, vice Cucumetto,
deceased.”

20129m



“Well, my dear Albert,” said Franz, turning towards his friend; “what
think you of citizen Luigi Vampa?”

“I say he is a myth,” replied Albert, “and never had an existence.”

“And what may a myth be?” inquired Pastrini.

“The explanation would be too long, my dear landlord,” replied Franz.

“And you say that Signor Vampa exercises his profession at this moment
in the environs of Rome?”

“And with a boldness of which no bandit before him ever gave an
example.”

“Then the police have vainly tried to lay hands on him?”

“Why, you see, he has a good understanding with the shepherds in the
plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and the smugglers of the coast.
They seek for him in the mountains, and he is on the waters; they
follow him on the waters, and he is on the open sea; then they pursue
him, and he has suddenly taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio,
Giannutri, or Monte Cristo; and when they hunt for him there, he
reappears suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La Riccia.”

“And how does he behave towards travellers?”

“Alas! his plan is very simple. It depends on the distance he may be
from the city, whether he gives eight hours, twelve hours, or a day
wherein to pay their ransom; and when that time has elapsed he allows
another hour’s grace. At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money
is not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner’s brains with a
pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the
account.”

“Well, Albert,” inquired Franz of his companion, “are you still
disposed to go to the Colosseum by the outer wall?”

“Quite so,” said Albert, “if the way be picturesque.”

The clock struck nine as the door opened, and a coachman appeared.

“Excellencies,” said he, “the coach is ready.”

“Well, then,” said Franz, “let us to the Colosseum.”

“By the Porta del Popolo or by the streets, your excellencies?”

“By the streets, _morbleu!_ by the streets!” cried Franz.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Albert, rising, and lighting his third
cigar, “really, I thought you had more courage.”

So saying, the two young men went down the staircase, and got into the
carriage.

20131m




 Chapter 34. The Colosseum

Franz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the Colosseum
they passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no preliminary
impression interfered to mitigate the colossal proportions of the
gigantic building they came to admire. The road selected was a
continuation of the Via Sistina; then by cutting off the right angle of
the street in which stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the
Via Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find
themselves directly opposite the Colosseum.

This itinerary possessed another great advantage,—that of leaving Franz
at full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject of Signor
Pastrini’s story, in which his mysterious host of Monte Cristo was so
strangely mixed up. Seated with folded arms in a corner of the
carriage, he continued to ponder over the singular history he had so
lately listened to, and to ask himself an interminable number of
questions touching its various circumstances without, however, arriving
at a satisfactory reply to any of them.

One fact more than the rest brought his friend “Sinbad the Sailor” back
to his recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy that
seemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors; and Pastrini’s
account of Vampa’s having found refuge on board the vessels of
smugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits he
had found supping so amicably with the crew of the little yacht, which
had even deviated from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the
sole purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host of
Monte Cristo and again repeated by the landlord of the Hôtel de
Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island friend was playing
his philanthropic part on the shores of Piombino, Civita Vecchia,
Ostia, and Gaëta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and
further, Franz bethought him of having heard his singular entertainer
speak both of Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle
of acquaintances extended.

But however the mind of the young man might be absorbed in these
reflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight of the dark
frowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum, through the various
openings of which the pale moonlight played and flickered like the
unearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead. The carriage
stopped near the Meta Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men,
eagerly alighting, found themselves opposite a _cicerone_, who appeared
to have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected was his appearance.

The usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they had paid two
conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to avoid this abundant supply
of guides; besides the ordinary _cicerone_, who seizes upon you
directly you set foot in your hotel, and never quits you while you
remain in the city, there is also a special _cicerone_ belonging to
each monument—nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may,
therefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides at the
Colosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial thus eulogizes:

“Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and
the wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to
the superiority of the gigantic labor of the Cæsars, and the many
voices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this
incomparable monument.”

As for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from their
_ciceronian_ tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so much the more
difficult to break their bondage, as the guides alone are permitted to
visit these monuments with torches in their hands. Thus, then, the
young men made no attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly
surrendered themselves into the care and custody of their conductors.

Franz had already made seven or eight similar excursions to the
Colosseum, while his less favored companion trod for the first time in
his life the classic ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian;
and, to his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib loquacity
of the guides, was duly and deeply touched with awe and enthusiastic
admiration of all he saw; and certainly no adequate notion of these
stupendous ruins can be formed save by such as have visited them, and
more especially by moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the
building appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious beams of a
southern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently clear and vivid to
light the horizon with a glow equal to the soft twilight of a western
clime.

Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps
beneath the interior porticoes of the ruin, when, abandoning Albert to
the guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive right of
carrying their victims through the routine regularly laid down, and as
regularly followed by them, but dragged the unconscious visitor to the
various objects with a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal,
beginning, as a matter of course, with the “Lions’ Den”, the “Hall of
the Gladiators” and finishing with “Cæsar’s Podium”), to escape a
jargon and mechanical survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded,
Franz ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to
follow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of a column,
and immediately opposite a large aperture, which permitted him to enjoy
a full and undisturbed view of the gigantic dimensions of the majestic
ruin.

Franz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly hidden by
the shadow of the vast column at whose base he had found a
resting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the motions of Albert
and his guides, who, holding torches in their hands, had emerged from a
vomitorium at the opposite extremity of the Colosseum, and then again
disappeared down the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the
Vestal virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless shades
following the flickering glare of so many _ignes fatui_. All at once
his ear caught a sound resembling that of a stone rolling down the
staircase opposite the one by which he had himself ascended. There was
nothing remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite giving
way and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him that the substance
that fell gave way beneath the pressure of a foot, and also that
someone, who endeavored as much as possible to prevent his footsteps
from being heard, was approaching the spot where he sat.

Conjecture soon became certainty, for the figure of a man was
distinctly visible to Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase
opposite, upon which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of
silvery brightness.

The stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person who, like
Franz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his own thoughts to the
frivolous gabble of the guides. And his appearance had nothing
extraordinary in it; but the hesitation with which he proceeded,
stopping and listening with anxious attention at every step he took,
convinced Franz that he expected the arrival of some person.

By a sort of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible
behind his pillar.

About ten feet from the spot where he and the stranger were, the roof
had given way, leaving a large round opening, through which might be
seen the blue vault of heaven, thickly studded with stars.

Around this opening, which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free
entrance to the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile,
grew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green branches stood
out in bold relief against the clear azure of the firmament, while
large masses of thick, strong fibrous shoots forced their way through
the chasm, and hung floating to and fro, like so many waving strings.

The person whose mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of
Franz stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible to
distinguish his features, although his dress was easily made out. He
wore a large brown mantle, one fold of which, thrown over his left
shoulder, served likewise to mask the lower part of his countenance,
while the upper part was completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat.
The lower part of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright
rays of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling, shed
their refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made boots of polished
leather, over which descended fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.

20135m



From the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only come to
one conclusion,—that the person whom he was thus watching certainly
belonged to no inferior station of life.

Some few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show manifest
signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard outside the aperture
in the roof, and almost immediately a dark shadow seemed to obstruct
the flood of light that had entered it, and the figure of a man was
clearly seen gazing with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath
him; then, as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a
floating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by their help
to within three or four feet of the ground, and then leaped lightly on
his feet. The man who had performed this daring act with so much
indifference wore the Transtevere costume.

“I beg your excellency’s pardon for keeping you waiting,” said the man,
in the Roman dialect, “but I don’t think I’m many minutes after my
time, ten o’clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran.”

“Say not a word about being late,” replied the stranger in purest
Tuscan; “’tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait
a little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not
occasioned by any fault of yours.”

“Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking,” said the man; “I
came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense
deal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo.”

“And who is Beppo?”

“Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to
let me know what is going on within his holiness’s castle.”

“Indeed! You are a provident person, I see.”

“Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days
I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some
little nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out
of prison.”

“Briefly, what did you learn?”

“That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day
after tomorrow at two o’clock, as is customary at Rome at the
commencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be
_mazzolato_;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who
brought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer
is sentenced to be _decapitato_;4 and he, your excellency, is poor
Peppino.”

“The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical
government, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear,
that they are glad of all opportunity of making an example.”

“But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor
shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions.”

“Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark
the distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on
the head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply
sentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the
day are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every
spectator.”

“Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise
them with.”

“My good friend,” said the man in the cloak, “excuse me for saying that
you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant
act.”

“Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop
at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this
scrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself
as a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity.”

“And what do you mean to do?”

“To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal
from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution,
and, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and
carry off the prisoner.”

“That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my
scheme is far better than yours.”

“And what is your excellency’s project?”

“Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the
person receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for
Peppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres
will afford him the means of escaping from his prison.”

“And do you feel sure of succeeding?”

“_Pardieu!_” exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly expressing
himself in French.

“What did your excellency say?” inquired the other.

“I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the
means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos,
pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act,
and have no fears for the result.”

“At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness,
in case your excellency should fail.”

“None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any
satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I
seek.”

“Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that
you have but one day to work in.”

“And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each
hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty
seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done.”

“And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not.”

“Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower
windows at the Café Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite
pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow
damasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked
on it.”

“And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer
directing the execution?”

“Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give
it to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the
scaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer,
who, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it
will be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if
it be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because
in either case a very useless expense will have been incurred.”

“Your excellency,” said the man, “you are fully persuaded of my entire
devotion to you, are you not?”

“Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,” replied the
cavalier in the cloak.

“Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and
henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute
obedience from myself and those under me that one human being can
render to another.”

“Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may
remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period,
when I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence.”

“Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I
have found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of
the world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may
regard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of——”

“Hush!” interrupted the stranger; “I hear a noise.”

“’Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight.”

“’Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing
but spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be
honored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our
intimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit
would suffer thereby.”

“Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?”

“The middle window at the Café Rospoli will be hung with white damask,
bearing a red cross.”

“And if you fail?”

“Then all three windows will have yellow draperies.”

“And then?”

“And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and
I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.”

“We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency;
depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you.”

Saying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the staircase,
while his companion, muffling his features more closely than before in
the folds of his mantle, passed almost close to Franz, and descended to
the arena by an outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard
himself called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with the
sound of his friend’s name. Franz, however, did not obey the summons
till he had satisfied himself that the two men whose conversation he
had overheard were at a sufficient distance to prevent his encountering
them in his descent. In ten minutes after the strangers had departed,
Franz was on the road to the Piazza di Spagna, listening with studied
indifference to the learned dissertation delivered by Albert, after the
manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the iron-pointed nets used to
prevent the ferocious beasts from springing on the spectators.

Franz let him proceed without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear
what was said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all that
had occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious meeting in the
Colosseum he had so unintentionally witnessed, was an entire stranger
to him, but not so the other; and though Franz had been unable to
distinguish his features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle
or obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too powerful
an impression on him the first time he had heard them for him ever
again to forget them, hear them when or where he might. It was more
especially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half
bitter, that Franz’s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet
well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte
Cristo, and which he heard for the second time amid the darkness and
ruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the more he thought, the more
entire was his conviction, that the person who wore the mantle was no
other than his former host and entertainer, “Sinbad the Sailor.”

20139m



Under any other circumstances, Franz would have found it impossible to
resist his extreme curiosity to know more of so singular a personage,
and with that intent have sought to renew their short acquaintance; but
in the present instance, the confidential nature of the conversation he
had overheard made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at
such a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen,
therefore, he permitted his former host to retire without attempting a
recognition, but fully promising himself a rich indemnity for his
present forbearance should chance afford him another opportunity.

In vain did Franz endeavor to forget the many perplexing thoughts which
assailed him; in vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber
refused to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish
contemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove the
identity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum with the
inhabitant of the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the more he thought, the
firmer grew his opinion on the subject.

Worn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not awake till
late. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had employed his time in
arranging for the evening’s diversion; he had sent to engage a box at
the Teatro Argentina; and Franz, having a number of letters to write,
relinquished the carriage to Albert for the whole of the day.

At five o’clock Albert returned, delighted with his day’s work; he had
been occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had received
in return more invitations to balls and routs than it would be possible
for him to accept; besides this, he had seen (as he called it) all the
remarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a single day he had accomplished
what his more serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to
effect. Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece to
be played that night at the Teatro Argentina, and also what performers
appeared in it. The opera of _Parisina_ was announced for
representation, and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La
Specchia.

The young men, therefore, had reason to consider themselves fortunate
in having the opportunity of hearing one of the best works by the
composer of _Lucia di Lammermoor_, supported by three of the most
renowned vocalists of Italy.

Albert had never been able to endure the Italian theatres, with their
orchestras from which it is impossible to see, and the absence of
balconies, or open boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who
had had his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the
Opera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most dazzling and
effective costumes each time he visited the theatres; but, alas, his
elegant toilet was wholly thrown away, and one of the most worthy
representatives of Parisian fashion had to carry with him the
mortifying reflection that he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting
with a single adventure.

Sometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of success;
but internally he was deeply wounded, and his self-love immensely
piqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired and most
sought after of any young person of his day, should thus be passed
over, and merely have his labor for his pains. And the thing was so
much the more annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of
a Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction that he
had only to show himself in Italy to carry all before him, and that
upon his return he should astonish the Parisian world with the recital
of his numerous love-affairs.

Alas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his
way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all
faithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers, and
thought not of changing even for the splendid appearance of Albert de
Morcerf; and all he gained was the painful conviction that the ladies
of Italy have this advantage over those of France, that they are
faithful even in their infidelity.

Yet he could not restrain a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there
might be an exception to the general rule.

Albert, besides being an elegant, well-looking young man, was also
possessed of considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a
viscount—a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day it
is not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a descent, and a
genealogical tree is equally estimated, whether dated from 1399 or
merely 1815; but to crown all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf
commanded an income of 50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to
render him a personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was
therefore no small mortification to him to have visited most of the
principal cities in Italy without having excited the most trifling
observation.

Albert, however, hoped to indemnify himself for all these slights and
indifferences during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the
different states and kingdoms in which this festivity is celebrated,
Rome is the spot where even the wisest and gravest throw off the usual
rigidity of their lives, and deign to mingle in the follies of this
time of liberty and relaxation. The Carnival was to commence on the
morrow; therefore Albert had not an instant to lose in setting forth
the programme of his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice.

With this design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of
the theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal attractions by
the aid of the most rich and elaborate toilet. The box taken by Albert
was in the first circle; although each of the three tiers of boxes is
deemed equally aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled
the “nobility’s boxes,” and although the box engaged for the two
friends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a dozen persons,
it had cost less than would be paid at some of the French theatres for
one admitting merely four occupants.

Another motive had influenced Albert’s selection of his seat,—who knew
but that, thus advantageously placed, he might not in truth attract the
notice of some fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would
procure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in a princely
balcony, from which he might behold the gayeties of the Carnival?

These united considerations made Albert more lively and anxious to
please than he had hitherto been. Totally disregarding the business of
the stage, he leaned from his box and began attentively scrutinizing
the beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but,
alas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even curiosity
had been excited, and it was but too apparent that the lovely
creatures, into whose good graces he was desirous of stealing, were all
so much engrossed with themselves, their lovers, or their own thoughts,
that they had not so much as noticed him or the manipulation of his
glass.

The truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the Carnival, with the
“Holy Week” that was to succeed it, so filled every fair breast, as to
prevent the least attention being bestowed even on the business of the
stage. The actors made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought
of; at certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly
cease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their musings, to
listen to some brilliant effort of Moriani’s, a well-executed
recitative by Coselli, or to join in loud applause at the wonderful
powers of La Specchia; but that momentary excitement over, they quickly
relapsed into their former state of preoccupation or interesting
conversation.

Towards the close of the first act, the door of a box which had been
hitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom Franz had been
introduced in Paris, where indeed, he had imagined she still was. The
quick eye of Albert caught the involuntary start with which his friend
beheld the new arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily:

“Do you know the woman who has just entered that box?”

“Yes; what do you think of her?”

“Oh, she is perfectly lovely—what a complexion! And such magnificent
hair! Is she French?”

“No; a Venetian.”

“And her name is——”

“Countess G——.”

“Ah, I know her by name!” exclaimed Albert; “she is said to possess as
much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her
when I met her at Madame Villefort’s ball.”

“Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?” asked Franz.

“My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to
venture to take me to her box?”

“Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing
with her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an
acquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask.”

At that instant, the countess perceived Franz, and graciously waved her
hand to him, to which he replied by a respectful inclination of the
head. “Upon my word,” said Albert, “you seem to be on excellent terms
with the beautiful countess.”

“You are mistaken in thinking so,” returned Franz calmly; “but you
merely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen
to commit the most egregious blunders,—I mean that of judging the
habits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe
me, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree
of intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar
terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant
between ourselves and the countess—nothing more.”

“Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of
heart?”

“No; of taste,” continued Franz gravely.

“And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced?”

“By the countess’s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by
moonlight, and nearly alone.”

“You were with her, then?”

“I was.”

“And what did you say to her?”

“Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is
a glorious monument!”

“Upon my word,” cried Albert, “you must have been a very entertaining
companion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a
place of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to
talk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a
chance, the living should be my theme.”

20143m



“And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen.”

“But,” said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse, “never mind the
past; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your
promise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks?”

“Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage.”

“What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my
soul, that they never mean to finish it.”

“Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How
exquisitely Coselli sings his part.”

“But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is.”

“Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything
more perfect than her acting?”

“Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to
Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don’t make the same
impression on you they perhaps do on others.”

“At least, you must admire Moriani’s style and execution.”

“I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a
voice like a woman’s.”

“My good friend,” said Franz, turning to him, while Albert continued to
point his glass at every box in the theatre, “you seem determined not
to approve; you are really too difficult to please.”

The curtain at length fell on the performances, to the infinite
satisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly
passed his fingers through his hair, arranged his cravat and
wristbands, and signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead
the way.

Franz, who had mutely interrogated the countess, and received from her
a gracious smile in token that he would be welcome, sought not to
retard the gratification of Albert’s eager impatience, but began at
once the tour of the house, closely followed by Albert, who availed
himself of the few minutes required to reach the opposite side of the
theatre to settle the height and smoothness of his collar, and to
arrange the lappets of his coat. This important task was just completed
as they arrived at the countess’s box.

At the knock, the door was immediately opened, and the young man who
was seated beside the countess, in obedience to the Italian custom,
instantly rose and surrendered his place to the strangers, who, in
turn, would be expected to retire upon the arrival of other visitors.

Franz presented Albert as one of the most distinguished young men of
the day, both as regarded his position in society and extraordinary
talents; nor did he say more than the truth, for in Paris and the
circle in which the viscount moved, he was looked upon and cited as a
model of perfection. Franz added that his companion, deeply grieved at
having been prevented the honor of being presented to the countess
during her sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to make up for it, and
had requested him (Franz) to remedy the past misfortune by conducting
him to her box, and concluded by asking pardon for his presumption in
having taken it upon himself to do so.

The countess, in reply, bowed gracefully to Albert, and extended her
hand with cordial kindness to Franz; then, inviting Albert to take the
vacant seat beside her, she recommended Franz to take the next best, if
he wished to view the ballet, and pointed to the one behind her own
chair.

Albert was soon deeply engrossed in discoursing upon Paris and Parisian
matters, speaking to the countess of the various persons they both knew
there. Franz perceived how completely he was in his element; and,
unwilling to interfere with the pleasure he so evidently felt, took up
Albert’s glass, and began in his turn to survey the audience.

Sitting alone, in the front of a box immediately opposite, but situated
on the third row, was a woman of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek
costume, which evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore
it, was her national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was the
outline of a masculine figure; but the features of this latter
personage it was not possible to distinguish. Franz could not forbear
breaking in upon the apparently interesting conversation passing
between the countess and Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew
who was the fair Albanian opposite, since beauty such as hers was well
worthy of being observed by either sex.

“All I can tell about her,” replied the countess, “is, that she has
been at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where she
now sits the very first night of the season, and since then she has
never missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the person
who is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a black
servant.”

“And what do you think of her personal appearance?”

“Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely—she is just my idea of what Medora
must have been.”

Franz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the latter resumed
her conversation with Albert, while Franz returned to his previous
survey of the house and company. The curtain rose on the ballet, which
was one of those excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably
arranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established for himself
a great reputation throughout Italy for his taste and skill in the
choreographic art—one of those masterly productions of grace, method,
and elegance in which the whole _corps de ballet_, from the principal
dancers to the humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at
the same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen exhibiting
the same attitude, or elevating the same arm or leg with a simultaneous
movement, that would lead you to suppose that but one mind, one act of
volition, influenced the moving mass.

The ballet was called _Poliska_.

However much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was too
deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any note of it; while
she seemed to experience an almost childlike delight in watching it,
her eager, animated looks contrasting strongly with the utter
indifference of her companion, who, during the whole time the piece
lasted, never even moved, not even when the furious, crashing din
produced by the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells sounded their
loudest from the orchestra. Of this he took no heed, but was, as far as
appearances might be trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright celestial
dreams.

The ballet at length came to a close, and the curtain fell amid the
loud, unanimous plaudits of an enthusiastic and delighted audience.

Owing to the very judicious plan of dividing the two acts of the opera
with a ballet, the pauses between the performances are very short, the
singers in the opera having time to repose themselves and change their
costume, when necessary, while the dancers are executing their
pirouettes and exhibiting their graceful steps.

The overture to the second act began; and, at the first sound of the
leader’s bow across his violin, Franz observed the sleeper slowly arise
and approach the Greek girl, who turned around to say a few words to
him, and then, leaning forward again on the railing of her box, she
became as absorbed as before in what was going on.

The countenance of the person who had addressed her remained so
completely in the shade, that, though Franz tried his utmost, he could
not distinguish a single feature. The curtain rose, and the attention
of Franz was attracted by the actors; and his eyes turned from the box
containing the Greek girl and her strange companion to watch the
business of the stage.

Most of my readers are aware that the second act of _Parisina_ opens
with the celebrated and effective duet in which Parisina, while
sleeping, betrays to Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. The injured
husband goes through all the emotions of jealousy, until conviction
seizes on his mind, and then, in a frenzy of rage and indignation, he
awakens his guilty wife to tell her that he knows her guilt and to
threaten her with his vengeance.

This duet is one of the most beautiful, expressive and terrible
conceptions that has ever emanated from the fruitful pen of Donizetti.
Franz now listened to it for the third time; yet its notes, so tenderly
expressive and fearfully grand as the wretched husband and wife give
vent to their different griefs and passions, thrilled through the soul
of Franz with an effect equal to his first emotions upon hearing it.
Excited beyond his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with the audience,
and was about to join the loud, enthusiastic applause that followed;
but suddenly his purpose was arrested, his hands fell by his sides, and
the half-uttered “bravos” expired on his lips.

The occupant of the box in which the Greek girl sat appeared to share
the universal admiration that prevailed; for he left his seat to stand
up in front, so that, his countenance being fully revealed, Franz had
no difficulty in recognizing him as the mysterious inhabitant of Monte
Cristo, and the very same person he had encountered the preceding
evening in the ruins of the Colosseum, and whose voice and figure had
seemed so familiar to him.

All doubt of his identity was now at an end; his singular host
evidently resided at Rome. The surprise and agitation occasioned by
this full confirmation of Franz’s former suspicion had no doubt
imparted a corresponding expression to his features; for the countess,
after gazing with a puzzled look at his face, burst into a fit of
laughter, and begged to know what had happened.

“Countess,” returned Franz, totally unheeding her raillery, “I asked
you a short time since if you knew any particulars respecting the
Albanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me who and
what is her husband?”

“Nay,” answered the countess, “I know no more of him than yourself.”

“Perhaps you never before noticed him?”

“What a question—so truly French! Do you not know that we Italians have
eyes only for the man we love?”

“True,” replied Franz.

“All I can say is,” continued the countess, taking up the _lorgnette_,
and directing it toward the box in question, “that the gentleman, whose
history I am unable to furnish, seems to me as though he had just been
dug up; he looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly
grave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of
ours, than anything human. How ghastly pale he is!”

“Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him,” said Franz.

“Then you know him?” almost screamed the countess. “Oh, pray do, for
heaven’s sake, tell us all about—is he a vampire, or a resuscitated
corpse, or what?”

“I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me.”

“And I can well understand,” said the countess, shrugging up her
beautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder passed through
her veins, “that those who have once seen that man will never be likely
to forget him.”

The sensation experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to
himself; another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same
unaccountable awe and misgiving.

“Well.” inquired Franz, after the countess had a second time directed
her _lorgnette_ at the box, “what do you think of our opposite
neighbor?”

20147m



“Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.”

This fresh allusion to Byron5 drew a smile to Franz’s countenance;
although he could but allow that if anything was likely to induce
belief in the existence of vampires, it would be the presence of such a
man as the mysterious personage before him.

“I must positively find out who and what he is,” said Franz, rising
from his seat.

“No, no,” cried the countess; “you must not leave me. I depend upon you
to escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot permit you to go.”

“Is it possible,” whispered Franz, “that you entertain any fear?”

“I’ll tell you,” answered the countess. “Byron had the most perfect
belief in the existence of vampires, and even assured me that he had
seen them. The description he gave me perfectly corresponds with the
features and character of the man before us. Oh, he is the exact
personification of what I have been led to expect! The coal-black hair,
large bright, glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems
burning,—the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too, that the woman
with him is altogether unlike all others of her sex. She is a
foreigner—a stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from.
No doubt she belongs to the same horrible race he does, and is, like
himself, a dealer in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near
him—at least tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as
great, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight you neither can
nor shall. For that purpose I mean to keep you all to myself.”

Franz protested he could not defer his pursuit till the following day,
for many reasons.

“Listen to me,” said the countess, “and do not be so very headstrong. I
am going home. I have a party at my house tonight, and therefore cannot
possibly remain till the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for one
instant believe you so devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your
escort when she even condescends to ask you for it.”

There was nothing else left for Franz to do but to take up his hat,
open the door of the box, and offer the countess his arm. It was quite
evident, by her manner, that her uneasiness was not feigned; and Franz
himself could not resist a feeling of superstitious dread—so much the
stronger in him, as it arose from a variety of corroborative
recollections, while the terror of the countess sprang from an
instinctive belief, originally created in her mind by the wild tales
she had listened to till she believed them truths. Franz could even
feel her arm tremble as he assisted her into the carriage. Upon
arriving at her hotel, Franz perceived that she had deceived him when
she spoke of expecting company; on the contrary, her own return before
the appointed hour seemed greatly to astonish the servants.

“Excuse my little subterfuge,” said the countess, in reply to her
companion’s half-reproachful observation on the subject; “but that
horrid man had made me feel quite uncomfortable, and I longed to be
alone, that I might compose my startled mind.”

Franz essayed to smile.

“Nay,” said she, “do not smile; it ill accords with the expression of
your countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from your heart.
However, promise me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me, I say.”

“I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my determination of
finding out who this man is. I have more reasons than you can imagine
for desiring to know who he is, from whence he came, and whither he is
going.”

“Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell you where he
is going to, and that is down below, without the least doubt.”

“Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,” said Franz.

“Well, then, you must give me your word to return immediately to your
hotel, and make no attempt to follow this man tonight. There are
certain affinities between the persons we quit and those we meet
afterwards. For heaven’s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that
man and me. Pursue your chase after him tomorrow as eagerly as you
please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of
terror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and try to sleep away
all recollections of this evening. For my own part, I am quite sure I
shall not be able to close my eyes.”

So saying, the countess quitted Franz, leaving him unable to decide
whether she were merely amusing herself at his expense, or whether her
fears and agitations were genuine.

Upon his return to the hotel, Franz found Albert in his dressing-gown
and slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa, smoking a cigar.

“My dear fellow!” cried he, springing up, “is it really you? Why, I did
not expect to see you before tomorrow.”

“My dear Albert,” replied Franz, “I am glad of this opportunity to tell
you, once and forever, that you entertain a most erroneous notion
concerning Italian women. I should have thought the continual failures
you have met with in all your own love affairs might have taught you
better by this time.”

“Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them
aright. Why, here—they give you their hand—they press yours in
return—they keep up a whispering conversation—permit you to accompany
them home. Why, if a Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these
marks of flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever.”

“And the very reason why the women of this fine country, ‘where sounds
the _si_,’ as Dante writes, put so little restraint on their words and
actions, is because they live so much in public, and have really
nothing to conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess
was really alarmed.”

“At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite
to us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl? Now, for my part, I
met them in the lobby after the conclusion of the piece; and hang me,
if I can guess where you took your notions of the other world from. I
can assure you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking
fellow—admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from the cut of
his clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris tailor—probably Blin
or Humann. He was rather too pale, certainly; but then, you know,
paleness is always looked upon as a strong proof of aristocratic
descent and distinguished breeding.”

Franz smiled; for he well remembered that Albert particularly prided
himself on the entire absence of color in his own complexion.

“Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas,” said Franz, “that the
countess’s suspicions were destitute alike of sense and reason. Did he
speak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words?”

“I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from
the mixture of Greek words. I don’t know whether I ever told you that
when I was at college I was rather—rather strong in Greek.”

“He spoke the Romaic language, did he?”

“I think so.”

“That settles it,” murmured Franz. “’Tis he, past all doubt.”

“What do you say?”

“Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I
came in?”

“Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you.”

“Indeed. Of what nature?”

“Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage.”

“Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means
afforded to endeavor to get one.”

“Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my
brain.”

Franz looked at Albert as though he had not much confidence in the
suggestions of his imagination.

“I tell you what, M. Franz,” cried Albert, “you deserve to be called
out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were
pleased to bestow on me just now.”

“And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your
scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert.”

“Well, then, hearken to me.”

“I listen.”

“You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the
question?”

“I do.”

“Neither can we procure horses?”

“True; we have offered any sum, but have failed.”

“Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be
had.”

“Very possibly.”

“And a pair of oxen?”

“As easily found as the cart.”

“Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our
business can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if
you and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a
striking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by Léopold
Robert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join
us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group
would then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite
beautiful enough to represent a Madonna.”

“Well,” said Franz, “this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you
credit for having hit upon a most capital idea.”

“And quite a national one, too,” replied Albert with gratified pride.
“A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans!
you thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your
processions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are
to be had in your beggarly city. But you don’t know us; when we can’t
have one thing we invent another.”

“And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?”

“Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then
explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing
would be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry
for; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me
there would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so
you see we must do without this little superfluity.”

“And where is he now?”

“Who?”

“Our host.”

“Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late.”

“Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight.”

“Oh, I expect him every minute.”

At this instant the door opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini
appeared. “_Permesso_?” inquired he.

“Certainly—certainly,” cried Franz. “Come in, my host.”

“Now, then,” asked Albert eagerly, “have you found the desired cart and
oxen?”

“Better than that!” replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of a man
perfectly well satisfied with himself.

“Take care, my worthy host,” said Albert, “_better_ is a sure enemy to
_well_.”

“Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,” returned Signor
Pastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded self-confidence.

“But what _have_ you done?” asked Franz. “Speak out, there’s a worthy
fellow.”

“Your excellencies are aware,” responded the landlord, swelling with
importance, “that the Count of Monte Cristo is living on the same floor
with yourselves!”

“I should think we did know it,” exclaimed Albert, “since it is owing
to that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like
two poor students in the back streets of Paris.”

“When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the dilemma in which
you are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two
places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.” The friends looked at
each other with unutterable surprise.

“But do you think,” asked Albert, “that we ought to accept such offers
from a perfect stranger?”

“What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?” asked Franz of his
host.

“A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot
exactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich
as a gold mine.”

“It seems to me,” said Franz, speaking in an undertone to Albert, “that
if this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would
have conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted
it to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have
written—or——”

At this instant someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said Franz.

A servant, wearing a livery of considerable style and richness,
appeared at the threshold, and, placing two cards in the landlord’s
hands, who forthwith presented them to the two young men, he said:

“Please to deliver these, from the Count of Monte Cristo to Vicomte
Albert de Morcerf and M. Franz d’Épinay. The Count of Monte Cristo,”
continued the servant, “begs these gentlemen’s permission to wait upon
them as their neighbor, and he will be honored by an intimation of what
time they will please to receive him.”

“Faith, Franz,” whispered Albert, “there is not much to find fault with
here.”

“Tell the count,” replied Franz, “that we will do ourselves the
pleasure of calling on him.”

The servant bowed and retired.

“That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,” said Albert, “You were
quite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte
Cristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of
the world.”

“Then you accept his offer?” said the host.

“Of course we do,” replied Albert. “Still, I must own I am sorry to be
obliged to give up the cart and the group of reapers—it would have
produced such an effect! And were it not for the windows at the Palazzo
Rospoli, by way of recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I
don’t know but what I should have held on by my original plan. What say
you, Franz?”

“Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided
me.”

The truth was, that the mention of two places in the Palazzo Rospoli
had recalled to Franz the conversation he had overheard the preceding
evening in the ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown
and the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had undertaken
to obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal; and if this muffled-up
individual proved (as Franz felt sure he would) the same as the person
he had just seen in the Teatro Argentina, then he should be able to
establish his identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting
him with perfect facility and freedom.

Franz passed the night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings
he had already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking
speculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next day must
clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend,
the Count of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its
power was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he
could not escape this time.

Eight o’clock found Franz up and dressed, while Albert, who had not the
same motives for early rising, was still soundly asleep. The first act
of Franz was to summon his landlord, who presented himself with his
accustomed obsequiousness.

“Pray, Signor Pastrini,” asked Franz, “is not some execution appointed
to take place today?”

“Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may
procure a window to view it from, you are much too late.”

“Oh, no,” answered Franz, “I had no such intention; and even if I had
felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte
Pincio; could I not?”

“Ah!” exclaimed mine host, “I did not think it likely your excellency
would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected
on that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to
themselves.”

“Very possibly I may not go,” answered Franz; “but in case I feel
disposed, give me some particulars of today’s executions.”

“What particulars would your excellency like to hear?”

“Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and
description of the death they are to die.”

“That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few minutes ago they
brought me the _tavolettas_.”

“What are they?”

“Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening
before an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names
of the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The
reason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and
faithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate
culprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere
repentance.”

“And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to
those of the faithful, are they?” asked Franz somewhat incredulously.

“Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody’s affairs
but my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement
with the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he
would the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should
like to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information
concerning the time and place etc.”

“Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor
Pastrini,” cried Franz.

“Why, your excellency,” returned the landlord, chuckling and rubbing
his hands with infinite complacency, “I think I may take upon myself to
say I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble
visitors to this poor hotel.”

“I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely
upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your
guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these
_tavolettas_.”

“Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency’s wish,”
said the landlord, opening the door of the chamber; “I have caused one
to be placed on the landing, close by your apartment.”

Then, taking the tablet from the wall, he handed it to Franz, who read
as follows:

“‘The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the
first day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del
Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named
Andrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former
found guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named
Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the
latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary
bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be
_mazzolato_, the second culprit _decapitato_.

“‘The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these
unfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of
their guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for
their crimes.’”

This was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before in the ruins
of the Colosseum. No part of the programme differed,—the names of the
condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment, all agreed
with his previous information. In all probability, therefore, the
Transteverin was no other than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the
man shrouded in the mantle the same he had known as “Sinbad the
Sailor,” but who, no doubt, was still pursuing his philanthropic
expedition in Rome, as he had already done at Porto-Vecchio and Tunis.

Time was getting on, however, and Franz deemed it advisable to awaken
Albert; but at the moment he prepared to proceed to his chamber, his
friend entered the room in perfect costume for the day. The anticipated
delights of the Carnival had so run in his head as to make him leave
his pillow long before his usual hour.

“Now, my excellent Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, addressing his
landlord, “since we are both ready, do you think we may proceed at once
to visit the Count of Monte Cristo?”

“Most assuredly,” replied he. “The Count of Monte Cristo is always an
early riser; and I can answer for his having been up these two hours.”

“Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we pay our
respects to him directly?”

20155m



“Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all the blame on myself if you find I
have led you into an error.”

“Well, then, if it be so, are you ready, Albert?”

“Perfectly.”

“Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy.”

“Yes, let us do so.”

The landlord preceded the friends across the landing, which was all
that separated them from the apartments of the count, rang at the bell,
and, upon the door being opened by a servant, said:

“_I signori Francesi_.”

The domestic bowed respectfully, and invited them to enter. They passed
through two rooms, furnished in a luxurious manner they had not
expected to see under the roof of Signor Pastrini, and were shown into
an elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The richest Turkey carpets covered
the floor, and the softest and most inviting couches, easy-chairs, and
sofas, offered their high-piled and yielding cushions to such as
desired repose or refreshment. Splendid paintings by the first masters
were ranged against the walls, intermingled with magnificent trophies
of war, while heavy curtains of costly tapestry were suspended before
the different doors of the room.

“If your excellencies will please to be seated,” said the man, “I will
let the count know that you are here.”

And with these words he disappeared behind one of the tapestried
_portières_. As the door opened, the sound of a _guzla_ reached the
ears of the young men, but was almost immediately lost, for the rapid
closing of the door merely allowed one rich swell of harmony to enter.
Franz and Albert looked inquiringly at each other, then at the gorgeous
furnishings of the apartment. Everything seemed more magnificent at a
second view than it had done at their first rapid survey.

“Well,” said Franz to his friend, “what think you of all this?”

“Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our elegant and
attentive neighbor must either be some successful stock-jobber who has
speculated in the fall of the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling
_incog_.”

“Hush, hush!” replied Franz; “we shall ascertain who and what he is—he
comes!”

As Franz spoke, he heard the sound of a door turning on its hinges, and
almost immediately afterwards the tapestry was drawn aside, and the
owner of all these riches stood before the two young men. Albert
instantly rose to meet him, but Franz remained, in a manner, spellbound
on his chair; for in the person of him who had just entered he
recognized not only the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum, and the
occupant of the box at the Teatro Argentina, but also his extraordinary
host of Monte Cristo.

20157m




 Chapter 35. La Mazzolata

Gentlemen,” said the Count of Monte Cristo as he entered, “I pray you
excuse me for suffering my visit to be anticipated; but I feared to
disturb you by presenting myself earlier at your apartments; besides,
you sent me word that you would come to me, and I have held myself at
your disposal.”

“Franz and I have to thank you a thousand times, count,” returned
Albert; “you extricated us from a great dilemma, and we were on the
point of inventing a very fantastic vehicle when your friendly
invitation reached us.”

“Indeed,” returned the count, motioning the two young men to sit down.
“It was the fault of that blockhead Pastrini, that I did not sooner
assist you in your distress. He did not mention a syllable of your
embarrassment to me, when he knows that, alone and isolated as I am, I
seek every opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. As
soon as I learned I could in any way assist you, I most eagerly seized
the opportunity of offering my services.”

The two young men bowed. Franz had, as yet, found nothing to say; he
had come to no determination, and as nothing in the count’s manner
manifested the wish that he should recognize him, he did not know
whether to make any allusion to the past, or wait until he had more
proof; besides, although sure it was he who had been in the box the
previous evening, he could not be equally positive that this was the
man he had seen at the Colosseum. He resolved, therefore, to let things
take their course without making any direct overture to the count.
Moreover, he had this advantage, he was master of the count’s secret,
while the count had no hold on Franz, who had nothing to conceal.
However, he resolved to lead the conversation to a subject which might
possibly clear up his doubts.

“Count,” said he, “you have offered us places in your carriage, and at
your windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we can obtain
a sight of the Piazza del Popolo?”

“Ah,” said the count negligently, looking attentively at Morcerf, “is
there not something like an execution upon the Piazza del Popolo?”

“Yes,” returned Franz, finding that the count was coming to the point
he wished.

“Stay, I think I told my steward yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I
can render you this slight service also.”

He extended his hand, and rang the bell thrice.

“Did you ever occupy yourself,” said he to Franz, “with the employment
of time and the means of simplifying the summoning your servants? I
have. When I ring once, it is for my valet; twice, for my majordomo;
thrice, for my steward,—thus I do not waste a minute or a word. Here he
is.”

A man of about forty-five or fifty entered, exactly resembling the
smuggler who had introduced Franz into the cavern; but he did not
appear to recognize him. It was evident he had his orders.

“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “you have procured me windows
looking on the Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you yesterday.”

“Yes, excellency,” returned the steward; “but it was very late.”

“Did I not tell you I wished for one?” replied the count, frowning.

“And your excellency has one, which was let to Prince Lobanieff; but I
was obliged to pay a hundred——”

“That will do—that will do, Monsieur Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen
all such domestic arrangements. You have the window, that is
sufficient. Give orders to the coachman; and be in readiness on the
stairs to conduct us to it.”

The steward bowed, and was about to quit the room.

“Ah!” continued the count, “be good enough to ask Pastrini if he has
received the _tavoletta_, and if he can send us an account of the
execution.”

“There is no need to do that,” said Franz, taking out his tablets; “for
I saw the account, and copied it down.”

“Very well, you can retire, M. Bertuccio; I need you no longer. Let us
know when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen,” added he, turning to
the two friends, “will, I trust, do me the honor to breakfast with me?”

“But, my dear count,” said Albert, “we shall abuse your kindness.”

“Not at all; on the contrary, you will give me great pleasure. You
will, one or other of you, perhaps both, return it to me at Paris. M.
Bertuccio, lay covers for three.”

He then took Franz’s tablets out of his hand. “‘We announce,’ he read,
in the same tone with which he would have read a newspaper, ‘that
today, the 23rd of February, will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of
murder on the person of the respected and venerated Don César Torlini,
canon of the church of St. John Lateran, and Peppino, called Rocca
Priori, convicted of complicity with the detestable bandit Luigi Vampa,
and the men of his band.’

“Hum! ‘The first will be _mazzolato_, the second _decapitato_.’ Yes,”
continued the count, “it was at first arranged in this way; but I think
since yesterday some change has taken place in the order of the
ceremony.”

“Really?” said Franz.

“Yes, I passed the evening at the Cardinal Rospigliosi’s, and there
mention was made of something like a pardon for one of the two men.”

“For Andrea Rondolo?” asked Franz.

“No,” replied the count, carelessly; “for the other (he glanced at the
tablets as if to recall the name), for Peppino, called Rocca Priori.
You are thus deprived of seeing a man guillotined; but the _mazzolata_
still remains, which is a very curious punishment when seen for the
first time, and even the second, while the other, as you must know, is
very simple. The _mandaïa_6 never fails, never trembles, never strikes
thirty times ineffectually, like the soldier who beheaded the Count of
Chalais, and to whose tender mercy Richelieu had doubtless recommended
the sufferer. Ah,” added the count, in a contemptuous tone, “do not
tell me of European punishments, they are in the infancy, or rather the
old age, of cruelty.”

“Really, count,” replied Franz, “one would think that you had studied
the different tortures of all the nations of the world.”

“There are, at least, few that I have not seen,” said the count coldly.

“And you took pleasure in beholding these dreadful spectacles?”

“My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third
curiosity.”

“Curiosity—that is a terrible word.”

“Why so? In life, our greatest preoccupation is death; is it not then,
curious to study the different ways by which the soul and body can
part; and how, according to their different characters, temperaments,
and even the different customs of their countries, different persons
bear the transition from life to death, from existence to annihilation?
As for myself, I can assure you of one thing,—the more men you see die,
the easier it becomes to die yourself; and in my opinion, death may be
a torture, but it is not an expiation.”

“I do not quite understand you,” replied Franz; “pray explain your
meaning, for you excite my curiosity to the highest pitch.”

“Listen,” said the count, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the
blood would to the face of any other. “If a man had by unheard-of and
excruciating tortures destroyed your father, your mother, your
betrothed,—a being who, when torn from you, left a desolation, a wound
that never closes, in your breast,—do you think the reparation that
society gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the
guillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of
the murderer, and allows him who has caused us years of moral
sufferings to escape with a few moments of physical pain?”

“Yes, I know,” said Franz, “that human justice is insufficient to
console us; she can give blood in return for blood, that is all; but
you must demand from her only what it is in her power to grant.”

“I will put another case to you,” continued the count; “that where
society, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death. But
are there not a thousand tortures by which a man may be made to suffer
without society taking the least cognizance of them, or offering him
even the insufficient means of vengeance, of which we have just spoken?
Are there not crimes for which the impalement of the Turks, the augers
of the Persians, the stake and the brand of the Iroquois Indians, are
inadequate tortures, and which are unpunished by society? Answer me, do
not these crimes exist?”

“Yes,” answered Franz; “and it is to punish them that duelling is
tolerated.”

“Ah, duelling,” cried the count; “a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of
arriving at your end when that end is vengeance! A man has carried off
your mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonored your
daughter; he has rendered the whole life of one who had the right to
expect from Heaven that portion of happiness God has promised to
everyone of his creatures, an existence of misery and infamy; and you
think you are avenged because you send a ball through the head, or pass
a sword through the breast, of that man who has planted madness in your
brain, and despair in your heart. And remember, moreover, that it is
often he who comes off victorious from the strife, absolved of all
crime in the eyes of the world. No, no,” continued the count, “had I to
avenge myself, it is not thus I would take revenge.”

“Then you disapprove of duelling? You would not fight a duel?” asked
Albert in his turn, astonished at this strange theory.

“Oh, yes,” replied the count; “understand me, I would fight a duel for
a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my
skill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have
gradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man. Oh, I
would fight for such a cause; but in return for a slow, profound,
eternal torture, I would give back the same, were it possible; an eye
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the Orientalists say,—our masters
in everything,—those favored creatures who have formed for themselves a
life of dreams and a paradise of realities.”

“But,” said Franz to the count, “with this theory, which renders you at
once judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to
adopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power
of the law. Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours
out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”

“Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced, not if he be rich and skilful;
besides, the worst that could happen to him would be the punishment of
which we have already spoken, and which the philanthropic French
Revolution has substituted for being torn to pieces by horses or broken
on the wheel. What matters this punishment, as long as he is avenged?
On my word, I almost regret that in all probability this miserable
Peppino will not be beheaded, as you might have had an opportunity then
of seeing how short a time the punishment lasts, and whether it is
worth even mentioning; but, really this is a most singular conversation
for the Carnival, gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I recollect, you
asked for a place at my window; you shall have it; but let us first sit
down to table, for here comes the servant to inform us that breakfast
is ready.”

As he spoke, a servant opened one of the four doors of the apartment,
saying:

“_Al suo commodo!_”

The two young men arose and entered the breakfast-room.

During the meal, which was excellent, and admirably served, Franz
looked repeatedly at Albert, in order to observe the impressions which
he doubted not had been made on him by the words of their entertainer;
but whether with his usual carelessness he had paid but little
attention to him, whether the explanation of the Count of Monte Cristo
with regard to duelling had satisfied him, or whether the events which
Franz knew of had had their effect on him alone, he remarked that his
companion did not pay the least regard to them, but on the contrary ate
like a man who for the last four or five months had been condemned to
partake of Italian cookery—that is, the worst in the world.

As for the count, he just touched the dishes; he seemed to fulfil the
duties of a host by sitting down with his guests, and awaited their
departure to be served with some strange or more delicate food. This
brought back to Franz, in spite of himself, the recollection of the
terror with which the count had inspired the Countess G——, and her firm
conviction that the man in the opposite box was a vampire.

At the end of the breakfast Franz took out his watch.

“Well,” said the count, “what are you doing?”

“You must excuse us, count,” returned Franz, “but we have still much to
do.”

“What may that be?”

“We have no masks, and it is absolutely necessary to procure them.”

“Do not concern yourself about that; we have, I think, a private room
in the Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever costumes you choose
brought to us, and you can dress there.”

“After the execution?” cried Franz.

“Before or after, whichever you please.”

“Opposite the scaffold?”

“The scaffold forms part of the _fête_.”

“Count, I have reflected on the matter,” said Franz, “I thank you for
your courtesy, but I shall content myself with accepting a place in
your carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace, and I leave you
at liberty to dispose of my place at the Piazza del Popolo.”

“But I warn you, you will lose a very curious sight,” returned the
count.

“You will describe it to me,” replied Franz, “and the recital from your
lips will make as great an impression on me as if I had witnessed it. I
have more than once intended witnessing an execution, but I have never
been able to make up my mind; and you, Albert?”

“I,” replied the viscount,—“I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was
rather intoxicated that day, for I had quitted college the same
morning, and we had passed the previous night at a tavern.”

“Besides, it is no reason because you have not seen an execution at
Paris, that you should not see one anywhere else; when you travel, it
is to see everything. Think what a figure you will make when you are
asked, ‘How do they execute at Rome?’ and you reply, ‘I do not know!’
And, besides, they say that the culprit is an infamous scoundrel, who
killed with a log of wood a worthy canon who had brought him up like
his own son. _Diable!_ when a churchman is killed, it should be with a
different weapon than a log, especially when he has behaved like a
father. If you went to Spain, would you not see the bull-fights? Well,
suppose it is a bull-fight you are going to see? Recollect the ancient
Romans of the Circus, and the sports where they killed three hundred
lions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand applauding
spectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming
Vestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign
that said, ‘Come, despatch the dying.’”

“Shall you go, then, Albert?” asked Franz.

“_Ma foi_, yes; like you, I hesitated, but the count’s eloquence
decides me.”

“Let us go, then,” said Franz, “since you wish it; but on our way to
the Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass through the Corso. Is this
possible, count?”

“On foot, yes, in a carriage, no.”

“I will go on foot, then.”

“Is it important that you should go that way?”

“Yes, there is something I wish to see.”

“Well, we will go by the Corso. We will send the carriage to wait for
us on the Piazza del Popolo, by the Via del Babuino, for I shall be
glad to pass, myself, through the Corso, to see if some orders I have
given have been executed.”

“Excellency,” said a servant, opening the door, “a man in the dress of
a penitent wishes to speak to you.”

“Ah! yes,” returned the count, “I know who he is, gentlemen; will you
return to the salon? you will find good cigars on the centre table. I
will be with you directly.”

The young men rose and returned into the salon, while the count, again
apologizing, left by another door. Albert, who was a great smoker, and
who had considered it no small sacrifice to be deprived of the cigars
of the Café de Paris, approached the table, and uttered a cry of joy at
perceiving some veritable _puros_.

“Well,” asked Franz, “what think you of the Count of Monte Cristo?”

“What do I think?” said Albert, evidently surprised at such a question
from his companion; “I think he is a delightful fellow, who does the
honors of his table admirably; who has travelled much, read much, is,
like Brutus, of the Stoic school, and moreover,” added he, sending a
volume of smoke up towards the ceiling, “that he has excellent cigars.”

Such was Albert’s opinion of the count, and as Franz well knew that
Albert professed never to form an opinion except upon long reflection,
he made no attempt to change it.

“But,” said he, “did you observe one very singular thing?”

“What?”

“How attentively he looked at you.”

“At me?”

“Yes.”

Albert reflected. “Ah,” replied he, sighing, “that is not very
surprising; I have been more than a year absent from Paris, and my
clothes are of a most antiquated cut; the count takes me for a
provincial. The first opportunity you have, undeceive him, I beg, and
tell him I am nothing of the kind.”

Franz smiled; an instant after the count entered.

“I am now quite at your service, gentlemen,” said he. “The carriage is
going one way to the Piazza del Popolo, and we will go another; and, if
you please, by the Corso. Take some more of these cigars, M. de
Morcerf.”

“With all my heart,” returned Albert; “Italian cigars are horrible.
When you come to Paris, I will return all this.”

“I will not refuse; I intend going there soon, and since you allow me,
I will pay you a visit. Come, we have not any time to lose, it is
half-past twelve—let us set off.”

All three descended; the coachman received his master’s orders, and
drove down the Via del Babuino. While the three gentlemen walked along
the Piazza di Spagna and the Via Frattina, which led directly between
the Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz’s attention was directed towards
the windows of that last palace, for he had not forgotten the signal
agreed upon between the man in the mantle and the Transtevere peasant.

“Which are your windows?” asked he of the count, with as much
indifference as he could assume.

“The three last,” returned he, with a negligence evidently unaffected,
for he could not imagine with what intention the question was put.

Franz glanced rapidly towards the three windows. The side windows were
hung with yellow damask, and the centre one with white damask and a red
cross. The man in the mantle had kept his promise to the Transteverin,
and there could now be no doubt that he was the count.

The three windows were still untenanted. Preparations were making on
every side; chairs were placed, scaffolds were raised, and windows were
hung with flags. The masks could not appear; the carriages could not
move about; but the masks were visible behind the windows, the
carriages, and the doors.

Franz, Albert, and the count continued to descend the Corso. As they
approached the Piazza del Popolo, the crowd became more dense, and
above the heads of the multitude two objects were visible: the obelisk,
surmounted by a cross, which marks the centre of the square, and in
front of the obelisk, at the point where the three streets, del
Babuino, del Corso, and di Ripetta, meet, the two uprights of the
scaffold, between which glittered the curved knife of the _mandaïa_.

At the corner of the street they met the count’s steward, who was
awaiting his master. The window, let at an exorbitant price, which the
count had doubtless wished to conceal from his guests, was on the
second floor of the great palace, situated between the Via del Babuino
and the Monte Pincio. It consisted, as we have said, of a small
dressing-room, opening into a bedroom, and, when the door of
communication was shut, the inmates were quite alone. On chairs were
laid elegant masquerade costumes of blue and white satin.

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“As you left the choice of your costumes to me,” said the count to the
two friends, “I have had these brought, as they will be the most worn
this year; and they are most suitable, on account of the _confetti_
(sweetmeats), as they do not show the flour.”

Franz heard the words of the count but imperfectly, and he perhaps did
not fully appreciate this new attention to their wishes; for he was
wholly absorbed by the spectacle that the Piazza del Popolo presented,
and by the terrible instrument that was in the centre.

It was the first time Franz had ever seen a guillotine,—we say
guillotine, because the Roman _mandaïa_ is formed on almost the same
model as the French instrument.7 The knife, which is shaped like a
crescent, that cuts with the convex side, falls from a less height, and
that is all the difference.

Two men, seated on the movable plank on which the victim is laid, were
eating their breakfasts, while waiting for the criminal. Their repast
consisted apparently of bread and sausages. One of them lifted the
plank, took out a flask of wine, drank some, and then passed it to his
companion. These two men were the executioner’s assistants.

At this sight Franz felt the perspiration start forth upon his brow.

The prisoners, transported the previous evening from the Carceri Nuove
to the little church of Santa Maria del Popolo, had passed the night,
each accompanied by two priests, in a chapel closed by a grating,
before which were two sentinels, who were relieved at intervals. A
double line of carbineers, placed on each side of the door of the
church, reached to the scaffold, and formed a circle around it, leaving
a path about ten feet wide, and around the guillotine a space of nearly
a hundred feet.

All the rest of the square was paved with heads. Many women held their
infants on their shoulders, and thus the children had the best view.
The Monte Pincio seemed a vast amphitheatre filled with spectators; the
balconies of the two churches at the corner of the Via del Babuino and
the Via di Ripetta were crammed; the steps even seemed a parti-colored
sea, that was impelled towards the portico; every niche in the wall
held its living statue. What the count said was true—the most curious
spectacle in life is that of death.

And yet, instead of the silence and the solemnity demanded by the
occasion, laughter and jests arose from the crowd. It was evident that
the execution was, in the eyes of the people, only the commencement of
the Carnival.

Suddenly the tumult ceased, as if by magic, and the doors of the church
opened. A brotherhood of penitents, clothed from head to foot in robes
of gray sackcloth, with holes for the eyes, and holding in their hands
lighted tapers, appeared first; the chief marched at the head.

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Behind the penitents came a man of vast stature and proportions. He was
naked, with the exception of cloth drawers at the left side of which
hung a large knife in a sheath, and he bore on his right shoulder a
heavy iron sledge-hammer.

This man was the executioner.

He had, moreover, sandals bound on his feet by cords.

Behind the executioner came, in the order in which they were to die,
first Peppino and then Andrea. Each was accompanied by two priests.
Neither had his eyes bandaged.

Peppino walked with a firm step, doubtless aware of what awaited him.
Andrea was supported by two priests. Each of them, from time to time,
kissed the crucifix a confessor held out to them.

At this sight alone Franz felt his legs tremble under him. He looked at
Albert—he was as white as his shirt, and mechanically cast away his
cigar, although he had not half smoked it. The count alone seemed
unmoved—nay, more, a slight color seemed striving to rise in his pale
cheeks. His nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast that scents its
prey, and his lips, half opened, disclosed his white teeth, small and
sharp like those of a jackal. And yet his features wore an expression
of smiling tenderness, such as Franz had never before witnessed in
them; his black eyes especially were full of kindness and pity.

However, the two culprits advanced, and as they approached their faces
became visible. Peppino was a handsome young man of four or
five-and-twenty, bronzed by the sun; he carried his head erect, and
seemed on the watch to see on which side his liberator would appear.
Andrea was short and fat; his visage, marked with brutal cruelty, did
not indicate age; he might be thirty. In prison he had suffered his
beard to grow; his head fell on his shoulder, his legs bent beneath
him, and his movements were apparently automatic and unconscious.

“I thought,” said Franz to the count, “that you told me there would be
but one execution.”

“I told you true,” replied he coldly.

“And yet here are two culprits.”

“Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many
years to live.”

“If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose.”

“And see, here it is,” said the count. At the moment when Peppino
reached the foot of the _mandaïa_, a priest arrived in some haste,
forced his way through the soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of the
brotherhood, gave him a folded paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had
noticed all. The chief took the paper, unfolded it, and, raising his
hand, “Heaven be praised, and his Holiness also,” said he in a loud
voice; “here is a pardon for one of the prisoners!”

“A pardon!” cried the people with one voice; “a pardon!”

At this cry Andrea raised his head.

“Pardon for whom?” cried he.

Peppino remained breathless.

“A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca Priori,” said the principal friar.
And he passed the paper to the officer commanding the carbineers, who
read and returned it to him.

“For Peppino!” cried Andrea, who seemed roused from the torpor in which
he had been plunged. “Why for him and not for me? We ought to die
together. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to
put me to death alone. I will not die alone—I will not!”

And he broke from the priests struggling and raving like a wild beast,
and striving desperately to break the cords that bound his hands. The
executioner made a sign, and his two assistants leaped from the
scaffold and seized him.

“What is going on?” asked Franz of the count; for, as all the talk was
in the Roman dialect, he had not perfectly understood it.

“Do you not see?” returned the count, “that this human creature who is
about to die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with
him? and, were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his
teeth and nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be
deprived of. Oh, man, man—race of crocodiles,” cried the count,
extending his clenched hands towards the crowd, “how well do I
recognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of
yourselves!”

Meanwhile Andrea and the two executioners were struggling on the
ground, and he kept exclaiming, “He ought to die!—he shall die!—I will
not die alone!”

“Look, look,” cried the count, seizing the young men’s hands; “look,
for on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to
his fate, who was going to the scaffold to die—like a coward, it is
true, but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave
him strength? do you know what consoled him? It was, that another
partook of his punishment—that another partook of his anguish—that
another was to die before him! Lead two sheep to the butcher’s, two
oxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his
companion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will
bellow with joy. But man—man, whom God created in his own image—man,
upon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his
neighbor—man, to whom God has given a voice to express his
thoughts—what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A
blasphemy. Honor to man, this masterpiece of nature, this king of the
creation!”

And the count burst into a laugh; a terrible laugh, that showed he must
have suffered horribly to be able thus to laugh.

However, the struggle still continued, and it was dreadful to witness.
The two assistants carried Andrea up to the scaffold; the people all
took part against Andrea, and twenty thousand voices cried, “Put him to
death! put him to death!”

Franz sprang back, but the count seized his arm, and held him before
the window.

“What are you doing?” said he. “Do you pity him? If you heard the cry
of ‘Mad dog!’ you would take your gun—you would unhesitatingly shoot
the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten
by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one
of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to
kill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion
in captivity perish. No, no—look, look!”

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The recommendation was needless. Franz was fascinated by the horrible
spectacle.

The two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and there, in
spite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced him to his
knees. During this time the executioner had raised his mace, and signed
to them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise, but, ere he
had time, the mace fell on his left temple. A dull and heavy sound was
heard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then turned over
on his back.

The executioner let fall his mace, drew his knife, and with one stroke
opened his throat, and mounting on his stomach, stamped violently on it
with his feet. At every stroke a jet of blood sprang from the wound.

This time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half
fainting, into a seat.

Albert, with his eyes closed, was standing grasping the
window-curtains.

The count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel!



 Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome

When Franz recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of
water, of which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need; and
the count, who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced
mechanically towards the piazza—the scene was wholly changed; scaffold,
executioners, victims, all had disappeared; only the people remained,
full of noise and excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only
sounds on the pope’s decease and the opening of the Carnival, was
ringing a joyous peal.

“Well,” asked he of the count, “what has, then, happened?”

“Nothing,” replied the count; “only, as you see, the Carnival has
commenced. Make haste and dress yourself.”

“In fact,” said Franz, “this horrible scene has passed away like a
dream.”

“It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you.”

“Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit?”

“That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have
awakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate?”

“But Peppino—what has become of him?”

“Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in
proportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general
attention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this
distraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the
worthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and
egotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the
example.”

Albert was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black trousers and
varnished boots.

“Well, Albert,” said Franz, “do you feel much inclined to join the
revels? Come, answer frankly.”

“_Ma foi_, no,” returned Albert. “But I am really glad to have seen
such a sight; and I understand what the count said—that when you have
once habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one
that causes you any emotion.”

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“Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study
character,” said the count; “on the steps of the scaffold death tears
off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is
disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the
hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress
yourselves.”

Franz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two companions’
example. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that scarcely
equalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they
descended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with
sweetmeats and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages.

It is difficult to form an idea of the perfect change that had taken
place. Instead of the spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza
del Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A
crowd of masks flowed in from all sides, emerging from the doors,
descending from the windows. From every street and every corner drove
carriages filled with clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers,
pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and peasants, screaming,
fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with flour, confetti,
nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their missiles, friends
and foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately, and no one took
offence, or did anything but laugh.

Franz and Albert were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow,
have recourse to wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated,
feel a thick veil drawn between the past and the present. They saw, or
rather continued to see, the image of what they had witnessed; but
little by little the general vertigo seized them, and they felt
themselves obliged to take part in the noise and confusion.

A handful of confetti that came from a neighboring carriage, and which,
while it covered Morcerf and his two companions with dust, pricked his
neck and that portion of his face uncovered by his mask like a hundred
pins, incited him to join in the general combat, in which all the masks
around him were engaged. He rose in his turn, and seizing handfuls of
confetti and sweetmeats, with which the carriage was filled, cast them
with all the force and skill he was master of.

20177m



The strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen
half an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men’s minds,
so much were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they
now beheld.

As for the Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for an instant shown any
appearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and splendid Corso,
bordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces, with their
balconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At these
balconies are three hundred thousand spectators—Romans, Italians,
strangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth,
wealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the
scene, bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and
shower down confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems
darkened with the falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets
the lively crowd is dressed in the most fantastic costumes—gigantic
cabbages walk gravely about, buffaloes’ heads bellow from men’s
shoulders, dogs walk on their hind legs; in the midst of all this a
mask is lifted, and, as in Callot’s Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely
face is exhibited, which we would fain follow, but from which we are
separated by troops of fiends. This will give a faint idea of the
Carnival at Rome.

At the second turn, the count stopped the carriage, and requested
permission to withdraw, leaving the vehicle at their disposal. Franz
looked up—they were opposite the Rospoli Palace. At the centre window,
the one hung with white damask with a red cross, was a blue domino,
beneath which Franz’s imagination easily pictured the beautiful Greek
of the Argentina.

“Gentlemen,” said the count, springing out, “when you are tired of
being actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you
have places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my
carriage, and my servants.”

We have forgotten to mention, that the count’s coachman was attired in
a bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry’s in _The Bear and the Pasha_; and
the two footmen behind were dressed up as green monkeys, with spring
masks, with which they made grimaces at everyone who passed.

Franz thanked the count for his attention. As for Albert, he was busily
occupied throwing bouquets at a carriage full of Roman peasants that
was passing near him. Unfortunately for him, the line of carriages
moved on again, and while he descended the Piazza del Popolo, the other
ascended towards the Palazzo di Venezia.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said he to Franz; “you did not see?”

“What?”

“There,—that calash filled with Roman peasants.”

“No.”

“Well, I am convinced they are all charming women.”

“How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert,” said Franz; “here was
an opportunity of making up for past disappointments.”

“Oh,” replied he, half laughing, half serious; “I hope the Carnival
will not pass without some amends in one shape or the other.”

But, in spite of Albert’s hope, the day passed unmarked by any
incident, excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of
Roman peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely,
Albert’s mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the
bouquets into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females
Albert had detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by
his gallantry; for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she
threw a bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason
to suppose it was meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it.
Albert placed it in his button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly
on.

“Well,” said Franz to him; “there is the beginning of an adventure.”

“Laugh if you please—I really think so. So I will not abandon this
bouquet.”

“_Pardieu_,” returned Franz, laughing, “in token of your ingratitude.”

The jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and
Franz again encountered the carriage with the _contadini_, the one who
had thrown the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld
them in his button-hole.

“Bravo, bravo,” said Franz; “things go wonderfully. Shall I leave you?
Perhaps you would prefer being alone?”

“No,” replied he; “I will not be caught like a fool at a first
disclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the
opera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further,
we shall find her, or rather, she will find us tomorrow; then she will
give me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do.”

“On my word,” said Franz, “you are as wise as Nestor and prudent as
Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if
she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind.”

Albert was right; the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry
the intrigue no farther; for although the young men made several more
turns, they did not again see the calash, which had turned up one of
the neighboring streets. Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but
the count and the blue domino had also disappeared; the two windows,
hung with yellow damask, were still occupied by the persons whom the
count had invited.

At this moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the
mascherata sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line,
and in a second all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert
were opposite the Via delle Muratte; the coachman, without saying a
word, drove up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagna and the Rospoli
Palace and stopped at the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to
the door to receive his guests.

Franz hastened to inquire after the count, and to express regret that
he had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini reassured him by
saying that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a second carriage for
himself, and that it had gone at four o’clock to fetch him from the
Rospoli Palace.

The count had, moreover, charged him to offer the two friends the key
of his box at the Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to his
intentions; but Albert had great projects to put into execution before
going to the theatre; and instead of making any answer, he inquired if
Signor Pastrini could procure him a tailor.

“A tailor,” said the host; “and for what?”

“To make us between now and tomorrow two Roman peasant costumes,”
returned Albert.

The host shook his head.

“To make you two costumes between now and tomorrow? I ask your
excellencies’ pardon, but this is quite a French demand; for the next
week you will not find a single tailor who would consent to sew six
buttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a crown a piece for each
button.”

“Then I must give up the idea?”

“No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and tomorrow, when you
awake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be
satisfied.”

“My dear Albert,” said Franz, “leave all to our host; he has already
proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards
go and see _l’Italienne à Alger!_

“Agreed,” returned Albert; “but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my
friend and myself attach the greatest importance to having tomorrow the
costumes we have asked for.”

The host again assured them they might rely on him, and that their
wishes should be attended to; upon which Franz and Albert mounted to
their apartments, and proceeded to disencumber themselves of their
costumes. Albert, as he took off his dress, carefully preserved the
bunch of violets; it was his token reserved for the morrow.

The two friends sat down to table; but they could not refrain from
remarking the difference between the Count of Monte Cristo’s table and
that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in spite of the dislike
he seemed to have taken to the count, to confess that the advantage was
not on Pastrini’s side. During dessert, the servant inquired at what
time they wished for the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at each
other, fearing really to abuse the count’s kindness. The servant
understood them.

“His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo had,” he said, “given
positive orders that the carriage was to remain at their lordships’
orders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without fear of
indiscretion.”

They resolved to profit by the count’s courtesy, and ordered the horses
to be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which
they had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats
they had sustained.

20181m



This precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed
themselves in the count’s box. During the first act, the Countess G——
entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count the
previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place
of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an
opinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them,
that Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and,
availing himself of one of the privileges of the spectators of the
Italian theatres, who use their boxes to hold receptions, the two
friends went to pay their respects to the countess. Scarcely had they
entered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat of honor.
Albert, in his turn, sat behind.

“Well,” said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, “it seems you
have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new
Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.”

“Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess,” returned
Franz, “I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day.”

“All day?”

“Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all
day, and now we have taken possession of his box.”

“You know him, then?”

“Yes, and no.”

“How so?”

“It is a long story.”

“Tell it to me.”

“It would frighten you too much.”

“So much the more reason.”

“At least wait until the story has a conclusion.”

“Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his
acquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him?”

“No; it was he who introduced himself to us.”

“When?”

“Last night, after we left you.”

“Through what medium?”

“The very prosaic one of our landlord.”

“He is staying, then, at the Hôtel de Londres with you?”

“Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.”

“What is his name; for, of course, you know?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“That is not a family name?”

“No, it is the name of the island he has purchased.”

“And he is a count?”

“A Tuscan count.”

“Well, we must put up with that,” said the countess, who was herself
from one of the oldest Venetian families. “What sort of a man is he?”

“Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.”

“You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,” said the countess.

“We should be very hard to please, madam,” returned Albert, “did we not
think him delightful. A friend of ten years’ standing could not have
done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy.”

“Come,” observed the countess, smiling, “I see my vampire is only some
millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid
being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?”

“Her?”

20183m



“The beautiful Greek of yesterday.”

“No; we heard, I think, the sound of her _guzla_, but she remained
perfectly invisible.”

“When you say invisible,” interrupted Albert, “it is only to keep up
the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with
the white curtains?”

“Where was this window with white hangings?” asked the countess.

“At the Rospoli Palace.”

“The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?”

“Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with
white damask with a red cross? Those were the count’s windows.”

“Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were
worth?”

“Two or three hundred Roman crowns?”

“Two or three thousand.”

“The deuce!”

“Does his island produce him such a revenue?”

“It does not bring him a bajocco.”

“Then why did he purchase it?”

“For a whim.”

“He is an original, then?”

“In reality,” observed Albert, “he seemed to me somewhat eccentric;
were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was
a poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits
worthy of Didier or Anthony.”

At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and, according to custom, Franz
gave up his seat to him. This circumstance had, moreover, the effect of
changing the conversation; an hour afterwards the two friends returned
to their hotel.

Signor Pastrini had already set about procuring their disguises for the
morrow; and he assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The
next morning, at nine o’clock, he entered Franz’s room, followed by a
tailor, who had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they
selected two exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of
their hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the
long silk sashes of different colors with which the lower orders
decorate themselves on fête days.

Albert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress—a jacket and
breeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes with
buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off to
great advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist, and
when his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his shoulder
a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume has much
to do with the physical superiority we accord to certain nations. The
Turks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing robes, but
are they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up to the
chin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of wine
with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself in
the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus
engaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered.

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“Gentlemen,” said he, “although a companion is agreeable, perfect
freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today,
and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at
your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so
that you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray
you, for your pleasure or your business.”

The young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for
refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte
Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all
subjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said,
perfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A
glance at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was
a connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he
was no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with
chemistry. The two friends did not venture to return the count the
breakfast he had given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him
in exchange for his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor
Pastrini. They told him so frankly, and he received their excuses with
the air of a man who appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed
with the count’s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing
him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge.

The permission to do what he liked with the carriage pleased him above
all, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most elegant carriage the
preceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be upon an equal footing
with them. At half-past one they descended, the coachman and footman
had put on their livery over their disguises, which gave them a more
ridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them the applause of
Franz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his
button-hole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened into the
Corso by the Via Vittoria.

At the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage
filled with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his
friend, the peasants had changed their costume also; and whether it was
the result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them
both, while he had donned their costume, they had assumed his.

Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the
faded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it
to his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair
lady who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as
gay as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the
count appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed
he had disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation
between Albert and the fair peasant continued all day.

In the evening, on his return, Franz found a letter from the embassy,
informing him that he would have the honor of being received by his
holiness the next day. At each previous visit he had made to Rome, he
had solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as much by a
religious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital
of the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the feet
of one of St. Peter’s successors who has set the rare example of all
the virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his
condescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one’s self
without awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI.

On his return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he
brought away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad
gayety of the maskers would have been profanation.

At ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had
reassumed her peasant’s costume, and as she passed she raised her mask.
She was charming. Franz congratulated Albert, who received his
congratulations with the air of a man conscious that they are merited.
He had recognized by certain unmistakable signs, that his fair
_incognita_ belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his mind to
write to her the next day.

Franz remarked, while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have
something to ask of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He
insisted upon it, declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any
sacrifice the other wished.

Albert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and
then avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him
to occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz’s
absence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask.
Franz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of
an adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and
so flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect
indiscretion of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened;
and as, during three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a
similar piece of good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was
by no means sorry to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore
promised Albert that he would content himself the morrow with
witnessing the Carnival from the windows of the Rospoli Palace.

The next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous
bouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous
epistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the
bouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a
charming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin.

The evening was no longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but
that the fair unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated
his wishes by saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should
pass the next day in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was
not deceived, for the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly
shaking a folded paper which he held by one corner.

“Well,” said he, “was I mistaken?”

“She has answered you!” cried Franz.

“Read.”

This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took
the letter, and read:

“Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite
the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your
torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San
Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the
shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be
recognized. Until then you will not see me. —Constancy and Discretion.”

“Well,” asked he, when Franz had finished, “what do you think of that?”

“I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance.”

“I think so, also,” replied Albert; “and I very much fear you will go
alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s ball.”

Franz and Albert had received that morning an invitation from the
celebrated Roman banker.

“Take care, Albert,” said Franz. “All the nobility of Rome will be
present, and if your fair _incognita_ belong to the higher class of
society, she must go there.”

“Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same,” returned
Albert. “You have read the letter?”

“Yes.”

“You know how imperfectly the women of the _mezzo cito_ are educated in
Italy?” (This is the name of the lower class.)

“Yes.”

“Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can,
any blemish in the language or orthography.” The writing was, in
reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.

“You are born to good fortune,” said Franz, as he returned the letter.

“Laugh as much as you will,” replied Albert, “I am in love.”

“You alarm me,” cried Franz. “I see that I shall not only go alone to
the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.”

“If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,” said Albert, “I
shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I
have always had a great taste for archæology.”

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“Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of
seeing you a member of the Academy.”

Doubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the
academic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert’s
love had not taken away his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat
himself, free to recommence the discussion after dinner. After dinner,
the Count of Monte Cristo was announced. They had not seen him for two
days. Signor Pastrini informed them that business had called him to
Civita Vecchia. He had started the previous evening, and had only
returned an hour since. He was charming. Whether he kept a watch over
himself, or whether by accident he did not sound the acrimonious chords
that in other circumstances had been touched, he was tonight like
everybody else.

The man was an enigma to Franz. The count must feel sure that Franz
recognized him; and yet he had not let fall a single word indicating
any previous acquaintance between them. On his side, however great
Franz’s desire was to allude to their former interview, the fear of
being disagreeable to the man who had loaded him and his friend with
kindness prevented him from mentioning it.

The count had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at
the Argentina Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence,
he brought them the key of his own—at least such was the apparent
motive of his visit. Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging
their fear of depriving him of it; but the count replied that, as he
was going to the Palli Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would
be lost if they did not profit by it. This assurance determined the two
friends to accept it.

Franz had by degrees become accustomed to the count’s pallor, which had
so forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain
from admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or
rather the principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic
hero! Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him
without imagining his stern head upon Manfred’s shoulders, or beneath
Lara’s helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the
constant presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem
to penetrate to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip
that gives to the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses
them on the minds of those to whom they are addressed.

The count was no longer young. He was at least forty; and yet it was
easy to understand that he was formed to rule the young men with whom
he associated at present. And, to complete his resemblance with the
fantastic heroes of the English poet, the count seemed to have the
power of fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating on their good
fortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the
count exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always
acquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of the
project the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that,
with his eccentric character, his characteristic face, and his colossal
fortune, he would produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish
to be at Paris when the count was there.

The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that
is, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing.
The Countess G—— wished to revive the subject of the count, but Franz
announced he had something far newer to tell her, and, in spite of
Albert’s demonstrations of false modesty, he informed the countess of
the great event which had preoccupied them for the last three days. As
similar intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may credit
travellers, the comtess did not manifest the least incredulity, but
congratulated Albert on his success. They promised, upon separating, to
meet at the Duke of Bracciano’s ball, to which all Rome was invited.

The heroine of the bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of
her existence the morrow or the day after.

At length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the
Carnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o’clock in the morning,
as Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through
want of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival
before, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to the noise and
excitement. From two o’clock till five Franz and Albert followed in the
_fête_, exchanging handfuls of _confetti_ with the other carriages and
the pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses’ feet and the carriage
wheels without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight.

The _fêtes_ are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of
this history, who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not
recollect to have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those
events so common in other countries. Albert was triumphant in his
harlequin costume. A knot of rose-colored ribbons fell from his
shoulder almost to the ground. In order that there might be no
confusion, Franz wore his peasant’s costume.

As the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the
pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was
silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up
of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs,
oranges, and nosegays.

At three o’clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the Piazza del
Popolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din
and confusion) announced that the races were about to begin.

The races, like the _moccoli_, are one of the episodes peculiar to the
last days of the Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages
instantly broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these
evolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous
rapidity, without the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians
ranged themselves against the walls; then the trampling of horses and
the clashing of steel were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen
abreast, galloped up the Corso in order to clear it for the _barberi_.
When the detachment arrived at the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley
of fireworks was discharged, to announce that the street was clear.

Almost instantly, in the midst of a tremendous and general outcry,
seven or eight horses, excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand
spectators, passed by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo
fired three cannon to indicate that number three had won.

Immediately, without any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing
on towards the Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a
while, which again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream
again continued its course between its two granite banks.

A new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers
of _moccoletti_ entered on the scene. The _moccoli_, or _moccoletti_,
are candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight,
and which give to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival
two very serious problems to grapple with,—first, how to keep his own
_moccoletto_ alight; and secondly, how to extinguish the _moccoletti_
of others. The _moccoletto_ is like life: man has found but one means
of transmitting it, and that one comes from God. But he has discovered
a thousand means of taking it away, and the devil has somewhat aided
him. The _moccoletto_ is kindled by approaching it to a light. But who
can describe the thousand means of extinguishing the _moccoletto_?—the
gigantic bellows, the monstrous extinguishers, the superhuman fans.
Everyone hastened to purchase _moccoletti_—Franz and Albert among the
rest.

The night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of
“_Moccoletti_!” repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors,
two or three stars began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At
the end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from
the Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the
Piazza del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the _fête_
of Jack-o’-lanterns.

It is impossible to form any idea of it without having seen it. Suppose
that all the stars had descended from the sky and mingled in a wild
dance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied by cries that
were never heard in any other part of the world. The _facchino_ follows
the prince, the Transteverin the citizen, everyone blowing,
extinguishing, relighting. Had old Æolus appeared at this moment, he
would have been proclaimed king of the _moccoli_, and Aquilo the
heir-presumptive to the throne.

This battle of folly and flame continued for two hours; the Corso was
light as day; the features of the spectators on the third and fourth
stories were visible.

Every five minutes Albert took out his watch; at length it pointed to
seven. The two friends were in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang
out, bearing his _moccoletto_ in his hand. Two or three masks strove to
knock his _moccoletto_ out of his hand; but Albert, a first-rate
pugilist, sent them rolling in the street, one after the other, and
continued his course towards the church of San Giacomo.

The steps were crowded with masks, who strove to snatch each other’s
torches. Franz followed Albert with his eyes, and saw him mount the
first step.

Instantly a mask, wearing the well-known costume of a peasant woman,
snatched his _moccoletto_ from him without his offering any resistance.
Franz was too far off to hear what they said; but, without doubt,
nothing hostile passed, for he saw Albert disappear arm-in-arm with the
peasant girl. He watched them pass through the crowd for some time, but
at length he lost sight of them in the Via Macello.

Suddenly the bell that gives the signal for the end of the Carnival
sounded, and at the same instant all the _moccoletti_ were extinguished
as if by enchantment. It seemed as though one immense blast of the wind
had extinguished everyone.

Franz found himself in utter darkness. No sound was audible save that
of the carriages that were carrying the maskers home; nothing was
visible save a few lights that burnt behind the windows.

The Carnival was over.

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 Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian

In his whole life, perhaps, Franz had never before experienced so
sudden an impression, so rapid a transition from gayety to sadness, as
in this moment. It seemed as though Rome, under the magic breath of
some demon of the night, had suddenly changed into a vast tomb. By a
chance, which added yet more to the intensity of the darkness, the
moon, which was on the wane, did not rise until eleven o’clock, and the
streets which the young man traversed were plunged in the deepest
obscurity.

The distance was short, and at the end of ten minutes his carriage, or
rather the count’s, stopped before the Hôtel de Londres.

Dinner was waiting, but as Albert had told him that he should not
return so soon, Franz sat down without him. Signor Pastrini, who had
been accustomed to see them dine together, inquired into the cause of
his absence, but Franz merely replied that Albert had received on the
previous evening an invitation which he had accepted.

The sudden extinction of the _moccoletti_, the darkness which had
replaced the light, and the silence which had succeeded the turmoil,
had left in Franz’s mind a certain depression which was not free from
uneasiness. He therefore dined very silently, in spite of the officious
attention of his host, who presented himself two or three times to
inquire if he wanted anything.

Franz resolved to wait for Albert as late as possible. He ordered the
carriage, therefore, for eleven o’clock, desiring Signor Pastrini to
inform him the moment that Albert returned to the hotel.

At eleven o’clock Albert had not come back. Franz dressed himself, and
went out, telling his host that he was going to pass the night at the
Duke of Bracciano’s. The house of the Duke of Bracciano is one of the
most delightful in Rome, the duchess, one of the last heiresses of the
Colonnas, does its honors with the most consummate grace, and thus
their _fêtes_ have a European celebrity.

Franz and Albert had brought to Rome letters of introduction to them,
and their first question on his arrival was to inquire the whereabouts
of his travelling companion. Franz replied that he had left him at the
moment they were about to extinguish the _moccoli_, and that he had
lost sight of him in the Via Macello.

“Then he has not returned?” said the duke.

“I waited for him until this hour,” replied Franz.

“And do you know whither he went?”

“No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a
rendezvous.”

“_Diavolo!_” said the duke, “this is a bad day, or rather a bad night,
to be out late; is it not, countess?”

These words were addressed to the Countess G——, who had just arrived,
and was leaning on the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke’s brother.

“I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,” replied the
countess, “and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that
of its too rapid flight.”

“I am not speaking,” said the duke with a smile, “of the persons who
are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with
you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely;
I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.”

“Ah,” asked the countess, “who is out in the streets of Rome at this
hour, unless it be to go to a ball?”

“Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his
unknown about seven o’clock this evening,” said Franz, “and whom I have
not seen since.”

“And don’t you know where he is?”

“Not at all.”

“Is he armed?”

“He is in masquerade.”

“You should not have allowed him to go,” said the duke to Franz; “you,
who know Rome better than he does.”

“You might as well have tried to stop number three of the _barberi_,
who gained the prize in the race today,” replied Franz; “and then
moreover, what could happen to him?”

“Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via
Macello.” Franz felt a shudder run through his veins at observing that
the feeling of the duke and the countess was so much in unison with his
own personal disquietude.

“I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night
here, duke,” said Franz, “and desired them to come and inform me of his
return.”

“Ah,” replied the duke, “here I think, is one of my servants who is
seeking you.”

The duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to
him.

“Your excellency,” he said, “the master of the Hôtel de Londres has
sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from
the Viscount of Morcerf.”

“A letter from the viscount!” exclaimed Franz.

“Yes.”

“And who is the man?”

“I do not know.”

“Why did he not bring it to me here?”

“The messenger did not say.”

“And where is the messenger?”

“He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you.”

“Oh,” said the countess to Franz, “go with all speed—poor young man!
Perhaps some accident has happened to him.”

“I will hasten,” replied Franz.

“Shall we see you again to give us any information?” inquired the
countess.

“Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to
what I may do myself.”

“Be prudent, in any event,” said the countess.

“Oh! pray be assured of that.”

Franz took his hat and went away in haste. He had sent away his
carriage with orders for it to fetch him at two o’clock; fortunately
the Palazzo Bracciano, which is on one side in the Corso, and on the
other in the Square of the Holy Apostles, is hardly ten minutes’ walk
from the Hôtel de Londres.

As he came near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the middle of the street.
He had no doubt that it was the messenger from Albert. The man was
wrapped up in a large cloak. He went up to him, but, to his extreme
astonishment, the stranger first addressed him.

“What wants your excellency of me?” inquired the man, retreating a step
or two, as if to keep on his guard.

“Are not you the person who brought me a letter,” inquired Franz, “from
the Viscount of Morcerf?”

“Your excellency lodges at Pastrini’s hotel?”

“I do.”

“Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount?”

“I am.”

“Your excellency’s name——”

“Is the Baron Franz d’Épinay.”

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“Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed.”

“Is there any answer?” inquired Franz, taking the letter from him.

“Yes—your friend at least hopes so.”

“Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you.”

“I prefer waiting here,” said the messenger, with a smile.

“And why?”

“Your excellency will know when you have read the letter.”

“Shall I find you here, then?”

“Certainly.”

Franz entered the hotel. On the staircase he met Signor Pastrini.
“Well?” said the landlord.

“Well—what?” responded Franz.

“You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend?”
he asked of Franz.

“Yes, I have seen him,” he replied, “and he has handed this letter to
me. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please.”

The innkeeper gave orders to a servant to go before Franz with a light.
The young man had found Signor Pastrini looking very much alarmed, and
this had only made him the more anxious to read Albert’s letter; and so
he went instantly towards the waxlight, and unfolded it. It was written
and signed by Albert. Franz read it twice before he could comprehend
what it contained. It was thus worded:

“My dear Fellow,

“The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the
letter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square
drawer of the _secrétaire_; add your own to it, if it be not
sufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand
piastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have
this money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may
rely on me.

“Your friend,

“Albert de Morcerf.

“P.S.—I now believe in Italian _banditti_.”

Below these lines were written, in a strange hand, the following in
Italian:

“_Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie
mani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere_.

“Luigi Vampa.”

“_If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my
hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live_.”

This second signature explained everything to Franz, who now understood
the objection of the messenger to coming up into the apartment; the
street was safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen into the hands of
the famous bandit chief, in whose existence he had for so long a time
refused to believe.

There was no time to lose. He hastened to open the _secrétaire_, and
found the pocket-book in the drawer, and in it the letter of credit.
There were in all six thousand piastres, but of these six thousand
Albert had already expended three thousand.

As to Franz, he had no letter of credit, as he lived at Florence, and
had only come to Rome to pass seven or eight days; he had brought but a
hundred louis, and of these he had not more than fifty left. Thus seven
or eight hundred piastres were wanting to them both to make up the sum
that Albert required. True, he might in such a case rely on the
kindness of Signor Torlonia. He was, therefore, about to return to the
Palazzo Bracciano without loss of time, when suddenly a luminous idea
crossed his mind.

He remembered the Count of Monte Cristo. Franz was about to ring for
Signor Pastrini, when that worthy presented himself.

“My dear sir,” he said, hastily, “do you know if the count is within?”

“Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned.”

“Is he in bed?”

“I should say no.”

“Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as
to give me an audience.”

Signor Pastrini did as he was desired, and returning five minutes
after, he said:

“The count awaits your excellency.”

Franz went along the corridor, and a servant introduced him to the
count. He was in a small room which Franz had not yet seen, and which
was surrounded with divans. The count came towards him.

“Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour?” said he; “have
you come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you.”

“No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter.”

“A serious matter,” said the count, looking at Franz with the
earnestness usual to him; “and what may it be?”

“Are we alone?”

“Yes,” replied the count, going to the door, and returning. Franz gave
him Albert’s letter.

“Read that,” he said.

The count read it.

“Well, well!” said he.

“Did you see the postscript?”

“I did, indeed.

“_‘Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle
mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. _

“‘Luigi Vampa.’”

“What think you of that?” inquired Franz.

“Have you the money he demands?”

“Yes, all but eight hundred piastres.”

The count went to his _secrétaire_, opened it, and pulling out a drawer
filled with gold, said to Franz, “I hope you will not offend me by
applying to anyone but myself.”

“You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,” replied
Franz.

“And I thank you; have what you will;” and he made a sign to Franz to
take what he pleased.

“Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa?”
asked the young man, looking fixedly in his turn at the count.

“Judge for yourself,” replied he. “The postscript is explicit.”

“I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could
find a way of simplifying the negotiation,” said Franz.

“How so?” returned the count, with surprise.

“If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not
refuse you Albert’s freedom.”

“What influence can I possibly have over a bandit?”

“Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten?”

“What is that?”

“Have you not saved Peppino’s life?”

“Well, well,” said the count, “who told you that?”

“No matter; I know it.” The count knit his brows, and remained silent
an instant.

“And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me?”

“If my society would not be disagreeable.”

“Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us
both good.”

“Shall I take any arms?”

“For what purpose?”

“Any money?”

“It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter?”

“In the street.”

“He awaits the answer?”

“Yes.”

“I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither.”

“It is useless; he would not come up.”

“To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at
entering mine.”

The count went to the window of the apartment that looked on to the
street, and whistled in a peculiar manner. The man in the mantle
quitted the wall, and advanced into the middle of the street.
“_Salite!_” said the count, in the same tone in which he would have
given an order to his servant. The messenger obeyed without the least
hesitation, but rather with alacrity, and, mounting the steps at a
bound, entered the hotel; five seconds afterwards he was at the door of
the room.

“Ah, it is you, Peppino,” said the count. But Peppino, instead of
answering, threw himself on his knees, seized the count’s hand, and
covered it with kisses. “Ah,” said the count, “you have, then, not
forgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week
ago.”

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“No, excellency; and never shall I forget it,” returned Peppino, with
an accent of profound gratitude.

“Never? That is a long time; but it is something that you believe so.
Rise and answer.”

Peppino glanced anxiously at Franz.

“Oh, you may speak before his excellency,” said he; “he is one of my
friends. You allow me to give you this title?” continued the count in
French, “it is necessary to excite this man’s confidence.”

“You can speak before me,” said Franz; “I am a friend of the count’s.”

“Good!” returned Peppino. “I am ready to answer any questions your
excellency may address to me.”

“How did the Viscount Albert fall into Luigi’s hands?”

“Excellency, the Frenchman’s carriage passed several times the one in
which was Teresa.”

“The chief’s mistress?”

“Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet; Teresa returned it—all this
with the consent of the chief, who was in the carriage.”

“What?” cried Franz, “was Luigi Vampa in the carriage with the Roman
peasants?”

“It was he who drove, disguised as the coachman,” replied Peppino.

“Well?” said the count.

“Well, then, the Frenchman took off his mask; Teresa, with the chief’s
consent, did the same. The Frenchman asked for a rendezvous; Teresa
gave him one—only, instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was on the steps
of the church of San Giacomo.”

“What!” exclaimed Franz, “the peasant girl who snatched his _mocoletto_
from him——”

“Was a lad of fifteen,” replied Peppino. “But it was no disgrace to
your friend to have been deceived; Beppo has taken in plenty of
others.”

“And Beppo led him outside the walls?” said the count.

“Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at the end of the Via Macello.
Beppo got in, inviting the Frenchman to follow him, and he did not wait
to be asked twice. He gallantly offered the right-hand seat to Beppo,
and sat by him. Beppo told him he was going to take him to a villa a
league from Rome; the Frenchman assured him he would follow him to the
end of the world. The coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and the Porta
San Paolo; and when they were two hundred yards outside, as the
Frenchman became somewhat too forward, Beppo put a brace of pistols to
his head, the coachman pulled up and did the same. At the same time,
four of the band, who were concealed on the banks of the Almo,
surrounded the carriage. The Frenchman made some resistance, and nearly
strangled Beppo; but he could not resist five armed men, and was forced
to yield. They made him get out, walk along the banks of the river, and
then brought him to Teresa and Luigi, who were waiting for him in the
catacombs of St. Sebastian.”

“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “it seems to me that
this is a very likely story. What do you say to it?”

“Why, that I should think it very amusing,” replied Franz, “if it had
happened to anyone but poor Albert.”

“And, in truth, if you had not found me here,” said the count, “it
might have proved a gallant adventure which would have cost your friend
dear; but now, be assured, his alarm will be the only serious
consequence.”

“And shall we go and find him?” inquired Franz.

“Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very picturesque place—do you know the
catacombs of St. Sebastian?”

“I was never in them; but I have often resolved to visit them.”

“Well, here is an opportunity made to your hand, and it would be
difficult to contrive a better. Have you a carriage?”

“No.”

“That is of no consequence; I always have one ready, day and night.”

“Always ready?”

“Yes. I am a very capricious being, and I should tell you that
sometimes when I rise, or after my dinner, or in the middle of the
night, I resolve on starting for some particular point, and away I go.”

The count rang, and a footman appeared.

“Order out the carriage,” he said, “and remove the pistols which are in
the holsters. You need not awaken the coachman; Ali will drive.”

In a very short time the noise of wheels was heard, and the carriage
stopped at the door. The count took out his watch.

“Half-past twelve,” he said. “We might start at five o’clock and be in
time, but the delay may cause your friend to pass an uneasy night, and
therefore we had better go with all speed to extricate him from the
hands of the infidels. Are you still resolved to accompany me?”

“More determined than ever.”

“Well, then, come along.”

Franz and the count went downstairs, accompanied by Peppino. At the
door they found the carriage. Ali was on the box, in whom Franz
recognized the dumb slave of the grotto of Monte Cristo. Franz and the
count got into the carriage. Peppino placed himself beside Ali, and
they set off at a rapid pace. Ali had received his instructions, and
went down the Corso, crossed the Campo Vaccino, went up the Strada San
Gregorio, and reached the gates of St. Sebastian. Then the porter
raised some difficulties, but the Count of Monte Cristo produced a
permit from the governor of Rome, allowing him to leave or enter the
city at any hour of the day or night; the portcullis was therefore
raised, the porter had a louis for his trouble, and they went on their
way.

The road which the carriage now traversed was the ancient Appian Way,
and bordered with tombs. From time to time, by the light of the moon,
which began to rise, Franz imagined that he saw something like a
sentinel appear at various points among the ruins, and suddenly retreat
into the darkness on a signal from Peppino.

A short time before they reached the Baths of Caracalla the carriage
stopped, Peppino opened the door, and the count and Franz alighted.

“In ten minutes,” said the count to his companion, “we shall be there.”

He then took Peppino aside, gave him an order in a low voice, and
Peppino went away, taking with him a torch, brought with them in the
carriage. Five minutes elapsed, during which Franz saw the shepherd
going along a narrow path that led over the irregular and broken
surface of the Campagna; and finally he disappeared in the midst of the
tall red herbage, which seemed like the bristling mane of an enormous
lion.

“Now,” said the count, “let us follow him.”

Franz and the count in their turn then advanced along the same path,
which, at the distance of a hundred paces, led them over a declivity to
the bottom of a small valley. They then perceived two men conversing in
the obscurity.

“Ought we to go on?” asked Franz of the count; “or should we pause?”

“Let us go on; Peppino will have warned the sentry of our coming.”

One of the two men was Peppino, and the other a bandit on the lookout.
Franz and the count advanced, and the bandit saluted them.

“Your excellency,” said Peppino, addressing the count, “if you will
follow me, the opening of the catacombs is close at hand.”

“Go on, then,” replied the count. They came to an opening behind a
clump of bushes and in the midst of a pile of rocks, by which a man
could scarcely pass. Peppino glided first into this crevice; after they
got along a few paces the passage widened. Peppino passed, lighted his
torch, and turned to see if they came after him. The count first
reached an open space and Franz followed him closely. The passageway
sloped in a gentle descent, enlarging as they proceeded; still Franz
and the count were compelled to advance in a stooping posture, and were
scarcely able to proceed abreast of one another. They went on a hundred
and fifty paces in this way, and then were stopped by, “Who comes
there?” At the same time they saw the reflection of a torch on a
carbine barrel.

“A friend!” responded Peppino; and, advancing alone towards the sentry,
he said a few words to him in a low tone; and then he, like the first,
saluted the nocturnal visitors, making a sign that they might proceed.

Behind the sentinel was a staircase with twenty steps. Franz and the
count descended these, and found themselves in a mortuary chamber. Five
corridors diverged like the rays of a star, and the walls, dug into
niches, which were arranged one above the other in the shape of
coffins, showed that they were at last in the catacombs. Down one of
the corridors, whose extent it was impossible to determine, rays of
light were visible. The count laid his hand on Franz’s shoulder.

“Would you like to see a camp of bandits in repose?” he inquired.

“Exceedingly,” replied Franz.

“Come with me, then. Peppino, put out the torch.” Peppino obeyed, and
Franz and the count were in utter darkness, except that fifty paces in
advance of them a reddish glare, more evident since Peppino had put out
his torch, was visible along the wall.

They advanced silently, the count guiding Franz as if he had the
singular faculty of seeing in the dark. Franz himself, however, saw his
way more plainly in proportion as he went on towards the light, which
served in some manner as a guide. Three arcades were before them, and
the middle one was used as a door. These arcades opened on one side
into the corridor where the count and Franz were, and on the other into
a large square chamber, entirely surrounded by niches similar to those
of which we have spoken.

In the midst of this chamber were four stones, which had formerly
served as an altar, as was evident from the cross which still
surmounted them. A lamp, placed at the base of a pillar, lighted up
with its pale and flickering flame the singular scene which presented
itself to the eyes of the two visitors concealed in the shadow.

A man was seated with his elbow leaning on the column, and was reading
with his back turned to the arcades, through the openings of which the
new-comers contemplated him. This was the chief of the band, Luigi
Vampa. Around him, and in groups, according to their fancy, lying in
their mantles, or with their backs against a sort of stone bench, which
went all round the columbarium, were to be seen twenty brigands or
more, each having his carbine within reach. At the other end, silent,
scarcely visible, and like a shadow, was a sentinel, who was walking up
and down before a grotto, which was only distinguishable because in
that spot the darkness seemed more dense than elsewhere.

When the count thought Franz had gazed sufficiently on this picturesque
tableau, he raised his finger to his lips, to warn him to be silent,
and, ascending the three steps which led to the corridor of the
columbarium, entered the chamber by the middle arcade, and advanced
towards Vampa, who was so intent on the book before him that he did not
hear the noise of his footsteps.

“Who comes there?” cried the sentinel, who was less abstracted, and who
saw by the lamp-light a shadow approaching his chief. At this
challenge, Vampa rose quickly, drawing at the same moment a pistol from
his girdle. In a moment all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty
carbines were levelled at the count.

“Well,” said he in a voice perfectly calm, and no muscle of his
countenance disturbed, “well, my dear Vampa, it appears to me that you
receive a friend with a great deal of ceremony.”

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“Ground arms,” exclaimed the chief, with an imperative sign of the
hand, while with the other he took off his hat respectfully; then,
turning to the singular personage who had caused this scene, he said,
“Your pardon, your excellency, but I was so far from expecting the
honor of a visit, that I did not really recognize you.”

“It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,” said
the count, “and that not only do you forget people’s faces, but also
the conditions you make with them.”

“What conditions have I forgotten, your excellency?” inquired the
bandit, with the air of a man who, having committed an error, is
anxious to repair it.

“Was it not agreed,” asked the count, “that not only my person, but
also that of my friends, should be respected by you?”

“And how have I broken that treaty, your excellency?”

“You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount
Albert de Morcerf. Well,” continued the count, in a tone that made
Franz shudder, “this young gentleman is one of _my friends_—this young
gentleman lodges in the same hotel as myself—this young gentleman has
been up and down the Corso for eight hours in my private carriage, and
yet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off, and conveyed him
hither, and,” added the count, taking the letter from his pocket, “you
have set a ransom on him, as if he were an utter stranger.”

“Why did you not tell me all this—you?” inquired the brigand chief,
turning towards his men, who all retreated before his look. “Why have
you caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the
count, who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought one
of you knew that the young gentleman was the friend of his excellency,
I would blow his brains out with my own hand!”

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“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “I told you there was
some mistake in this.”

“Are you not alone?” asked Vampa with uneasiness.

“I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I
desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, your
excellency,” the count added, turning to Franz, “here is Luigi Vampa,
who will himself express to you his deep regret at the mistake he has
committed.”

Franz approached, the chief advancing several steps to meet him.

“Welcome among us, your excellency,” he said to him; “you heard what
the count just said, and also my reply; let me add that I would not for
the four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend’s ransom,
that this had happened.”

“But,” said Franz, looking round him uneasily, “where is the
viscount?—I do not see him.”

“Nothing has happened to him, I hope,” said the count frowningly.

“The prisoner is there,” replied Vampa, pointing to the hollow space in
front of which the bandit was on guard, “and I will go myself and tell
him he is free.”

The chief went towards the place he had pointed out as Albert’s prison,
and Franz and the count followed him.

“What is the prisoner doing?” inquired Vampa of the sentinel.

“_Ma foi_, captain,” replied the sentry, “I do not know; for the last
hour I have not heard him stir.”

“Come in, your excellency,” said Vampa. The count and Franz ascended
seven or eight steps after the chief, who drew back a bolt and opened a
door. Then, by the gleam of a lamp, similar to that which lighted the
columbarium, Albert was to be seen wrapped up in a cloak which one of
the bandits had lent him, lying in a corner in profound slumber.

“Come,” said the count, smiling with his own peculiar smile, “not so
bad for a man who is to be shot at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Vampa looked at Albert with a kind of admiration; he was not insensible
to such a proof of courage.

“You are right, your excellency,” he said; “this must be one of your
friends.”

Then going to Albert, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Will
your excellency please to awaken?”

Albert stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyelids, and opened his eyes.

“Oh,” said he, “is it you, captain? You should have allowed me to
sleep. I had such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at
Torlonia’s with the Countess G——.” Then he drew his watch from his
pocket, that he might see how time sped.

“Half-past one only?” said he. “Why the devil do you rouse me at this
hour?”

“To tell you that you are free, your excellency.”

“My dear fellow,” replied Albert, with perfect ease of mind, “remember,
for the future, Napoleon’s maxim, ‘Never awaken me but for bad news;’
if you had let me sleep on, I should have finished my galop, and have
been grateful to you all my life. So, then, they have paid my ransom?”

“No, your excellency.”

“Well, then, how am I free?”

“A person to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand you.”

“Come hither?”

“Yes, hither.”

“Really? Then that person is a most amiable person.”

Albert looked around and perceived Franz. “What,” said he, “is it you,
my dear Franz, whose devotion and friendship are thus displayed?”

“No, not I,” replied Franz, “but our neighbor, the Count of Monte
Cristo.”

“Oh, my dear count,” said Albert gayly, arranging his cravat and
wristbands, “you are really most kind, and I hope you will consider me
as under eternal obligations to you, in the first place for the
carriage, and in the next for this visit,” and he put out his hand to
the count, who shuddered as he gave his own, but who nevertheless did
give it.

The bandit gazed on this scene with amazement; he was evidently
accustomed to see his prisoners tremble before him, and yet here was
one whose gay temperament was not for a moment altered; as for Franz,
he was enchanted at the way in which Albert had sustained the national
honor in the presence of the bandit.

“My dear Albert,” he said, “if you will make haste, we shall yet have
time to finish the night at Torlonia’s. You may conclude your
interrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi,
who has, indeed, throughout this whole affair acted like a gentleman.”

“You are decidedly right, and we may reach the Palazzo by two o’clock.
Signor Luigi,” continued Albert, “is there any formality to fulfil
before I take leave of your excellency?”

“None, sir,” replied the bandit, “you are as free as air.”

“Well, then, a happy and merry life to you. Come, gentlemen, come.”

And Albert, followed by Franz and the count, descended the staircase,
crossed the square chamber, where stood all the bandits, hat in hand.

“Peppino,” said the brigand chief, “give me the torch.”

“What are you going to do?” inquired the count.

“I will show you the way back myself,” said the captain; “that is the
least honor that I can render to your excellency.”

And taking the lighted torch from the hands of the herdsman, he
preceded his guests, not as a servant who performs an act of civility,
but like a king who precedes ambassadors. On reaching the door, he
bowed.

“And now, your excellency,” added he, “allow me to repeat my apologies,
and I hope you will not entertain any resentment at what has occurred.”

“No, my dear Vampa,” replied the count; “besides, you compensate for
your mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that one almost feels obliged to
you for having committed them.”

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“Gentlemen,” added the chief, turning towards the young men, “perhaps
the offer may not appear very tempting to you; but if you should ever
feel inclined to pay me a second visit, wherever I may be, you shall be
welcome.”

Franz and Albert bowed. The count went out first, then Albert. Franz
paused for a moment.

“Has your excellency anything to ask me?” said Vampa with a smile.

“Yes, I have,” replied Franz; “I am curious to know what work you were
perusing with so much attention as we entered.”

“Cæsar’s _Commentaries_,” said the bandit, “it is my favorite work.”

“Well, are you coming?” asked Albert.

“Yes,” replied Franz, “here I am,” and he, in his turn, left the caves.
They advanced to the plain.

“Ah, your pardon,” said Albert, turning round; “will you allow me,
captain?”

And he lighted his cigar at Vampa’s torch.

“Now, my dear count,” he said, “let us on with all the speed we may. I
am enormously anxious to finish my night at the Duke of Bracciano’s.”

They found the carriage where they had left it. The count said a word
in Arabic to Ali, and the horses went on at great speed.

It was just two o’clock by Albert’s watch when the two friends entered
into the dancing-room. Their return was quite an event, but as they
entered together, all uneasiness on Albert’s account ceased instantly.

“Madame,” said the Viscount of Morcerf, advancing towards the countess,
“yesterday you were so condescending as to promise me a galop; I am
rather late in claiming this gracious promise, but here is my friend,
whose character for veracity you well know, and he will assure you the
delay arose from no fault of mine.”

And as at this moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz,
Albert put his arm round the waist of the countess, and disappeared
with her in the whirl of dancers.

In the meanwhile Franz was considering the singular shudder that had
passed over the Count of Monte Cristo at the moment when he had been,
in some sort, forced to give his hand to Albert.



 Chapter 38. The Rendezvous

The first words that Albert uttered to his friend, on the following
morning, contained a request that Franz would accompany him on a visit
to the count; true, the young man had warmly and energetically thanked
the count on the previous evening; but services such as he had rendered
could never be too often acknowledged. Franz, who seemed attracted by
some invisible influence towards the count, in which terror was
strangely mingled, felt an extreme reluctance to permit his friend to
be exposed alone to the singular fascination that this mysterious
personage seemed to exercise over him, and therefore made no objection
to Albert’s request, but at once accompanied him to the desired spot,
and, after a short delay, the count joined them in the salon.

“My dear count,” said Albert, advancing to meet him, “permit me to
repeat the poor thanks I offered last night, and to assure you that the
remembrance of all I owe to you will never be effaced from my memory;
believe me, as long as I live, I shall never cease to dwell with
grateful recollection on the prompt and important service you rendered
me; and also to remember that to you I am indebted even for my life.”

“My very good friend and excellent neighbor,” replied the count, with a
smile, “you really exaggerate my trifling exertions. You owe me nothing
but some trifle of 20,000 francs, which you have been saved out of your
travelling expenses, so that there is not much of a score between
us;—but you must really permit me to congratulate you on the ease and
unconcern with which you resigned yourself to your fate, and the
perfect indifference you manifested as to the turn events might take.”

“Upon my word,” said Albert, “I deserve no credit for what I could not
help, namely, a determination to take everything as I found it, and to
let those bandits see, that although men get into troublesome scrapes
all over the world, there is no nation but the French that can smile
even in the face of grim Death himself. All that, however, has nothing
to do with my obligations to you, and I now come to ask you whether, in
my own person, my family, or connections, I can in any way serve you?
My father, the Comte de Morcerf, although of Spanish origin, possesses
considerable influence, both at the court of France and Madrid, and I
unhesitatingly place the best services of myself, and all to whom my
life is dear, at your disposal.”

“Monsieur de Morcerf,” replied the count, “your offer, far from
surprising me, is precisely what I expected from you, and I accept it
in the same spirit of hearty sincerity with which it is made;—nay, I
will go still further, and say that I had previously made up my mind to
ask a great favor at your hands.”

“Oh, pray name it.”

“I am wholly a stranger to Paris—it is a city I have never yet seen.”

“Is it possible,” exclaimed Albert, “that you have reached your present
age without visiting the finest capital in the world? I can scarcely
credit it.”

“Nevertheless, it is quite true; still, I agree with you in thinking
that my present ignorance of the first city in Europe is a reproach to
me in every way, and calls for immediate correction; but, in all
probability, I should have performed so important, so necessary a duty,
as that of making myself acquainted with the wonders and beauties of
your justly celebrated capital, had I known any person who would have
introduced me into the fashionable world, but unfortunately I possessed
no acquaintance there, and, of necessity, was compelled to abandon the
idea.”

“So distinguished an individual as yourself,” cried Albert, “could
scarcely have required an introduction.”

“You are most kind; but as regards myself, I can find no merit I
possess, save that, as a millionaire, I might have become a partner in
the speculations of M. Aguado and M. Rothschild; but as my motive in
travelling to your capital would not have been for the pleasure of
dabbling in stocks, I stayed away till some favorable chance should
present itself of carrying my wish into execution. Your offer, however,
smooths all difficulties, and I have only to ask you, my dear M. de
Morcerf” (these words were accompanied by a most peculiar smile),
“whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the
doors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or
a native of Cochin-China?”

“Oh, that I do, and with infinite pleasure,” answered Albert; “and so
much the more readily as a letter received this morning from my father
summons me to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of marriage (my dear
Franz, do not smile, I beg of you) with a family of high standing, and
connected with the very cream of Parisian society.”

“Connected by marriage, you mean,” said Franz, laughingly.

“Well, never mind how it is,” answered Albert, “it comes to the same
thing in the end. Perhaps by the time you return to Paris, I shall be
quite a sober, staid father of a family! A most edifying representative
I shall make of all the domestic virtues—don’t you think so? But as
regards your wish to visit our fine city, my dear count, I can only say
that you may command me and mine to any extent you please.”

“Then it is settled,” said the count, “and I give you my solemn
assurance that I only waited an opportunity like the present to realize
plans that I have long meditated.”

Franz did not doubt that these plans were the same concerning which the
count had dropped a few words in the grotto of Monte Cristo, and while
the count was speaking the young man watched him closely, hoping to
read something of his purpose in his face, but his countenance was
inscrutable especially when, as in the present case, it was veiled in a
sphinx-like smile.

“But tell me now, count,” exclaimed Albert, delighted at the idea of
having to chaperon so distinguished a person as Monte Cristo; “tell me
truly whether you are in earnest, or if this project of visiting Paris
is merely one of the chimerical and uncertain air castles of which we
make so many in the course of our lives, but which, like a house built
on the sand, is liable to be blown over by the first puff of wind?”

“I pledge you my honor,” returned the count, “that I mean to do as I
have said; both inclination and positive necessity compel me to visit
Paris.”

“When do you propose going thither?”

“Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself?”

“Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks’ time, that is to say,
as fast as I can get there!”

“Nay,” said the Count; “I will give you three months ere I join you;
you see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties.

“And in three months’ time,” said Albert, “you will be at my house?”

“Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour?”
inquired the count; “only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my
punctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements.”

“Day for day, hour for hour,” said Albert; “that will suit me to a
dot.”

“So be it, then,” replied the count, and extending his hand towards a
calendar, suspended near the chimney-piece, he said, “today is the 21st
of February;” and drawing out his watch, added, “it is exactly
half-past ten o’clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me
the 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Albert; “your breakfast shall be waiting.”

“Where do you live?”

“No. 27, Rue du Helder.”

“Have you bachelor’s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put
you to any inconvenience.”

“I reside in my father’s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther
side of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building.”

“Quite sufficient,” replied the count, as, taking out his tablets, he
wrote down “No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May, half-past ten in the
morning.”

“Now then,” said the count, returning his tablets to his pocket, “make
yourself perfectly easy; the hand of your time-piece will not be more
accurate in marking the time than myself.”

“Shall I see you again ere my departure?” asked Albert.

“That depends; when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock.”

“In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to
Naples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday
morning. And you, baron,” pursued the count, addressing Franz, “do you
also depart tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“For France?”

“No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two.”

“Then we shall not meet in Paris?”

“I fear I shall not have that honor.”

“Well, since we must part,” said the count, holding out a hand to each
of the young men, “allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant
journey.”

It was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that
of the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered
at its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse.

20219m



“Let us understand each other,” said Albert; “it is agreed—is it
not?—that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of
May, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for
your punctuality?”

“The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No.
27,” replied the count.

The young men then rose, and bowing to the count, quitted the room.

“What is the matter?” asked Albert of Franz, when they had returned to
their own apartments; “you seem more than commonly thoughtful.”

“I will confess to you, Albert,” replied Franz, “the count is a very
singular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris
fills me with a thousand apprehensions.”

“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Albert, “what can there possibly be in that
to excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses.”

“Whether I am in my senses or not,” answered Franz, “that is the way I
feel.”

“Listen to me, Franz,” said Albert; “I am glad that the occasion has
presented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold
you are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand,
has always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular
against him?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither?”

“I have.”

“And where?”

“Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to
tell you?”

“I promise.”

“Upon your honor?”

“Upon my honor.”

“Then listen to me.”

Franz then related to his friend the history of his excursion to the
Island of Monte Cristo and of his finding a party of smugglers there,
and the two Corsican bandits with them. He dwelt with considerable
force and energy on the almost magical hospitality he had received from
the count, and the magnificence of his entertainment in the grotto of
the _Thousand and One Nights_.

He recounted, with circumstantial exactitude, all the particulars of
the supper, the hashish, the statues, the dream, and how, at his
awakening, there remained no proof or trace of all these events, save
the small yacht, seen in the distant horizon driving under full sail
toward Porto-Vecchio.

Then he detailed the conversation overheard by him at the Colosseum,
between the count and Vampa, in which the count had promised to obtain
the release of the bandit Peppino,—an engagement which, as our readers
are aware, he most faithfully fulfilled.

At last he arrived at the adventure of the preceding night, and the
embarrassment in which he found himself placed by not having sufficient
cash by six or seven hundred piastres to make up the sum required, and
finally of his application to the count and the picturesque and
satisfactory result that followed. Albert listened with the most
profound attention.

“Well,” said he, when Franz had concluded, “what do you find to object
to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being
rich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or
Southampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts
belonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have
the same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a
resting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched
cookery—which has been trying its best to poison me during the last
four months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many
years,—and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte
Cristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first
found him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government
taking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of
the advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital,
he has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask
yourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our
acquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in
their lives were masters of?”

“But,” said Franz, “the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of
his vessel?”

“Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better
than yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves,
but purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from
their native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no
disgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go
to Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or
prefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to
find them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire
greatly.”

“Still,” persisted Franz, “I suppose you will allow that such men as
Vampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than
plunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence
the count evidently possessed over those ruffians?”

“My good friend, as in all probability I own my present safety to that
influence, it would ill become me to search too closely into its
source; therefore, instead of condemning him for his intimacy with
outlaws, you must give me leave to excuse any little irregularity there
may be in such a connection; not altogether for preserving my life, for
my own idea was that it never was in much danger, but certainly for
saving me 4,000 piastres, which, being translated, means neither more
nor less than 24,000 livres of our money—a sum at which, most
assuredly, I should never have been estimated in France, proving most
indisputably,” added Albert with a laugh, “that no prophet is honored
in his own country.”

“Talking of countries,” replied Franz, “of what country is the count,
what is his native tongue, whence does he derive his immense fortune,
and what were those events of his early life—a life as marvellous as
unknown—that have tinctured his succeeding years with so dark and
gloomy a misanthropy? Certainly these are questions that, in your
place, I should like to have answered.”

“My dear Franz,” replied Albert, “when, upon receipt of my letter, you
found the necessity of asking the count’s assistance, you promptly went
to him, saying, ‘My friend Albert de Morcerf is in danger; help me to
deliver him.’ Was not that nearly what you said?”

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“It was.”

“Well, then, did he ask you, ‘Who is M. Albert de Morcerf? how does he
come by his name—his fortune? what are his means of existence? what is
his birthplace? of what country is he a native?’ Tell me, did he put
all these questions to you?”

“I confess he asked me none.”

“No; he merely came and freed me from the hands of Signor Vampa, where,
I can assure you, in spite of all my outward appearance of ease and
unconcern, I did not very particularly care to remain. Now, then,
Franz, when, for services so promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he
but asks me in return to do for him what is done daily for any Russian
prince or Italian nobleman who may pass through Paris—merely to
introduce him into society—would you have me refuse? My good fellow,
you must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with
such cold-blooded policy.”

And this time it must be confessed that, contrary to the usual state of
affairs in discussions between the young men, the effective arguments
were all on Albert’s side.

“Well,” said Franz with a sigh, “do as you please my dear viscount, for
your arguments are beyond my powers of refutation. Still, in spite of
all, you must admit that this Count of Monte Cristo is a most singular
personage.”

“He is a philanthropist,” answered the other; “and no doubt his motive
in visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize, given, as you
are aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most materially advanced
the interests of virtue and humanity. If my vote and interest can
obtain it for him, I will readily give him the one and promise the
other. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk of something else. Come,
shall we take our luncheon, and then pay a last visit to St. Peter’s?”

Franz silently assented; and the following afternoon, at half-past five
o’clock, the young men parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to Paris,
and Franz d’Épinay to pass a fortnight at Venice.

But, ere he entered his travelling carriage, Albert, fearing that his
expected guest might forget the engagement he had entered into, placed
in the care of a waiter at the hotel a card to be delivered to the
Count of Monte Cristo, on which, beneath the name of Viscount Albert de
Morcerf, he had written in pencil:

“27, _Rue du Helder, on the_ 21_st May, half-past ten_ A.M.”



 Chapter 39. The Guests

In the house in the Rue du Helder, where Albert had invited the Count
of Monte Cristo, everything was being prepared on the morning of the
21st of May to do honor to the occasion. Albert de Morcerf inhabited a
pavilion situated at the corner of a large court, and directly opposite
another building, in which were the servants’ apartments. Two windows
only of the pavilion faced the street; three other windows looked into
the court, and two at the back into the garden.

Between the court and the garden, built in the heavy style of the
imperial architecture, was the large and fashionable dwelling of the
Count and Countess of Morcerf.

A high wall surrounded the whole of the property, surmounted at
intervals by vases filled with flowers, and broken in the centre by a
large gate of gilded iron, which served as the carriage entrance. A
small door, close to the lodge of the _concierge_, gave ingress and
egress to the servants and masters when they were on foot.

It was easy to discover that the delicate care of a mother, unwilling
to part from her son, and yet aware that a young man of the viscount’s
age required the full exercise of his liberty, had chosen this
habitation for Albert. There were not lacking, however, evidences of
what we may call the intelligent egoism of a youth who is charmed with
the indolent, careless life of an only son, and who lives as it were in
a gilded cage. By means of the two windows looking into the street,
Albert could see all that passed; the sight of what is going on is
necessary to young men, who always want to see the world traverse their
horizon, even if that horizon is only a public thoroughfare. Then,
should anything appear to merit a more minute examination, Albert de
Morcerf could follow up his researches by means of a small gate,
similar to that close to the _concierge’s_ door, and which merits a
particular description.

It was a little entrance that seemed never to have been opened since
the house was built, so entirely was it covered with dust and dirt; but
the well-oiled hinges and locks told quite another story. This door was
a mockery to the _concierge_, from whose vigilance and jurisdiction it
was free, and, like that famous portal in the _Arabian Nights_, opening
at the “_Sesame_” of Ali Baba, it was wont to swing backward at a
cabalistic word or a concerted tap from without from the sweetest
voices or whitest fingers in the world.

At the end of a long corridor, with which the door communicated, and
which formed the antechamber, was, on the right, Albert’s
breakfast-room, looking into the court, and on the left the salon,
looking into the garden. Shrubs and creeping plants covered the
windows, and hid from the garden and court these two apartments, the
only rooms into which, as they were on the ground floor, the prying
eyes of the curious could penetrate.

On the floor above were similar rooms, with the addition of a third,
formed out of the antechamber; these three rooms were a salon, a
boudoir, and a bedroom. The salon downstairs was only an Algerian
divan, for the use of smokers. The boudoir upstairs communicated with
the bedchamber by an invisible door on the staircase; it was evident
that every precaution had been taken. Above this floor was a large
_atelier_, which had been increased in size by pulling down the
partitions—a pandemonium, in which the artist and the dandy strove for
pre-eminence.

There were collected and piled up all Albert’s successive caprices,
hunting-horns, bass-viols, flutes—a whole orchestra, for Albert had had
not a taste but a fancy for music; easels, palettes, brushes,
pencils—for music had been succeeded by painting; foils, boxing-gloves,
broadswords, and single-sticks—for, following the example of the
fashionable young men of the time, Albert de Morcerf cultivated, with
far more perseverance than music and drawing, the three arts that
complete a dandy’s education, i.e., fencing, boxing, and single-stick;
and it was here that he received Grisier, Cooks, and Charles Leboucher.

The rest of the furniture of this privileged apartment consisted of old
cabinets, filled with Chinese porcelain and Japanese vases, Lucca della
Robbia _faïences_, and Palissy platters; of old armchairs, in which
perhaps had sat Henry IV. or Sully, Louis XIII. or Richelieu—for two of
these armchairs, adorned with a carved shield, on which were engraved
the fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field, evidently came from the
Louvre, or, at least, some royal residence.

Over these dark and sombre chairs were thrown splendid stuffs, dyed
beneath Persia’s sun, or woven by the fingers of the women of Calcutta
or of Chandernagor. What these stuffs did there, it was impossible to
say; they awaited, while gratifying the eyes, a destination unknown to
their owner himself; in the meantime they filled the place with their
golden and silky reflections.

In the centre of the room was a Roller and Blanchet “baby grand” piano
in rosewood, but holding the potentialities of an orchestra in its
narrow and sonorous cavity, and groaning beneath the weight of the
_chefs-d’œuvre_ of Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Grétry, and
Porpora.

On the walls, over the doors, on the ceiling, were swords, daggers,
Malay creeses, maces, battle-axes; gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits
of armor; dried plants, minerals, and stuffed birds, their
flame-colored wings outspread in motionless flight, and their beaks
forever open. This was Albert’s favorite lounging place.

However, the morning of the appointment, the young man had established
himself in the small salon downstairs. There, on a table, surrounded at
some distance by a large and luxurious divan, every species of tobacco
known,—from the yellow tobacco of Petersburg to the black of Sinai, and
so on along the scale from Maryland and Porto Rico, to Latakia,—was
exposed in pots of crackled earthenware of which the Dutch are so fond;
beside them, in boxes of fragrant wood, were ranged, according to their
size and quality, puros, regalias, havanas, and manillas; and, in an
open cabinet, a collection of German pipes, of chibouques, with their
amber mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and of narghiles, with their
long tubes of morocco, awaiting the caprice or the sympathy of the
smokers.

Albert had himself presided at the arrangement, or, rather, the
symmetrical derangement, which, after coffee, the guests at a breakfast
of modern days love to contemplate through the vapor that escapes from
their mouths, and ascends in long and fanciful wreaths to the ceiling.

At a quarter to ten, a valet entered; he composed, with a little groom
named John, and who only spoke English, all Albert’s establishment,
although the cook of the hotel was always at his service, and on great
occasions the count’s _chasseur_ also. This valet, whose name was
Germain, and who enjoyed the entire confidence of his young master,
held in one hand a number of papers, and in the other a packet of
letters, which he gave to Albert. Albert glanced carelessly at the
different missives, selected two written in a small and delicate hand,
and enclosed in scented envelopes, opened them and perused their
contents with some attention.

“How did these letters come?” said he.

“One by the post, Madame Danglars’ footman left the other.”

“Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she offers me in her
box. Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera
I will sup with her as she wishes. Take her six bottles of different
wine—Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get
them at Borel’s, and be sure you say they are for me.”

“At what o’clock, sir, do you breakfast?”

20227m



“What time is it now?”

“A quarter to ten.”

“Very well, at half past ten. Debray will, perhaps, be obliged to go to
the minister—and besides” (Albert looked at his tablets), “it is the
hour I told the count, 21st May, at half past ten; and though I do not
much rely upon his promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the countess up
yet?”

“If you wish, I will inquire.”

“Yes, ask her for one of her _liqueur_ cellarets, mine is incomplete;
and tell her I shall have the honor of seeing her about three o’clock,
and that I request permission to introduce someone to her.”

The valet left the room. Albert threw himself on the divan, tore off
the cover of two or three of the papers, looked at the theatre
announcements, made a face seeing they gave an opera, and not a ballet;
hunted vainly amongst the advertisements for a new tooth-powder of
which he had heard, and threw down, one after the other, the three
leading papers of Paris, muttering,

“These papers become more and more stupid every day.”

A moment after, a carriage stopped before the door, and the servant
announced M. Lucien Debray. A tall young man, with light hair, clear
gray eyes, and thin and compressed lips, dressed in a blue coat with
beautifully carved gold buttons, a white neckcloth, and a tortoiseshell
eye-glass suspended by a silken thread, and which, by an effort of the
superciliary and zygomatic muscles, he fixed in his eye, entered, with
a half-official air, without smiling or speaking.

“Good-morning, Lucien, good-morning,” said Albert; “your punctuality
really alarms me. What do I say? punctuality! You, whom I expected
last, you arrive at five minutes to ten, when the time fixed was
half-past! Has the ministry resigned?”

“No, my dear fellow,” returned the young man, seating himself on the
divan; “reassure yourself; we are tottering always, but we never fall,
and I begin to believe that we shall pass into a state of immobility,
and then the affairs of the Peninsula will completely consolidate us.”

“Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of Spain.”

“No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound our plans. We take him to the
other side of the French frontier, and offer him hospitality at
Bourges.”

“At Bourges?”

“Yes, he has not much to complain of; Bourges is the capital of Charles
VII. Do you not know that all Paris knew it yesterday, and the day
before it had already transpired on the Bourse, and M. Danglars (I do
not know by what means that man contrives to obtain intelligence as
soon as we do) made a million!”

“And you another order, for I see you have a blue ribbon at your
button-hole.”

“Yes; they sent me the order of Charles III.,” returned Debray
carelessly.

“Come, do not affect indifference, but confess you were pleased to have
it.”

“Oh, it is very well as a finish to the toilet. It looks very neat on a
black coat buttoned up.”

“And makes you resemble the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt.”

“It is for that reason you see me so early.”

“Because you have the order of Charles III., and you wish to announce
the good news to me?”

“No, because I passed the night writing letters,—five-and-twenty
despatches. I returned home at daybreak, and strove to sleep; but my
head ached and I got up to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois de
Boulogne, _ennui_ and hunger attacked me at once,—two enemies who
rarely accompany each other, and who are yet leagued against me, a sort
of Carlo-republican alliance. I then recollected you gave a breakfast
this morning, and here I am. I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse
me.”

“It is my duty as your host,” returned Albert, ringing the bell, while
Lucien turned over, with his gold-mounted cane, the papers that lay on
the table. “Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. In the meantime,
my dear Lucien, here are cigars—contraband, of course—try them, and
persuade the minister to sell us such instead of poisoning us with
cabbage leaves.”

“_Peste!_ I will do nothing of the kind; the moment they come from
government you would find them execrable. Besides, that does not
concern the home but the financial department. Address yourself to M.
Humann, section of the indirect contributions, corridor A., No. 26.”

“On my word,” said Albert, “you astonish me by the extent of your
knowledge. Take a cigar.”

“Really, my dear Albert,” replied Lucien, lighting a manilla at a
rose-colored taper that burnt in a beautifully enamelled stand—“how
happy you are to have nothing to do. You do not know your own good
fortune!”

“And what would you do, my dear diplomatist,” replied Morcerf, with a
slight degree of irony in his voice, “if you did nothing? What? private
secretary to a minister, plunged at once into European cabals and
Parisian intrigues; having kings, and, better still, queens, to
protect, parties to unite, elections to direct; making more use of your
cabinet with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did of his
battle-fields with his sword and his victories; possessing
five-and-twenty thousand francs a year, besides your place; a horse,
for which Château-Renaud offered you four hundred louis, and which you
would not part with; a tailor who never disappoints you; with the
opera, the jockey-club, and other diversions, can you not amuse
yourself? Well, I will amuse you.”

“How?”

“By introducing to you a new acquaintance.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“I know so many men already.”

“But you do not know this man.”

“Where does he come from—the end of the world?”

“Farther still, perhaps.”

“The deuce! I hope he does not bring our breakfast with him.”

“Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my father’s kitchen. Are you hungry?”

“Humiliating as such a confession is, I am. But I dined at M. de
Villefort’s, and lawyers always give you very bad dinners. You would
think they felt some remorse; did you ever remark that?”

“Ah, depreciate other persons’ dinners; you ministers give such
splendid ones.”

“Yes; but we do not invite people of fashion. If we were not forced to
entertain a parcel of country boobies because they think and vote with
us, we should never dream of dining at home, I assure you.”

“Well, take another glass of sherry and another biscuit.”

“Willingly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. You see we were quite right
to pacify that country.”

“Yes; but Don Carlos?”

“Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux, and in ten years we will marry
his son to the little queen.”

“You will then obtain the Golden Fleece, if you are still in the
ministry.”

“I think, Albert, you have adopted the system of feeding me on smoke
this morning.”

“Well, you must allow it is the best thing for the stomach; but I hear
Beauchamp in the next room; you can dispute together, and that will
pass away the time.”

“About what?”

“About the papers.”

“My dear friend,” said Lucien with an air of sovereign contempt, “do I
ever read the papers?”

“Then you will dispute the more.”

“M. Beauchamp,” announced the servant. “Come in, come in,” said Albert,
rising and advancing to meet the young man. “Here is Debray, who
detests you without reading you, so he says.”

“He is quite right,” returned Beauchamp; “for I criticise him without
knowing what he does. Good-day, commander!”

“Ah, you know that already,” said the private secretary, smiling and
shaking hands with him.

“_Pardieu!_”

“And what do they say of it in the world?”

“In which world? we have so many worlds in the year of grace 1838.”

“In the entire political world, of which you are one of the leaders.”

“They say that it is quite fair, and that sowing so much red, you ought
to reap a little blue.”

“Come, come, that is not bad!” said Lucien. “Why do you not join our
party, my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you would make your fortune
in three or four years.”

“I only await one thing before following your advice; that is, a
minister who will hold office for six months. My dear Albert, one word,
for I must give poor Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or dine? I must
go to the Chamber, for our life is not an idle one.”

“You only breakfast; I await two persons, and the instant they arrive
we shall sit down to table.”



 Chapter 40. The Breakfast

And what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?” said Beauchamp.

“A gentleman, and a diplomatist.”

“Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three for
the diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me some
strawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to
the Chamber.”

“Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency,
and the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in the
meantime, follow Debray’s example, and take a glass of sherry and a
biscuit.”

“Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts.”

“You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister is
out of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous.”

“Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear this
morning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, and
at his wife’s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of
France. The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had
our choice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that?”

“I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity.”

“Do not run down M. Danglars’ speeches,” said Debray; “he votes for
you, for he belongs to the opposition.”

“_Pardieu_, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you
send him to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease.”

“My dear friend,” said Albert to Beauchamp, “it is plain that the
affairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humor
this morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriage
between myself and Mlle. Eugénie Danglars; I cannot in conscience,
therefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day say
to me, ‘Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions.’”

“Ah, this marriage will never take place,” said Beauchamp. “The king
has made him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him a
gentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, for
the paltry sum of two million francs, to a _mésalliance_. The Viscount
of Morcerf can only wed a marchioness.”

“But two million francs make a nice little sum,” replied Morcerf.

“It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroad
from the Jardin des Plantes to La Râpée.”

“Never mind what he says, Morcerf,” said Debray, “do you marry her. You
marry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter?
It is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have
seven martlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will
still have four; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly
became King of France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany.”

“On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,” said Albert absently.

“To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard—that
is, he can be.”

“Do not say that, Debray,” returned Beauchamp, laughing, “for here is
Château-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will pass
the sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.”

“He will sully it then,” returned Lucien; “for I am low—very low.”

“Oh, heavens,” cried Beauchamp, “the minister quotes Béranger, what
shall we come to next?”

“M. de Château-Renaud—M. Maximilian Morrel,” said the servant,
announcing two fresh guests.

“Now, then, to breakfast,” said Beauchamp; “for, if I remember, you
told me you only expected two persons, Albert.”

“Morrel,” muttered Albert—“Morrel—who is he?”

But before he had finished, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man
of thirty, gentleman all over,—that is, with the figure of a Guiche and
the wit of a Mortemart,—took Albert’s hand.

“My dear Albert,” said he, “let me introduce to you M. Maximilian
Morrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the man
speaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.”

And he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined and
dignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and black
moustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, under
circumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich
uniform, half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart
figure, and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion
of Honor. The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness.

“Monsieur,” said Albert with affectionate courtesy, “the count of
Château-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me;
you are his friend, be ours also.”

“Well said,” interrupted Château-Renaud; “and pray that, if you should
ever be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he did
for me.”

“What has he done?” asked Albert.

“Oh, nothing worth speaking of,” said Morrel; “M. de Château-Renaud
exaggerates.”

“Not worth speaking of?” cried Château-Renaud; “life is not worth
speaking of!—that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It
is very well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who
only did so once——”

“We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life.”

“Exactly so.”

“On what occasion?” asked Beauchamp.

“Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving,” said Debray: “do
not set him off on some long story.”

“Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table,” replied Beauchamp,
“Château-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast.”

“Gentlemen,” said Morcerf, “it is only a quarter past ten, and I expect
someone else.”

“Ah, true, a diplomatist!” observed Debray.

“Diplomat or not, I don’t know; I only know that he charged himself on
my account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to my
satisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created him
knight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the Golden
Fleece and the Garter.”

“Well, since we are not to sit down to table,” said Debray, “take a
glass of sherry, and tell us all about it.”

“You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa.”

“It is a road your ancestors have traced for you,” said Albert
gallantly.

“Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs—to rescue the Holy
Sepulchre.”

“You are quite right, Beauchamp,” observed the young aristocrat. “It
was only to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since two
seconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break the
arm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know—poor Franz
d’Épinay.”

“Ah, true,” said Debray, “you did fight some time ago; about what?”

20235m



“The devil take me, if I remember,” returned Château-Renaud. “But I
recollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such
talents as mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols
that had been given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went
from thence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness the
raising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-forty
hours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the night
tolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poor
brute—accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable,
the Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in
Arabia.”

“That’s why you want to purchase my English horse,” said Debray, “you
think he will bear the cold better.”

“You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa.”

“You were very much frightened, then?” asked Beauchamp.

“Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so,” replied Château-Renaud. “I
was retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, full
gallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun,
and two more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were
still left; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so
short, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan,
and I already felt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom
you see here charged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and
cleft the skull of the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself
the task of saving a man’s life that day; chance caused that man to be
myself. When I am rich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or
Marochetti.”

“Yes,” said Morrel, smiling, “it was the 5th of September, the
anniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved;
therefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it by
some——”

20237m



“Heroic action,” interrupted Château-Renaud. “I was chosen. But that is
not all—after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold,
not by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me the
whole; then from hunger by sharing with me—guess what?”

“A Strasbourg pie?” asked Beauchamp.

“No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a hearty
appetite. It was very hard.”

“The horse?” said Morcerf, laughing.

“No, the sacrifice,” returned Château-Renaud; “ask Debray if he would
sacrifice his English steed for a stranger?”

“Not for a stranger,” said Debray, “but for a friend I might, perhaps.”

“I divined that you would become mine, count,” replied Morrel;
“besides, as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or
not, that day I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the
favors good fortune had on other days granted to us.”

“The history to which M. Morrel alludes,” continued Château-Renaud, “is
an admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are better
acquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not our
memories. What time do you breakfast, Albert?”

“At half-past ten.”

“Precisely?” asked Debray, taking out his watch.

“Oh, you will give me five minutes’ grace,” replied Morcerf, “for I
also expect a preserver.”

“Of whom?”

“Of myself,” cried Morcerf; “_parbleu!_ do you think I cannot be saved
as well as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off
heads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at
table—at least, I hope so—two benefactors of humanity.”

“What shall we do?” said Debray; “we have only one Monthyon prize.”

“Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it,”
said Beauchamp; “that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from the
dilemma.”

“And where does he come from?” asked Debray. “You have already answered
the question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a second
time.”

“Really,” said Albert, “I do not know; when I invited him three months
ago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he may
have gone?”

“And you think him capable of being exact?” demanded Debray.

“I think him capable of everything.”

“Well, with the five minutes’ grace, we have only ten left.”

“I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest.”

“I beg pardon,” interrupted Beauchamp; “are there any materials for an
article in what you are going to tell us?”

“Yes, and for a most curious one.”

“Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning,
and I must make up for it.”

“I was at Rome during the last Carnival.”

“We know that,” said Beauchamp.

“Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits.”

“There are no bandits,” cried Debray.

“Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I
found them ugly enough to frighten me.”

“Come, my dear Albert,” said Debray, “confess that your cook is
behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes,
and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish
by a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse
you, and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be.”

“And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one
from beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted
me to a gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.”

“I know it,” said Château-Renaud; “I narrowly escaped catching a fever
there.”

“And I did more than that,” replied Morcerf, “for I caught one. I was
informed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman
crowns—about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was
at the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz—and were he
here he would confirm every word—I wrote then to Franz that if he did
not come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past
I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in
whose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such
was the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously
kept his word.”

“But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns,” said
Château-Renaud. “A man whose name is Franz d’Épinay or Albert de
Morcerf has not much difficulty in procuring them.”

“No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present
to you.”

“Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing
Andromeda.”

“No, he is a man about my own size.”

“Armed to the teeth?”

“He had not even a knitting-needle.”

“But he paid your ransom?”

“He said two words to the chief and I was free.”

“And they apologized to him for having carried you off?” said
Beauchamp.

“Just so.”

“Why, he is a second Ariosto.”

“No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“There is no Count of Monte Cristo” said Debray.

“I do not think so,” added Château-Renaud, with the air of a man who
knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.

“Does anyone know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo?”

“He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors
possessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea.”

“I think I can assist your researches,” said Maximilian. “Monte Cristo
is a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my
father employed—a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an
atom in the infinite.”

“Precisely!” cried Albert. “Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and
master of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title
of count somewhere in Tuscany.”

“He is rich, then?”

“I believe so.”

“But that ought to be visible.”

“That is what deceives you, Debray.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Have you read the _Arabian Nights_?”

“What a question!”

“Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if
their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor
fishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with
the wealth of the Indies.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen.
He has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad
the Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold.”

“And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?” asked Beauchamp.

“No, but Franz has; for heaven’s sake, not a word of this before him.
Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and
by women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite
sure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken
hashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of
statues.”

The two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say,—“Are you mad, or are
you laughing at us?”

“And I also,” said Morrel thoughtfully, “have heard something like this
from an old sailor named Penelon.”

“Ah,” cried Albert, “it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me;
you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the
labyrinth?”

“My dear Albert,” said Debray, “what you tell us is so extraordinary.”

“Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of
them—they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in
the affairs of their countrymen who travel.”

“Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them
protect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that
now they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send
you to Constantinople.”

“No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali,
the Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me.”

“You say very true,” responded Debray.

“Yes,” said Albert, “but this has nothing to do with the existence of
the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“_Pardieu!_ everyone exists.”

“Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, a
princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an
Arabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and
Greek mistresses.”

“Have you seen the Greek mistress?”

“I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard
her one morning when I breakfasted with the count.”

“He eats, then?”

“Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating.”

“He must be a vampire.”

“Laugh, if you will; the Countess G——, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared
that the count was a vampire.”

“Ah, capital,” said Beauchamp. “For a man not connected with
newspapers, here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the
_Constitutionnel_.”

“Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure,” said
Debray; “facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, livid
complexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness
unexceptionable.”

“Just so, Lucien,” returned Morcerf; “you have described him feature
for feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made
me shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I
should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he
spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the
executioner and the culprit.”

“Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your
blood?” asked Beauchamp.

“Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment,
surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?”

“Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen,” said Morcerf, somewhat
piqued. “When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand
or the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are
not of the same race.”

“I am highly flattered,” returned Beauchamp.

“At the same time,” added Château-Renaud, “your Count of Monte Cristo
is a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with
the Italian banditti.”

“There are no Italian banditti,” said Debray.

“No vampire,” cried Beauchamp.

“No Count of Monte Cristo” added Debray. “There is half-past ten
striking, Albert.”

20243m



“Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,”
continued Beauchamp.

But the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced,
“His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.” The involuntary start
everyone gave proved how much Morcerf’s narrative had impressed them,
and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting sudden
emotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in
the antechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count
appeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious
dandy could have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article
of dress—hat, coat, gloves, and boots—was from the first makers. He
seemed scarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his
extreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count
advanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert,
who hastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner.

“Punctuality,” said Monte Cristo, “is the politeness of kings,
according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same
with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three
seconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be
accomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it
seems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions.”

“My dear count,” replied Albert, “I was announcing your visit to some
of my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did
me the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count
of Château-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and
whose ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray,
private secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an
editor of a paper, and the terror of the French government, but of
whom, in spite of his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in
Italy, since his paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel,
captain of Spahis.”

At this name the count, who had hitherto saluted everyone with
courtesy, but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a
pace forward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks.

“You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur,” said he;
“it is a handsome uniform.”

No one could have said what caused the count’s voice to vibrate so
deeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in general so clear,
lustrous, and limpid when he pleased.

“You have never seen our Africans, count?” said Albert.

“Never,” replied the count, who was by this time perfectly master of
himself again.

“Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts
in the whole army.”

“Oh, M. de Morcerf,” interrupted Morrel.

“Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard,” continued Albert, “of
a new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him
today for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him as
my friend.”

At these words it was still possible to observe in Monte Cristo the
concentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelid
that show emotion.

“Ah, you have a noble heart,” said the count; “so much the better.”

This exclamation, which corresponded to the count’s own thought rather
than to what Albert was saying, surprised everybody, and especially
Morrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with wonder. But, at the same time,
the intonation was so soft that, however strange the speech might seem,
it was impossible to be offended at it.

20245m



“Why should he doubt it?” said Beauchamp to Château-Renaud.

“In reality,” replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance and
his knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that was
penetrable in Monte Cristo, “Albert has not deceived us, for the count
is a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!”

“_Ma foi_, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of
the singular remark he has made about me.”

“Gentlemen,” said Albert, “Germain informs me that breakfast is ready.
My dear count, allow me to show you the way.” They passed silently into
the breakfast-room, and everyone took his place.

“Gentlemen,” said the count, seating himself, “permit me to make a
confession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may
commit. I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is
the first time I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is
utterly unknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the
Eastern customs, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg
you, therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, too
Italian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast.”

“With what an air he says all this,” muttered Beauchamp; “decidedly he
is a great man.”

“A great man in his own country,” added Debray.

“A great man in every country, M. Debray,” said Château-Renaud.

The count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albert
remarked this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisian
mode of life should displease the traveller in the most essential
point.

“My dear count,” said he, “I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare
of the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza
di Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had
some dishes prepared expressly.”

“Did you know me better,” returned the count, smiling, “you would not
give one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who has
successively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla
podrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and
swallows’ nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I
eat but little; and today, that you reproach me with my want of
appetite, is my day of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday
morning.”

“What,” cried all the guests, “you have not eaten for four-and-twenty
hours?”

“No,” replied the count; “I was forced to go out of my road to obtain
some information near Nîmes, so that I was somewhat late, and therefore
I did not choose to stop.”

“And you ate in your carriage?” asked Morcerf.

“No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having the
courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined
to eat.”

“But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?” said Morrel.

“Yes.”

“You have a recipe for it?”

“An infallible one.”

“That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any food
to eat, and rarely anything to drink.”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a
man like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which might
not awake when it was needed.”

“May we inquire what is this recipe?” asked Debray.

“Oh, yes,” returned Monte Cristo; “I make no secret of it. It is a
mixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in order
to have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East—that is,
between the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed
in equal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one is
taken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d’Épinay; I think he
tasted them one day.”

“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “he said something about it to me.”

“But,” said Beauchamp, who, as became a journalist, was very
incredulous, “you always carry this drug about you?”

“Always.”

“Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills?”
continued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage.

“No, monsieur,” returned the count; and he drew from his pocket a
marvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a
golden lid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored
pellet about the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating
odor. There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain
about a dozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to
examine the admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from
hand to hand.

“And is it your cook who prepares these pills?” asked Beauchamp.

“Oh, no, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not thus betray my
enjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my
pills myself.”

“This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen,” said
Château-Renaud, “although my mother has some remarkable family jewels.”

“I had three similar ones,” returned Monte Cristo. “I gave one to the
Sultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father the
Pope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large,
though not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor,
Pius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, which
reduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I
intended.”

Everyone looked at Monte Cristo with astonishment; he spoke with so
much simplicity that it was evident he spoke the truth, or that he was
mad. However, the sight of the emerald made them naturally incline to
the former belief.

“And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for these
magnificent presents?” asked Debray.

“The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,” replied the Count; “the Pope, the
life of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as if
heaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne.”

“And it was Peppino you saved, was it not?” cried Morcerf; “it was for
him that you obtained pardon?”

“Perhaps,” returned the count, smiling.

“My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear you
speak thus,” said Morcerf. “I had announced you beforehand to my
friends as an enchanter of the _Arabian Nights_, a wizard of the Middle
Ages; but the Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake
for caprices of the imagination the most incontestable truths, when
these truths do not form a part of their daily existence. For example,
here is Debray who reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day, ‘A
member of the Jockey Club has been stopped and robbed on the
Boulevard;’ ‘four persons have been assassinated in the Rue St. Denis’
or ‘the Faubourg St. Germain;’ ‘ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have
been arrested in a _café_ on the Boulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes
de Julien,’—and yet these same men deny the existence of the bandits in
the Maremma, the Campagna di Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them
yourself that I was taken by bandits, and that without your generous
intercession I should now have been sleeping in the Catacombs of St.
Sebastian, instead of receiving them in my humble abode in the Rue du
Helder.”

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “you promised me never to mention that
circumstance.”

“It was not I who made that promise,” cried Morcerf; “it must have been
someone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you
have forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate
the little I do know, but also a great deal I do not know.”

“It seems to me,” returned the count, smiling, “that you played a
sufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened.”

20249m



“Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn,
all that I do not know?”

“That is but fair,” replied Monte Cristo.

“Well,” said Morcerf, “for three days I believed myself the object of
the attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia or
Poppæa, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a
_contadina_, and I say _contadina_ to avoid saying peasant girl. What I
know is, that, like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just
now, I mistook for this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or
sixteen, with a beardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was
about to imprint a chaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my
head, and, aided by seven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me,
to the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated
brigand chief perusing Cæsar’s _Commentaries_, and who deigned to leave
off reading to inform me, that unless the next morning, before six
o’clock, four thousand piastres were paid into his account at his
banker’s, at a quarter past six I should have ceased to exist. The
letter is still to be seen, for it is in Franz d’Épinay’s possession,
signed by me, and with a postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is all I
know, but I know not, count, how you contrived to inspire so much
respect in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily have so little respect
for anything. I assure you, Franz and I were lost in admiration.”

“Nothing more simple,” returned the count. “I had known the famous
Vampa for more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a
shepherd, I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he,
in order to repay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had
carved with his own hand, and which you may have seen in my collection
of arms. In after years, whether he had forgotten this interchange of
presents, which ought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he
did not recollect me, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it
was I who captured him and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him
over to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would
have been particularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort—I
suffered him and his band to depart.”

“With the condition that they should sin no more,” said Beauchamp,
laughing. “I see they kept their promise.”

“No, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo “upon the simple condition that
they should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about to
say may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and
your duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which
does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies
itself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place
in my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society
and my neighbor who are indebted to me.”

“Bravo,” cried Château-Renaud; “you are the first man I ever met
sufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo!”

“It is frank, at least,” said Morrel. “But I am sure that the count
does not regret having once deviated from the principles he has so
boldly avowed.”

“How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?” asked Monte
Cristo, who could not help looking at Morrel with so much intensity,
that two or three times the young man had been unable to sustain that
clear and piercing glance.

“Why, it seems to me,” replied Morrel, “that in delivering M. de
Morcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and to
society.”

“Of which he is the brightest ornament,” said Beauchamp, drinking off a
glass of champagne.

“My dear count,” cried Morcerf, “you are at fault—you, one of the most
formidable logicians I know—and you must see it clearly proved that
instead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call
yourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family
name is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation,
and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display
the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric
Parisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the
virtues you possess.”

“My dear vicomte,” returned Monte Cristo, “I do not see, in all I have
done, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, the
pretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for I
knew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you to
breakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival
in your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del
Popolo the execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted.
I will appeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the
hands of a hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had
the idea that you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when
I came to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this
resolution as a vague project, but today you see it was a reality, and
you must submit to it under penalty of breaking your word.”

“I will keep it,” returned Morcerf; “but I fear that you will be much
disappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastic
horizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes with
which your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our
Chimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valérien, our Great
Desert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian
well to water the caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so
many as is said; but these thieves stand in far more dread of a
policeman than a lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a
city, that you will not find in its eighty-five departments—I say
eighty-five, because I do not include Corsica—you will not find, then,
in these eighty-five departments a single hill on which there is not a
telegraph, or a grotto in which the commissary of police has not put up
a gaslamp. There is but one service I can render you, and for that I
place myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make my
friends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to
introduce you—with your name, and your fortune, and your talent” (Monte
Cristo bowed with a somewhat ironical smile) “you can present yourself
everywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way only—if
knowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of rendering yourself
comfortable, or of the bazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to
find you a fitting dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my
apartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome—I, who do not profess
egotism, but am yet egotist _par excellence_; for, except myself, these
rooms would not hold a shadow more, unless that shadow were feminine.”

“Ah,” said the count, “that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollect
that at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May I
congratulate you?”

“The affair is still in projection.”

“And he who says in ‘projection,’ means already decided,” said Debray.

“No,” replied Morcerf, “my father is most anxious about it; and I hope,
ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to my
betrothed—Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.”

“Eugénie Danglars,” said Monte Cristo; “tell me, is not her father
Baron Danglars?”

“Yes,” returned Morcerf, “a baron of a new creation.”

“What matter,” said Monte Cristo “if he has rendered the State services
which merit this distinction?”

“Enormous ones,” answered Beauchamp. “Although in reality a Liberal, he
negotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made him
a baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears the
ribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his
button-hole.”

“Ah,” interrupted Morcerf, laughing, “Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that
for the _Corsaire_ or the _Charivari_, but spare my future
father-in-law before me.” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, “You just now
spoke his name as if you knew the baron?”

“I do not know him,” returned Monte Cristo; “but I shall probably soon
make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house
of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and
Thomson & French at Rome.” As he pronounced the two last names, the
count glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce
an effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he
had been electrified.

“Thomson & French,” said he; “do you know this house, monsieur?”

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“They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,” returned
the count quietly. “Can my influence with them be of any service to
you?”

“Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been,
up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a
great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied
having rendered us this service.”

“I shall be at your orders,” said Monte Cristo bowing.

“But,” continued Morcerf, “_à propos_ of Danglars,—we have strangely
wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation
for the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some
place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?”

“Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Château-Renaud. “The count will find
there a charming hotel, with a court and garden.”

“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull and
gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,
count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.”

“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the second floor—a house with
a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought
there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.”

“You have no idea, then, Morrel?” asked Château-Renaud; “you do not
propose anything.”

“Oh, yes,” returned the young man, smiling; “on the contrary, I have
one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant
proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will
venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the
Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue
Meslay.”

“You have a sister?” asked the count.

“Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister.”

“Married?”

“Nearly nine years.”

“Happy?” asked the count again.

“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” replied
Maximilian. “She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us
in our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.”

Monte Cristo smiled imperceptibly.

“I live there during my leave of absence,” continued Maximilian; “and I
shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition
of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.”

“One minute,” cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time to
reply. “Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the
Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch
of him.”

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“Oh, no,” said Morrel; “my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law
is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be
in his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.”

“Thanks, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo; “I shall content myself with
being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the
honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these
gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.”

“What,” cried Morcerf; “you are, then, going to a hotel—that will be
very dull for you.”

“Was I so badly lodged at Rome?” said Monte Cristo smiling.

“_Parbleu!_ at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing
your apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a
similar sum every day.”

“It is not that which deterred me,” replied Monte Cristo; “but as I
determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre,
and he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.”

“But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?” said
Beauchamp.

“It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and
cannot speak,” returned Monte Cristo.

“It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.

“Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome.”

“Certainly,” said Morcerf; “I recollect him perfectly. But how could
you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he
will do everything wrong.”

“Undeceive yourself, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I am quite sure,
that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my
tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the
instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for
me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting
for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper;
it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,” and Monte
Cristo passed a paper to Albert.

“Ah, that is really original,” said Beauchamp.

“And very princely,” added Château-Renaud.

“What, do you not know your house?” asked Debray.

“No,” said Monte Cristo; “I told you I did not wish to be behind my
time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s
door.” The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was
a comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such
an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said
was false—besides, why should he tell a falsehood?

“We must content ourselves, then,” said Beauchamp, “with rendering the
count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of
journalist, open all the theatres to him.”

“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo, “my steward has orders to
take a box at each theatre.”

“Is your steward also a Nubian?” asked Debray.

“No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of
anyone’s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf.”

“Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so
well?”

“Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been
a soldier, a smuggler—in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure
that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle—a stab
with a knife, for instance.”

“And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward,” said
Debray. “Of how much does he rob you every year?”

“On my word,” replied the count, “not more than another. I am sure he
answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him.”

“Then,” continued Château-Renaud, “since you have an establishment, a
steward, and a hotel in the Champs-Élysées, you only want a mistress.”
Albert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count’s
box at the Argentina and Valle theatres.

“I have something better than that,” said Monte Cristo; “I have a
slave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or
the Variétés; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but
I have nothing to fear.”

“But you forget,” replied Debray, laughing, “that we are Franks by name
and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she
puts her foot in France your slave becomes free.”

“Who will tell her?”

“The first person who sees her.”

“She only speaks Romaic.”

“That is different.”

“But at least we shall see her,” said Beauchamp, “or do you keep
eunuchs as well as mutes?”

“Oh, no,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not carry brutalism so far.
Everyone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me
will no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that
reason, perhaps, that they do not quit me.”

They had long since passed to dessert and cigars.

“My dear Albert,” said Debray, rising, “it is half-past two. Your guest
is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst
sometimes. I must return to the minister’s. I will tell him of the
count, and we shall soon know who he is.”

“Take care,” returned Albert; “no one has been able to accomplish
that.”

“Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost
always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty
thousand francs to spend for this purpose.”

“And when you know, will you tell me?”

“I promise you. _Au revoir_, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning.”

As he left the room, Debray called out loudly, “My carriage.”

“Bravo,” said Beauchamp to Albert; “I shall not go to the Chamber, but
I have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M.
Danglars.”

“For heaven’s sake, Beauchamp,” returned Morcerf, “do not deprive me of
the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?”

“He is more than that,” replied Château-Renaud; “he is one of the most
extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?”

“Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us
a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14.”

“Be sure I shall not fail to do so,” returned the count, bowing.

And Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Château-Renaud,
leaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf.



 Chapter 41. The Presentation

When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo, “My dear count,”
said he, “allow me to commence my services as _cicerone_ by showing you
a specimen of a bachelor’s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the
palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square
feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we
pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you
breathe.”

Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the
ground floor. Albert led him first to his _atelier_, which was, as we
have said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated all
that Albert had collected here—old cabinets, Japanese porcelain,
Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the
world—everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he
recognized their date, their country, and their origin.

Morcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he
who, under the count’s guidance, followed a course of archæology,
mineralogy, and natural history.

They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon.
The salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were
landscapes by Dupré, with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing
oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix’s Arabian cavaliers, with their
long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their
horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders
contended fiercely with their maces; _aquarelles_ of Boulanger,
representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist
the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his
flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the
sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,
but more poetic; _pastels_ by Giraud and Müller, representing children
like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from
the album of Dauzats’ “Travels in the East,” that had been made in a
few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a
mosque—in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as
recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.

Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the
traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for
the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named
instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy
to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style
associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the
salon they passed into the bedchamber; it was a model of taste and
simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by Léopold Robert, shone in
its carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte
Cristo’s attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and
stopped suddenly before it.

It was the portrait of a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a
dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long
lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a
red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair. She was looking at
the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky. The light
was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that
spread itself over the count’s visage, or the nervous heaving of his
chest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an instant, during which
Monte Cristo gazed intently on the picture.

“You have there a most charming mistress, viscount,” said the count in
a perfectly calm tone; “and this costume—a ball costume,
doubtless—becomes her admirably.”

“Ah, monsieur,” returned Albert, “I would never forgive you this
mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my
mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus
six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and
the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same
as she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the
count’s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable
surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my
father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the
best works of Léopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It
is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most
assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a
most mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who
paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a
picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to
displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you.
Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of
introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any
allusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign
influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and
still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This
disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the
count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more
than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding.”

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Monte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning
in his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the
simplicity of his heart.

“Now,” said Albert, “that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to
offer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your
own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany
me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an
account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your
promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess
anxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat _blasé_ I
know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who
has seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an
initiation into Parisian life—a life of politeness, visiting, and
introductions.”

Monte Cristo bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer
without enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of
society which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert summoned his
servant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the
arrival of the Count of Monte Cristo. Albert followed him with the
count. When they arrived at the antechamber, above the door was visible
a shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of
the furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this
blazon. Monte Cristo stopped and examined it attentively.

“Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender,” said he. “These are,
doubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that
enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry—I, a count
of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery
of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been
told that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have
something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by
the custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you.”

“It is not indiscreet,” returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of
conviction. “You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is,
those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield,
which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother’s. By her side I
am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one
of the oldest of the south of France.”

“Yes,” replied Monte Cristo “these blazons prove that. Almost all the
armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a
cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the
long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to
accomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the
Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you
mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient.”

“It is possible,” said Morcerf; “my father has in his study a
genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made
commentaries that would have greatly edified d’Hozier and Jaucourt. At
present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are
beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our
popular government.”

“Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past
something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments,
and which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount,”
continued Monte Cristo to Morcerf, “you are more fortunate than the
government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the
imagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that
explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much
admired on the visage of the noble Catalan.”

It would have required the penetration of Œdipus or the Sphinx to have
divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently
uttered with the greatest politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a smile,
and pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we
have said, opened into the salon. In the most conspicuous part of the
salon was another portrait. It was that of a man, from five to
eight-and-thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the
double epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a
commander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the
order of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of
Charles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture
had served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same
thing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in
the two countries.

Monte Cristo was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care
than he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he
found himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person.

He was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least
fifty, and his black moustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with
his almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion. He
was dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons
of the different orders to which he belonged.

He entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste.
Monte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step.
It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the
Count of Morcerf.

“Father,” said the young man, “I have the honor of presenting to you
the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good
fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you.”

“You are most welcome, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, saluting
Monte Cristo with a smile, “and monsieur has rendered our house, in
preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal
gratitude.”

As he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while
he seated himself in another opposite the window.

Monte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in
such a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet
curtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a
whole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted
there.

“The countess,” said Morcerf, “was at her toilet when she was informed
of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the
salon in ten minutes.”

“It is a great honor to me,” returned Monte Cristo, “to be thus, on the
first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose
merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been
equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the
mountains of Atlas, a marshal’s staff to offer you?”

“Oh,” replied Morcerf, reddening slightly, “I have left the service,
monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first
campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore,
expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the
elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it
seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it
was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I
tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the
battle-field, you do not know how to manœuvre on the slippery grounds
of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.
I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the
twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the
time.”

“These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other,”
returned Monte Cristo. “A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an
ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure
soldier, step by step—this is uncommon; then become general, peer of
France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence
a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire
than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this,
indeed, is praiseworthy,—nay, more, it is sublime.”

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Albert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see
Monte Cristo give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm.

“Alas,” continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud
that covered Morcerf’s brow, “we do not act thus in Italy; we grow
according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines,
and often the same uselessness, all our lives.”

“But, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, “for a man of your merit,
Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you;
respond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful.
She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers.”

“Ah, father,” said Albert with a smile, “it is evident you do not know
the Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself
with those written on his passport.”

“That is the most just remark,” replied the stranger, “I ever heard
made concerning myself.”

“You have been free to choose your career,” observed the Count of
Morcerf, with a sigh; “and you have chosen the path strewed with
flowers.”

“Precisely, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles
that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.

“If I did not fear to fatigue you,” said the general, evidently charmed
with the count’s manners, “I would have taken you to the Chamber; there
is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern
senators.”

“I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time,
renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being
introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait.”

“Ah, here is my mother,” cried the viscount.

Monte Cristo, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the
entrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her
husband had entered, pale and motionless; when Monte Cristo turned
round, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been
resting on the gilded door-post. She had been there some moments, and
had heard the last words of the visitor. The latter rose and bowed to
the countess, who inclined herself without speaking.

“Ah! good heavens, madame,” said the count, “are you ill, or is it the
heat of the room that affects you?”

“Are you ill, mother?” cried the viscount, springing towards her.

She thanked them both with a smile.

“No,” returned she, “but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first
time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears
and desolation. Monsieur,” continued the countess, advancing with the
majesty of a queen, “I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I
bless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus
affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you,
from the bottom of my heart.”

The count bowed again, but lower than before; he was even paler than
Mercédès.

“Madame,” said he, “the count and yourself recompense too generously a
simple action. To save a man, to spare a father’s feelings, or a
mother’s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of
humanity.”

At these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and
politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied:

“It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a
friend, and I thank God that things are thus.”

And Mercédès raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an
expression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them.
M. de Morcerf approached her.

“Madame,” said he. “I have already made my excuses to the count for
quitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at
two; it is now three, and I am to speak.”

“Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your
absence,” replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling.
“Monsieur,” continued she, turning to Monte Cristo, “will you do us the
honor of passing the rest of the day with us?”

“Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got
out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am
ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is
but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated.”

“We shall have the pleasure another time,” said the countess; “you
promise that?”

Monte Cristo inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might
pass for assent.

“I will not detain you, monsieur,” continued the countess; “I would not
have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.”

“My dear Count,” said Albert, “I will endeavor to return your
politeness at Rome, and place my coupé at your disposal until your own
be ready.”

“A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount,” returned the Count of
Monte Cristo “but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the
four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a
carriage of some sort ready at the door.”

Albert was used to the count’s manner of proceeding; he knew that, like
Nero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him,
but wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count’s orders had
been executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house. Monte
Cristo was not deceived. As soon as he appeared in the Count of
Morcerf’s antechamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the
count’s card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into
the vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious
traveller found his carriage awaiting him. It was a _coupé_ of Koller’s
building, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the
knowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven
hundred guineas.

“Monsieur,” said the count to Albert, “I do not ask you to accompany me
to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry,
and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being
taken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite
you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality.”

“If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not
be a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at
your control.”

“_Ma foi_, spread that idea,” replied the Count of Monte Cristo,
putting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage,
“and that will be worth something to me among the ladies.”

As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not
so rapidly that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the almost
imperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in
which he had left Madame de Morcerf.

When Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir
reclining in a large velvet armchair, the whole room so obscure that
only the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and
the angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some
degree of brightness in the gloom. Albert could not see the face of the
countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head,
and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him
as though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes
of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and
fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased
cups on the mantle-piece the countess’s smelling-bottle, taken from its
shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered:

“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?”

“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and
orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such
violent perfumes.”

“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell,
“they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just
now were so pale as you came into the room——”

“Was I pale, Albert?”

“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the
less alarm my father and myself.”

“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly.

“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?”

20269m



“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess.

A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell.

“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the
viscount; “they make the countess ill.”

The footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until
all the flowers were removed.

“What is this name of Monte Cristo?” inquired the countess, when the
servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, “is it a family name,
or the name of the estate, or a simple title?”

“I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island
in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a
commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of
Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order
of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls
himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that
the count is a man of very high distinction.”

“His manners are admirable,” said the countess, “at least, as far as I
could judge in the few minutes he remained here.”

“They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I
have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities
of Europe—the English, the Spanish, and the German.”

The countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she
resumed.

“You have seen, my dear Albert—I ask the question as a mother—you have
seen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much
knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you
think the count is really what he appears to be?”

“What does he appear to be?”

“Why, you have just said,—a man of high distinction.”

“I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such.”

“But what is your own opinion, Albert?”

“I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting
him, but I think him a Maltese.”

“I do not ask you of his origin but what he is.”

“Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many
remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I
think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s
heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some
Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient
family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the
force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws
of society.”

“You say——”

“I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the
Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers
of all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not
these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues
for his protection?”

“That is possible,” said the countess, reflecting.

“Never mind,” continued the young man, “smuggler or not, you must
agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte
Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the
salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his
_entrée_ amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not
even excepting Château-Renaud.”

“And what do you suppose is the count’s age?” inquired Mercédès,
evidently attaching great importance to this question.

“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.”

“So young,—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time
to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.

“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and
certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was
five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I,
induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have
compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this
singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five.
Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair,
and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only
vigorous, but also young.”

The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter
thoughts.

“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked
with a nervous shudder.

“I am inclined to think so.”

“And—do—you—like—him?”

“Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince
me that he is a being returned from the other world.”

The countess shuddered.

“Albert,” she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion, “I have
always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a
man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be
prudent.”

“Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice
turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust.
The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little
sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at
me, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him?”

“You are right,” said the countess, “and my fears are weakness,
especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did
your father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more
than complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his
business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it——”

“Nothing could be in better taste than my father’s demeanor, madame,”
said Albert; “nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three
compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with
as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these
little tickling arrows must have pleased my father,” added Albert with
a laugh. “And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de
Morcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers.”

The countess made no reply. She fell into so deep a reverie that her
eyes gradually closed. The young man, standing up before her, gazed
upon her with that filial affection which is so tender and endearing
with children whose mothers are still young and handsome. Then, after
seeing her eyes closed, and hearing her breathe gently, he believed she
had dropped asleep, and left the apartment on tiptoe, closing the door
after him with the utmost precaution.

“This devil of a fellow,” he muttered, shaking his head; “I said at the
time he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an
infallible thermometer. My mother has noticed him, and he must
therefore, perforce, be remarkable.”

He went down to the stables, not without some slight annoyance, when he
remembered that the Count of Monte Cristo had laid his hands on a
“turnout” which sent his bays down to second place in the opinion of
connoisseurs.

“Most decidedly,” said he, “men are not equal, and I must beg my father
to develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers.”



 Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio

Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six
minutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient
to induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had
been unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in
order to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs
apiece for his horses.

The house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to
Monte Cristo, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the
Champs-Élysées. A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre,
and masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys,
like two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive
from the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a
porcelain vase, filled with flowers. This house, isolated from the
rest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue de Ponthieu.
Even before the coachman had hailed the _concierge_, the massy gates
rolled on their hinges—they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as
everywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning. The
coachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his
speed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on
the gravel. The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two
men presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who,
smiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid
by a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other bowed respectfully, and
offered his arm to assist the count in descending.

“Thanks, M. Bertuccio,” said the count, springing lightly up the three
steps of the portico; “and the notary?”

“He is in the small salon, excellency,” returned Bertuccio.

“And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number
of the house?”

“Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best
engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The
first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron
Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the
mantle-piece of your excellency’s bedroom.”

“Good; what o’clock is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman
who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he
passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the
way.

“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte
Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”

Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the
small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the
extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.

“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to
purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Yes, count,” returned the notary.

“Is the deed of sale ready?”

“Yes, count.”

“Have you brought it?”

“Here it is.”

“Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count
carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary.
The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary
looked at the count with astonishment.

“What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases
is situated?”

“No,” returned the count.

“The count does not know?”

“How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have
never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even
set my foot in France.”

“Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.”

At these words Bertuccio turned pale.

“And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.

“Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary—“a little beyond Passy; a
charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.”

“So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country.
What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?”

“I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did
not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will
recollect—if he will think——”

“Ah, true,” observed Monte Cristo; “I recollect now. I read the
advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title,
‘a country house.’”

“It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your
excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a
better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.”

“Oh, no,” returned Monte Cristo negligently; “since I have this, I will
keep it.”

“And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee.
“It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine
trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time,
without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable,
now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has
the tastes of the day?”

“To be sure,” returned Monte Cristo; “it is very convenient, then?”

“It is more—it is magnificent.”

“_Peste!_ let us not lose such an opportunity,” returned Monte Cristo.
“The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary.”

And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part
of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the
names of the proprietors.

“Bertuccio,” said he, “give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur.”

The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a
bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never
gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.

“And now,” demanded the count, “are all the forms complied with?”

“All, sir.”

“Have you the keys?”

“They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house,
but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new
possessions.”

“Very well;” and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary,
which said, “I have no further need of you; you may go.”

“But,” observed the honest notary, “the count is, I think, mistaken; it
is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.”

“And your fee?”

“Is included in this sum.”

“But have you not come from Auteuil here?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of
time and trouble,” said the count; and he made a gesture of polite
dismissal.

The notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it
was the first time he had ever met a similar client.

“See this gentleman out,” said the count to Bertuccio. And the steward
followed the notary out of the room.

Scarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book
closed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his
neck, and which never left him. After having sought for a few minutes,
he stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with
the deed of sale, which lay on the table, and recalling his
_souvenirs_—

“‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same,” said
he; “and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or
physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!”
cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong.
“Bertuccio!”

The steward appeared at the door.

“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “did you never tell me that you
had travelled in France?”

“In some parts of France—yes, excellency.”

“You know the environs of Paris, then?”

“No, excellency, no,” returned the steward, with a sort of nervous
trembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly
attributed to great disquietude.

“It is unfortunate,” returned he, “that you have never visited the
environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you
gone with me, you could have given me some useful information.”

“To Auteuil!” cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid—“I
go to Auteuil?”

“Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you
must come there, as you belong to my service.”

Bertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master,
and remained motionless, without making any answer.

“Why, what has happened to you?—are you going to make me ring a second
time for the carriage?” asked Monte Cristo, in the same tone that Louis
XIV. pronounced the famous, “I have been almost obliged to wait.”
Bertuccio made but one bound to the antechamber, and cried in a hoarse
voice:

“His excellency’s horses!”

Monte Cristo wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the
steward appeared.

“Your excellency’s carriage is at the door,” said he.

“Well, take your hat and gloves,” returned Monte Cristo.

“Am I to accompany you, your excellency?” cried Bertuccio.

“Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the
house.”

20277m



It was unexampled for a servant of the count’s to dare to dispute an
order of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his
master, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which
he did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.



 Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil

Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio
signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of
the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the
carriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustless
thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward’s
extraordinary repugnance for the count’s projected drive without the
walls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this
little journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward’s
emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village.
Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine
with a feverish anxiety every house they passed.

“Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,” said the count,
fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.

Bertuccio’s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed,
and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—“Rue de la
Fontaine, No. 28.” No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village;
during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings
the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage
stopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door.

“Well,” said the count, “you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going
to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?”

Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this
time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.

“Knock,” said the count, “and announce me.”

Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.

“What is it?” asked he.

“It is your new master, my good fellow,” said the footman. And he held
out to the concierge the notary’s order.

“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentleman
is coming to live here?”

“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give you
no cause to regret your old master.”

“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause to
regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was
here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him
in anything at all.”

“What was the name of your old master?” said Monte Cristo.

“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house
for what he gave for it.”

“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not
unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to
meditate.

“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the
Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had
been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.”

Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall
against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.

“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I have
heard so.”

“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not
seen the poor marquis three times.”

“Thanks, thanks,” said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward’s utter
prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger
of breaking it. “Give me a light.”

“Shall I accompany you, monsieur?”

“No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.”

And Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold
pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the
concierge.

“Ah, monsieur,” said he, after having vainly searched on the
mantle-piece and the shelves, “I have not got any candles.”

“Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,” said the count, “and show
me the apartments.”

The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner
in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to
obey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor
consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the
bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.

“Ah, here is a private staircase,” said the count; “that is convenient.
Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.”

“Monsieur,” replied Bertuccio, “it leads to the garden.”

“And, pray, how do you know that?”

“It ought to do so, at least.”

“Well, let us be sure of that.”

Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to
the garden. At the outer door the steward paused.

“Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count.

But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned;
his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some
terrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut
out horrible recollections.

“Well!” insisted the Count.

“No, no,” cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the
interior wall. “No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther.”

“What does this mean?” demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo.

“Why, you must see, your excellency,” cried the steward, “that this is
not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly
at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be
No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure
you would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have
been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at
Auteuil than that of the assassination!”

“What, what!” cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, “what words do you
utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are—always mysteries or
superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you
are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?”

Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened,
disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle
through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which
she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward
wished to turn to the left.

“No, no, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo. “What is the use of following
the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards.”

Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he
continued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took
the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward
could not restrain himself.

“Move, monsieur—move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!”

“What spot?”

“Where he fell.”

20281m



“My dear Monsieur Bertuccio,” said Monte Cristo, laughing, “control
yourself; we are not at Sartène or at Corte. This is not a Corsican
_maquis_ but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must
not calumniate it for that.”

“Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!”

“I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,” said the count coldly. “If that
is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum.”

“Alas! excellency,” returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking
his head in a manner that would have excited the count’s laughter, had
not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him
attentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience. “Alas!
excellency, the evil has arrived!”

“M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “I am very glad to tell you, that while
you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man
possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always
observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I
knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding
over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy,
because in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France
they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy
themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which
avenge.”

Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did
not let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered
countenance. Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at
Rome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone
that made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward—

“The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth,” said he, “when, after his
journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of
recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.
Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for his
_protégé’s_ misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this
assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I
conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the
compass of the French laws for your sake.”

“Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully,”
cried Bertuccio, in despair. “I have always been an honest man, and, as
far as lay in my power, I have done good.”

“I do not deny it,” returned the count; “but why are you thus agitated.
It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in
the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man.”

“But, your excellency,” replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, “did not the
Abbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nîmes, tell you
that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?”

“Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded
you had stolen—that was all.”

“Oh, your excellency!” returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.

“Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the
desire of making a ‘stiff,’ as you call it.”

“Yes, my good master,” cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count’s
feet, “it was simply vengeance—nothing else.”

“I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes
you in this manner.”

“But, monsieur, it is very natural,” returned Bertuccio, “since it was
in this house that my vengeance was accomplished.”

“What! my house?”

“Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then.”

“Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concierge said.
What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?”

“Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another.”

“This is strange,” returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his
reflections, “that you should find yourself without any preparation in
a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse.”

“Monsieur,” said the steward, “it is fatality, I am sure. First, you
purchase a house at Auteuil—this house is the one where I have
committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same
staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received
the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just
buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too
much like Providence.”

“Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I always
suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede
something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all.”

“I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Such
things,” continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, “are only related under
the seal of confession.”

“Then,” said the count, “I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux
or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like
anyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my
servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I
confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of
police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent—in France she
is paid only when she speaks. _Peste!_ I thought you somewhat Corsican,
a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have
other strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur
Bertuccio.”

“Oh, your excellency, your excellency!” cried the steward, struck with
terror at this threat, “if that is the only reason I cannot remain in
your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go
to the scaffold.”

“That is different,” replied Monte Cristo; “but if you intend to tell
an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.”

“No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell
you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret;
but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just
bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and
wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de
Villefort.”

“What!” cried Monte Cristo, “it was M. de Villefort?”

“Your excellency knows him?”

“The former royal attorney at Nîmes?”

“Yes.”

“Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright,
the most rigid magistrate on the bench?”

“Well, monsieur,” said Bertuccio, “this man with this spotless
reputation——”

“Well?”

“Was a villain.”

“Bah,” replied Monte Cristo, “impossible!”

“It is as I tell you.”

“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo. “Have you proof of this?”

“I had it.”

“And you have lost it; how stupid!”

“Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered.”

“Really,” returned the count, “relate it to me, for it begins to
interest me.”

And the count, humming an air from _Lucia_, went to sit down on a
bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio
remained standing before him.

20285m




 Chapter 44. The Vendetta

At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?” asked
Bertuccio.

“Where you please,” returned Monte Cristo, “since I know nothing at all
of it.”

“I thought the Abbé Busoni had told your excellency.”

“Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and
I have forgotten them.”

“Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency.”

“Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers.”

“The story begins in 1815.”

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, “1815 is not yesterday.”

“No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had
happened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the
service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed
entirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became
orphans—I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been
his son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the
Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly
wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire.”

“But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio,” said the
count; “unless I am mistaken, it has been already written.”

“Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you
promised to be patient.”

“Go on; I will keep my word.”

“One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the
little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letter
was from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that
he should return by Châteauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nîmes;
and, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nîmes,
with an innkeeper with whom I had dealings.”

“In the smuggling line?” said Monte Cristo.

“Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live.”

“Certainly; go on.”

“I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved
not to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a
thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law,
and with the other five hundred I set off for Nîmes. It was easy to do
so, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything
favored my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind
became contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able
to enter the Rhône. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to
Arles. I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the
road to Nîmes.”

“We are getting to the story now?”

“Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you
what is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres
took place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon,
Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they
suspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres,
your excellency?”

“Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on.”

“As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you
encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered,
and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became
terrified, not for myself—for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had
nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us
smugglers—but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from
the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was
everything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings had
been but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at
Nîmes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand
hospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to
discover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much
were they dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had
heard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king’s
attorney.”

“And this king’s attorney was named Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo
carelessly.

“Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been
deputy procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was
said to be one of the first who had informed the government of the
departure from the Island of Elba.”

“Then,” said Monte Cristo “you went to him?”

“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘my brother was assassinated yesterday in the
streets of Nîmes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.
You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to
avenge those she has been unable to protect.’

“‘Who was your brother?’ asked he.

“‘A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.’

“‘A soldier of the usurper, then?’

“‘A soldier of the French army.’

“‘Well,’ replied he, ‘he has smitten with the sword, and he has
perished by the sword.’

“‘You are mistaken, monsieur,’ I replied; ‘he has perished by the
poniard.’

“‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the magistrate.

“‘I have already told you—avenge him.’

“‘On whom?’

“‘On his murderers.’

“‘How should I know who they are?’

“‘Order them to be sought for.’

“‘Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a
duel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in
the time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people
here do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct.’

“‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘it is not for myself that I entreat your
interference—I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother
had a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would
perish from want, for my brother’s pay alone kept her. Pray, try and
obtain a small government pension for her.’

“‘Every revolution has its catastrophes,’ returned M. de Villefort;
‘your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, and
government owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all the
vengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans
of the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother
would be today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has
happened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of
reprisals.’

“‘What,’ cried I, ‘do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me?’

“‘All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,’ replied M. de Villefort;
‘they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistaken
the time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late
now. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out.’

“I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from
further entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said
in a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know
that they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed to
kill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.
Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is,
that I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta against
you, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet
your last hour has come.’ And before he had recovered from his
surprise, I opened the door and left the room.”

“Well, well,” said Monte Cristo, “such an innocent looking person as
you are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king’s attorney at
that! But did he know what was meant by the terrible word ‘vendetta’?”

“He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house,
and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, I
was so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became
alarmed, and dared not stay any longer at Nîmes, so he solicited a
change of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was
nominated to Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to
avenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it
went, was never above half a day’s journey before me, who followed him
on foot. The most important thing was, not to kill him only—for I had
an opportunity of doing so a hundred times—but to kill him without
being discovered—at least, without being arrested. I no longer belonged
to myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for.

“For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took
not a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I
discovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him
thither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead
of entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on
horseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little
inn, and entered by the gate you see there.”

Monte Cristo made a sign with his head to show that he could discern in
the darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded.

“As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and
gained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it was
evident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged,
as the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Méran,
Villefort’s father-in-law. M. de Saint-Méran lived at Marseilles, so
that this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be
let to a young widow, known only by the name of ‘the Baroness.’

“One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and
handsome woman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not
overlooked by any windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de
Villefort. When she was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her
features, I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair.
As she had a loose muslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure,
I saw she would ere long become a mother. A few moments after, the
little door was opened and a man entered. The young woman hastened to
meet him. They threw themselves into each other’s arms, embraced
tenderly, and returned together to the house. The man was M. de
Villefort; I fully believed that when he went out in the night he would
be forced to traverse the whole of the garden alone.”

20291m



“And,” asked the count, “did you ever know the name of this woman?”

“No, excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “you will see that I had no time
to learn it.”

“Go on.”

“That evening,” continued Bertuccio, “I could have killed the
procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the
neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if
his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the
next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a
chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden.
Three days after, about seven o’clock in the evening, I saw a servant
on horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to
Sèvres. I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not
deceived. Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his
errand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot,
muffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he
closed after him. I descended rapidly; although I had not seen
Villefort’s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart. I
crossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the
wall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden.

“This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife
out of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the
wall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it,
taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing,
then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The
garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the
middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy
foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to
go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de
Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.

20293m



“It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint
glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds
that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led
to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick
shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of
discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must
take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I
fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your
excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies
that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours
passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight
struck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through
the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended.
The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.

“The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it
that my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket
again, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle
advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in
his hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he
was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon
was only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de
Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the
thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the
earth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle,
which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I
confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort
was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.
Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the
procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or
eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made,
then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his
occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast,
exclaiming:

“‘I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure for
his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had
hoped.’

“I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell
without a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was
intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of
burning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might
not be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over
the wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying
off the key.”

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “it seems to me this was nothing but murder and
robbery.”

“No, your excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “it was a vendetta followed
by restitution.”

“And was the sum a large one?”

“It was not money.”

“Ah, I recollect,” replied the count; “did you not say something of an
infant?”

“Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and
with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth
was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored
hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not
yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.
After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart,
and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a
doctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them,
and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and
cried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.

“‘God has not cursed me then,’ I cried, ‘since he permits me to save
the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken
away.’”

20295m



“And what did you do with the child?” asked Monte Cristo. “It was an
embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.”

“I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at
Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I
passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the
road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my
statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy
parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from
the child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but
they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the
Rue d’Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen
in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on
the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my
possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after
I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta:

“‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’

“She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all,—‘Giovanni,’
said she, ‘you should have brought this child with you; we would have
replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then,
in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.’ In
reply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim
him if we became rich.”

“What letters were marked on the linen?” said Monte Cristo.

“An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.”

“By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you
study heraldry?”

“In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.”

“Go on, I am curious to know two things.”

“What are they, your excellency?”

“What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy,
M. Bertuccio.”

“No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.”

“I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.”

“No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your
excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?”

“The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for
a confessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in
the prison at Nîmes.”

“The story will be very long, excellency.”

“What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose
you are very much inclined for it either.” Bertuccio bowed, and resumed
his story.

“Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly
to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade
of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the
laws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were
ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were
perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by
this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere.
Since my brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never
entered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were
connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to
come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from
Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus,
at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our
goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the
gendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade,
when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for
myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing
the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the
judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into
the past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave
than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a
permit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most
astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too
great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of
those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and
determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life
to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or,
rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken
this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled.”

“Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,” interrupted the count; “you have done a
little of everything in your life.”

“Oh, excellency!”

“No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet
I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which
is more than can be said for all philosophy.”

“My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive.
Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as
I was setting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I
will give you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would
tell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six
weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English
cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home
full of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the
middle of Assunta’s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous
compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or
eight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I
had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the
recollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination
itself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She
had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen,
and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the
child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No
objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I
confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping
peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah,
Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless
you.’”

“This,” said Monte Cristo, “is less correct than your philosophy,—it is
only faith.”

“Alas, your excellency is right,” replied Bertuccio, “and God made this
infant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature
declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault
in his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes,
of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion;
only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular
expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of
his smile.

“Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is either
altogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct as
regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst
disposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother
encouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the
town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the
most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese
preserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor’s orchard, or the dried
apples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples
that grew in my garden.

“One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio,
who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse
or his valuables—for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in
Corsica—complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we
thought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he
persisted in the accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had
been gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not
return until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he
said he had found chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month
past, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken
it into his head to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by
Rogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had
greatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him.
‘Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,’ said I; ‘confess
how you obtained this animal.’ Benedetto maintained the truth of what
he had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his
imagination than to his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I
threatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards. ‘You cannot
beat me,’ said he; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’

20299m



“We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so
carefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the
child’s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and
my arm fell without touching him.

“The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that
all the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as
he became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how
to contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent.
When I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was
my back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill.
When he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young
men of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed,
in Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been
several times threatened with a prosecution. I became alarmed, as any
prosecution might be attended with serious consequences. I was
compelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition;
I reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some
impending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me.

“I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the
severe discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his
character, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke to
Benedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to
tempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of
a child of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished,
burst out laughing.

“‘Are you mad, uncle?’ (he called me by this name when he was in good
humor); ‘do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your
mode of existence—my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious
toil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and
the scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you
are perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum?
Why, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me
when I ask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your
offer.’

“The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedetto
rejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to
them as a fool.”

“Sweet child,” murmured Monte Cristo.

“Oh, had he been my own son,” replied Bertuccio, “or even my nephew, I
would have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that
you are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was
striking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me
to punish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the
unfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several
times missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place
in which to conceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was
already made up. Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for
when the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a
week. My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and
without letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some
morning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon
his own conduct. I set off for France, after having fixed upon the
plan. Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a
difficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829. The most
perfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the
custom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased
at this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire.

20301m



“Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our
vessel—which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed—amidst a
number of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhône from
Beaucaire to Arles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in
the night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper
with whom we were connected.

“Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I
know not; but one evening, about five o’clock, our little cabin-boy
came breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of
custom-house officers advancing in our direction. It was not their
proximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling
along the banks of the Rhône, but the care, according to the boy’s
account, that they took to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on
the alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst
the custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as
terrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of
any other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the
river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a
ditch that had recently been made from the Rhône to the canal that runs
from Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along
the ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had
designedly taken this direction. I have already told your excellency of
an innkeeper from Nîmes who had set up a little tavern on the road from
Bellegarde to Beaucaire.”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I perfectly recollect him; I think he was
your colleague.”

“Precisely,” answered Bertuccio; “but he had, seven or eight years
before this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles,
who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his
fortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with the
new landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I
intended to ask shelter.”

“What was his name?” inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat
interested in Bertuccio’s story.

“Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of
Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her
village. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by
inches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or
five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample
proof of his presence of mind and courage.”

“And you say,” interrupted Monte Cristo “that this took place towards
the year——”

“1829, your excellency.”

“In what month?”

“June.”

“The beginning or the end?”

“The evening of the 3rd.”

20303m



“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.”

“It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we
never entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to
break through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept
amongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might
have some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed
the night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in
which holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity
of announcing our presence.

“My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my
presence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted,
and profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhône, and
ascertain the state of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the
shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse
entered with a stranger.

“I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I
could do nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often
before. The man who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the
South of France; he was one of those merchants who come to sell
jewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair
lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and
customers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount
of 100,000 to 150,000 francs. Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing
that the room was, as usual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he
called to his wife, ‘Hello, Carconte,’ said he, ‘the worthy priest has
not deceived us; the diamond is real.’

“An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath a
feeble step. ‘What do you say?’ asked his wife, pale as death.

“‘I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the
first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, in
order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to
relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which
the diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit
down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.’

“The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the
apparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond
that seemed to have come from the casket of a prince.

“‘Relate your story, madame,’ said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by
the absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence the
wife’s story, to see if the two recitals tallied.

“‘Oh,’ returned she, ‘it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great
friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantès. This poor
fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at
his death he bequeathed this diamond to him.’

“‘But how did he obtain it?’ asked the jeweller; ‘had he it before he
was imprisoned?’

“‘No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance
of a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantès took
the same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman,
when he was set free, gave this stone to Dantès, who, less fortunate,
died, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbé,
who was here this morning, to deliver it.’

“‘The same story,’ muttered the jeweller; ‘and improbable as it seemed
at first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreed
about.’

“‘How not agreed about?’ said Caderousse. ‘I thought we agreed for the
price I asked.’

“‘That is,’ replied the jeweller, ‘I offered 40,000 francs.’

‘Forty thousand,’ cried La Carconte; ‘we will not part with it for that
sum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting.’

“‘What was the abbé’s name?’ asked the indefatigable questioner.

“‘The Abbé Busoni,’ said La Carconte.

“‘He was a foreigner?’

“‘An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.’

“‘Let me see this diamond again,’ replied the jeweller; ‘the first time
you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.’

“Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen,
opened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight of the diamond, which
was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with
cupidity.”

“And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?” said Monte
Cristo; “did you credit it?”

“Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I
thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft.”

“That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M.
Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantès, of whom they spoke?”

“No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but
once afterwards, and that was from the Abbé Busoni himself, when I saw
him in the prison at Nîmes.”

“Go on.”

“The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of
steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of
its setting, and weighed it carefully.

“‘I will give you 45,000,’ said he, ‘but not a sou more; besides, as
that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me.’

“‘Oh, that’s no matter,’ replied Caderousse, ‘I will go back with you
to fetch the other 5,000 francs.’

“‘No,’ returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to
Caderousse, ‘no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much,
for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However, I will
not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.’

“‘At least, replace the diamond in the ring,’ said La Carconte sharply.

“‘Ah, true,’ replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone.

“‘No matter,’ observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket,
‘someone else will purchase it.’

“‘Yes,’ continued the jeweller; ‘but someone else will not be so easy
as I am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that
a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against
you. You will have to find the Abbé Busoni; and abbés who give diamonds
worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you
in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at
liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs,
will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000
francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in
purchasing.’

“Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other.

“‘No,’ said Caderousse, ‘we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs.’

“‘As you please, my dear sir,’ said the jeweller; ‘I had, however, as
you see, brought you the money in bright coin.’ And he drew from his
pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes
of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes.

“There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it
was plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over
in his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous
sum which fascinated his gaze. He turned towards his wife.

“‘What do you think of this?’ he asked in a low voice.

“‘Let him have it—let him have it,’ she said. ‘If he returns to
Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he
says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbé Busoni?—in all
probability we shall never see him.’

“‘Well, then, so I will!’ said Caderousse; ‘so you may have the diamond
for 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of
silver buckles.’

“The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained
several samples of the articles demanded. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I am very
straightforward in my dealings—take your choice.’

“The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the
husband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.

“‘I hope you will not complain now?’ said the jeweller.

“‘The abbé told me it was worth 50,000 francs,’ muttered Caderousse.

“‘Come, come—give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,’ said the
jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. ‘I give you 45,000
francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I had
myself, and you are not satisfied!’

“‘And the five-and-forty thousand francs,’ inquired Caderousse in a
hoarse voice, ‘where are they? Come—let us see them.’

“‘Here they are,’ replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the
table 15,000 francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.

“‘Wait while I light the lamp,’ said La Carconte; ‘it is growing dark,
and there may be some mistake.’ In fact, night had come on during this
conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for
the last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it was
apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,
absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt;
a strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all
these bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it
always happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot.
Caderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then
handed them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her
turn. During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle
in the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him
unmindful of those which—precursors of the storm—began to play in at
the windows.

“‘Well,’ inquired the jeweller, ‘is the cash all right?’

“‘Yes,’ said Caderousse. ‘Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and
find a bag somewhere.’

“La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern
pocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters,
and put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or
three crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the
entire fortune of the miserable couple.

“‘There,’ said Caderousse; ‘and now, although you have wronged us of
perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite you
with good-will.’

“‘Thank you,’ replied the jeweller, ‘it must be getting late, and I
must return to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting uneasy.’ He drew out
his watch, and exclaimed, ‘_Morbleu!_ nearly nine o’clock—why, I shall
not get back to Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If
the Abbé Busoni should by any accident return, think of me.’

“‘In another week you will have left Beaucaire,’ remarked Caderousse,
‘for the fair ends in a few days.’

“‘True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to M.
Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the
journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.’

“At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by
a flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the
lamp.

20307m



“‘See here,’ exclaimed Caderousse. ‘You cannot think of going out in
such weather as this.’

“‘Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,’ said the jeweller.

“‘And then there are robbers,’ said La Carconte. ‘The road is never
very safe during fair time.’

“‘Oh, as to the robbers,’ said Joannes, ‘here is something for them,’
and he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the
muzzle. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘are dogs who bark and bite at the same time,
they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond,
Friend Caderousse.’

“Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look. It seemed
as though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible
thought. ‘Well, then, a good journey to you,’ said Caderousse.

“‘Thanks,’ replied the jeweller. He then took his cane, which he had
placed against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment when he
opened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearly
extinguished. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘this is very nice weather, and two
leagues to go in such a storm.’

“‘Remain,’ said Caderousse. ‘You can sleep here.’

“‘Yes; do stay,’ added La Carconte in a tremulous voice; ‘we will take
every care of you.’

“‘No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.’ Caderousse
followed him slowly to the threshold. ‘I can see neither heaven nor
earth,’ said the jeweller, who was outside the door. ‘Do I turn to the
right, or to the left hand?’

“‘To the right,’ said Caderousse. ‘You cannot go wrong—the road is
bordered by trees on both sides.’

“‘Good—all right,’ said a voice almost lost in the distance.

“‘Close the door,’ said La Carconte; ‘I do not like open doors when it
thunders.’

“‘Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?’ answered
Caderousse, double-locking the door.

20311m



“He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and
pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold
and bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the
flickering lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman,
especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was
intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled
burning coals.

“‘Why,’ she inquired in a hoarse voice, ‘did you invite him to sleep
here tonight?’

“‘Why?’ said Caderousse with a shudder; ‘why, that he might not have
the trouble of returning to Beaucaire.’

“‘Ah,’ responded the woman, with an expression impossible to describe;
‘I thought it was for something else.’

“‘Woman, woman—why do you have such ideas?’ cried Caderousse; ‘or, if
you have them, why don’t you keep them to yourself?’

“‘Well,’ said La Carconte, after a moment’s pause, ‘you are not a man.’

“‘What do you mean?’ added Caderousse.

“‘If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here.’

“‘Woman!’

“‘Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire.’

“‘Woman!’

“‘The road takes a turn—he is obliged to follow it—while alongside of
the canal there is a shorter road.’

“‘Woman!—you offend the good God. There—listen!’

And at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the
livid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in
the distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode.
‘Mercy!’ said Caderousse, crossing himself.

20312m



“At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which
usually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door.
Caderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other.

“‘Who’s there?’ cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the
gold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his
two hands.

“‘It is I,’ shouted a voice.

“‘And who are you?’

“‘Eh, _pardieu!_ Joannes, the jeweller.’

“‘Well, and you said I offended the good God,’ said La Carconte with a
horrid smile. ‘Why, the good God sends him back again.’ Caderousse sank
pale and breathless into his chair.

“La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towards
the door, opened it, saying, as she did so:

“‘Come in, dear M. Joannes.’

“‘_Ma foi_,’ said the jeweller, drenched with rain, ‘I am not destined
to return to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dear
Caderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have
returned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.’

“Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat that
started to his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind the
jeweller.”



 Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood

As the jeweller returned to the apartment, he cast around him a
scrutinizing glance—but there was nothing to excite suspicion, if it
did not exist, or to confirm it, if it were already awakened.
Caderousse’s hands still grasped the gold and bank-notes, and La
Carconte called up her sweetest smiles while welcoming the reappearance
of their guest.

“‘Well, well,’ said the jeweller, ‘you seem, my good friends, to have
had some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it
over so carefully directly I was gone.’

“‘Oh, no,’ answered Caderousse, ‘that was not my reason, I can assure
you; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this
wealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good
fortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches
before our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is
not a dream.’

“The jeweller smiled. ‘Have you any other guests in your house?’
inquired he.

“‘Nobody but ourselves,’ replied Caderousse; ‘the fact is, we do not
lodge travellers—indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody
would think of stopping here.’

“‘Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you.’

“‘Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear sir,’ said La Carconte in her
most gracious manner. ‘Not at all, I assure you.’

“‘But where will you manage to stow me?’

“‘In the chamber overhead.’

“‘Surely that is where you yourselves sleep?’

“‘Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room.’

“Caderousse stared at his wife with much astonishment.

“The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a song as he stood warming his
back at the fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the wet garments of her
guest; and this done, she next occupied herself in arranging his
supper, by spreading a napkin at the end of the table, and placing on
it the slender remains of their dinner, to which she added three or
four fresh-laid eggs. Caderousse had once more parted with his
treasure—the banknotes were replaced in the pocket-book, the gold put
back into the bag, and the whole carefully locked in the cupboard. He
then began pacing the room with a pensive and gloomy air, glancing from
time to time at the jeweller, who stood reeking with the steam from his
wet clothes, and merely changing his place on the warm hearth, to
enable the whole of his garments to be dried.

“‘There,’ said La Carconte, as she placed a bottle of wine on the
table, ‘supper is ready whenever you are.’

“‘And you?’ asked Joannes.

“‘I don’t want any supper,’ said Caderousse.

“‘We dined so very late,’ hastily interposed La Carconte.

“‘Then it seems I am to eat alone,’ remarked the jeweller.

“‘Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you,’ answered La
Carconte, with an eager attention she was not accustomed to manifest
even to guests who paid for what they took.

“From time to time Caderousse darted on his wife keen, searching
glances, but rapid as the lightning flash. The storm still continued.

“‘There, there,’ said La Carconte; ‘do you hear that? upon my word, you
did well to come back.’

“‘Nevertheless,’ replied the jeweller, ‘if by the time I have finished
my supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start.’

“‘It’s the mistral,’ said Caderousse, ‘and it will be sure to last till
tomorrow morning.’ He sighed heavily.

“‘Well,’ said the jeweller, as he placed himself at table, ‘all I can
say is, so much the worse for those who are abroad.’

“‘Yes,’ chimed in La Carconte, ‘they will have a wretched night of it.’

“The jeweller began eating his supper, and the woman, who was
ordinarily so querulous and indifferent to all who approached her, was
suddenly transformed into the most smiling and attentive hostess. Had
the unhappy man on whom she lavished her assiduities been previously
acquainted with her, so sudden an alteration might well have excited
suspicion in his mind, or at least have greatly astonished him.
Caderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence,
sedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger
had completed his repast, the agitated innkeeper went eagerly to the
door and opened it.

“‘I believe the storm is over,’ said he.

“But as if to contradict his statement, at that instant a violent clap
of thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation, while a
sudden gust of wind, mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp he held
in his hand.

“Trembling and awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the door and
returned to his guest, while La Carconte lighted a candle by the
smouldering ashes that glimmered on the hearth.

“‘You must be tired,’ said she to the jeweller; ‘I have spread a pair
of white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well.’

“Joannes stayed for a while to see whether the storm seemed to abate in
its fury, but a brief space of time sufficed to assure him that,
instead of diminishing, the violence of the rain and thunder
momentarily increased; resigning himself, therefore, to what seemed
inevitable, he bade his host good-night, and mounted the stairs. He
passed over my head and I heard the flooring creak beneath his
footsteps. The quick, eager glance of La Carconte followed him as he
ascended, while Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his back, and
seemed most anxiously to avoid even glancing at him.

“All these circumstances did not strike me as painfully at the time as
they have since done; in fact, all that had happened (with the
exception of the story of the diamond, which certainly did wear an air
of improbability), appeared natural enough, and called for neither
apprehension nor mistrust; but, worn out as I was with fatigue, and
fully purposing to proceed onwards directly the tempest abated, I
determined to obtain a few hours’ sleep. Overhead I could accurately
distinguish every movement of the jeweller, who, after making the best
arrangements in his power for passing a comfortable night, threw
himself on his bed, and I could hear it creak and groan beneath his
weight.

“Insensibly my eyelids grew heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and having
no suspicion of anything wrong, I sought not to shake it off. I looked
into the kitchen once more and saw Caderousse sitting by the side of a
long table upon one of the low wooden stools which in country places
are frequently used instead of chairs; his back was turned towards me,
so that I could not see the expression of his countenance—neither
should I have been able to do so had he been placed differently, as his
head was buried between his two hands. La Carconte continued to gaze on
him for some time, then shrugging her shoulders, she took her seat
immediately opposite to him.

“At this moment the expiring embers threw up a fresh flame from the
kindling of a piece of wood that lay near, and a bright light flashed
over the room. La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband,
but as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard,
bony hand, and touched him on the forehead.

20317m



“Caderousse shuddered. The woman’s lips seemed to move, as though she
were talking; but because she merely spoke in an undertone, or my
senses were dulled by sleep, I did not catch a word she uttered.
Confused sights and sounds seemed to float before me, and gradually I
fell into a deep, heavy slumber. How long I had been in this
unconscious state I know not, when I was suddenly aroused by the report
of a pistol, followed by a fearful cry. Weak and tottering footsteps
resounded across the chamber above me, and the next instant a dull,
heavy weight seemed to fall powerless on the staircase. I had not yet
fully recovered consciousness, when again I heard groans, mingled with
half-stifled cries, as if from persons engaged in a deadly struggle. A
cry more prolonged than the others and ending in a series of groans
effectually roused me from my drowsy lethargy. Hastily raising myself
on one arm, I looked around, but all was dark; and it seemed to me as
if the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room
above, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon
my forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it
was wet and clammy.

“To the fearful noises that had awakened me had succeeded the most
perfect silence—unbroken, save by the footsteps of a man walking about
in the chamber above. The staircase creaked, he descended into the room
below, approached the fire and lit a candle.

“The man was Caderousse—he was pale and his shirt was all bloody.
Having obtained the light, he hurried upstairs again, and once more I
heard his rapid and uneasy footsteps.

“A moment later he came down again, holding in his hand the small
shagreen case, which he opened, to assure himself it contained the
diamond,—seemed to hesitate as to which pocket he should put it in,
then, as if dissatisfied with the security of either pocket, he
deposited it in his red handkerchief, which he carefully rolled round
his head.

“After this he took from his cupboard the bank-notes and gold he had
put there, thrust the one into the pocket of his trousers, and the
other into that of his waistcoat, hastily tied up a small bundle of
linen, and rushing towards the door, disappeared in the darkness of the
night.

“Then all became clear and manifest to me, and I reproached myself with
what had happened, as though I myself had done the guilty deed. I
fancied that I still heard faint moans, and imagining that the
unfortunate jeweller might not be quite dead, I determined to go to his
relief, by way of atoning in some slight degree, not for the crime I
had committed, but for that which I had not endeavored to prevent. For
this purpose I applied all the strength I possessed to force an
entrance from the cramped spot in which I lay to the adjoining room.
The poorly fastened boards which alone divided me from it yielded to my
efforts, and I found myself in the house. Hastily snatching up the
lighted candle, I hurried to the staircase; about midway a body was
lying quite across the stairs. It was that of La Carconte. The pistol I
had heard had doubtless been fired at her. The shot had frightfully
lacerated her throat, leaving two gaping wounds from which, as well as
the mouth, the blood was pouring in floods. She was stone dead. I
strode past her, and ascended to the sleeping chamber, which presented
an appearance of the wildest disorder. The furniture had been knocked
over in the deadly struggle that had taken place there, and the sheets,
to which the unfortunate jeweller had doubtless clung, were dragged
across the room. The murdered man lay on the floor, his head leaning
against the wall, and about him was a pool of blood which poured forth
from three large wounds in his breast; there was a fourth gash, in
which a long table knife was plunged up to the handle.

“I stumbled over some object; I stooped to examine—it was the second
pistol, which had not gone off, probably from the powder being wet. I
approached the jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at the sound of my
footsteps and the creaking of the floor, he opened his eyes, fixed them
on me with an anxious and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as though
trying to speak, then, overcome by the effort, fell back and expired.

“This appalling sight almost bereft me of my senses, and finding that I
could no longer be of service to anyone in the house, my only desire
was to fly. I rushed towards the staircase, clutching my hair, and
uttering a groan of horror.

“Upon reaching the room below, I found five or six custom-house
officers, and two or three gendarmes—all heavily armed. They threw
themselves upon me. I made no resistance; I was no longer master of my
senses. When I strove to speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone escaped
my lips.

“As I noticed the significant manner in which the whole party pointed
to my blood-stained garments, I involuntarily surveyed myself, and then
I discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay
beneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte. I
pointed to the spot where I had concealed myself.

“‘What does he mean?’ asked a gendarme.

“One of the officers went to the place I directed.

“‘He means,’ replied the man upon his return, ‘that he got in that
way;’ and he showed the hole I had made when I broke through.

“Then I saw that they took me for the assassin. I recovered force and
energy enough to free myself from the hands of those who held me, while
I managed to stammer forth:

“‘I did not do it! Indeed, indeed I did not!’

“A couple of gendarmes held the muzzles of their carbines against my
breast.

“‘Stir but a step,’ said they, ‘and you are a dead man.’

“‘Why should you threaten me with death,’ cried I, ‘when I have already
declared my innocence?’

“‘Tush, tush,’ cried the men; ‘keep your innocent stories to tell to
the judge at Nîmes. Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice
we can give you is to do so unresistingly.’

“Alas, resistance was far from my thoughts. I was utterly overpowered
by surprise and terror; and without a word I suffered myself to be
handcuffed and tied to a horse’s tail, and thus they took me to Nîmes.

“I had been tracked by a customs-officer, who had lost sight of me near
the tavern; feeling certain that I intended to pass the night there, he
had returned to summon his comrades, who just arrived in time to hear
the report of the pistol, and to take me in the midst of such
circumstantial proofs of my guilt as rendered all hopes of proving my
innocence utterly futile. One only chance was left me, that of
beseeching the magistrate before whom I was taken to cause every
inquiry to be made for the Abbé Busoni, who had stopped at the inn of
the Pont du Gard on that morning.

“If Caderousse had invented the story relative to the diamond, and
there existed no such person as the Abbé Busoni, then, indeed, I was
lost past redemption, or, at least, my life hung upon the feeble chance
of Caderousse himself being apprehended and confessing the whole truth.

“Two months passed away in hopeless expectation on my part, while I
must do the magistrate the justice to say that he used every means to
obtain information of the person I declared could exculpate me if he
would. Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and I had resigned myself
to what seemed my inevitable fate. My trial was to come on at the
approaching assizes; when, on the 8th of September—that is to say,
precisely three months and five days after the events which had
perilled my life—the Abbé Busoni, whom I never ventured to believe I
should see, presented himself at the prison doors, saying he understood
one of the prisoners wished to speak to him; he added, that having
learned at Marseilles the particulars of my imprisonment, he hastened
to comply with my desire.

“You may easily imagine with what eagerness I welcomed him, and how
minutely I related the whole of what I had seen and heard. I felt some
degree of nervousness as I entered upon the history of the diamond,
but, to my inexpressible astonishment, he confirmed it in every
particular, and to my equal surprise, he seemed to place entire belief
in all I said.

“And then it was that, won by his mild charity, seeing that he was
acquainted with all the habits and customs of my own country, and
considering also that pardon for the only crime of which I was really
guilty might come with a double power from lips so benevolent and kind,
I besought him to receive my confession, under the seal of which I
recounted the Auteuil affair in all its details, as well as every other
transaction of my life. That which I had done by the impulse of my best
feelings produced the same effect as though it had been the result of
calculation. My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil
proved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused.
When he quitted me, he bade me be of good courage, and to rely upon his
doing all in his power to convince my judges of my innocence.

“I had speedy proofs that the excellent abbé was engaged in my behalf,
for the rigors of my imprisonment were alleviated by many trifling
though acceptable indulgences, and I was told that my trial was to be
postponed to the assizes following those now being held.

“In the interim it pleased Providence to cause the apprehension of
Caderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought
back to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the
fact of his wife’s having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse
for his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for
life, and I was immediately set at liberty.”

“And then it was, I presume,” said Monte Cristo “that you came to me as
the bearer of a letter from the Abbé Busoni?”

“It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbé took an evident interest
in all that concerned me.

“‘Your mode of life as a smuggler,’ said he to me one day, ‘will be the
ruin of you; if you get out, don’t take it up again.’

“‘But how,’ inquired I, ‘am I to maintain myself and my poor sister?’

“‘A person, whose confessor I am,’ replied he, ‘and who entertains a
high regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a
confidential servant. Would you like such a post? If so, I will give
you a letter of introduction to him.’

“‘Oh, father,’ I exclaimed, ‘you are very good.’

“‘But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent
my recommendation.’

“I extended my hand, and was about to pledge myself by any promise he
would dictate, but he stopped me.

“‘It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,’ said he; ‘I
know and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you. Here, take
this,’ continued he, after rapidly writing the few lines I brought to
your excellency, and upon receipt of which you deigned to receive me
into your service, and proudly I ask whether your excellency has ever
had cause to repent having done so?”

“No,” replied the count; “I take pleasure in saying that you have
served me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more
confidence in me.”

“I, your excellency?”

“Yes; you. How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son,
you have never spoken to me of either?”

20323m



“Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life.
Anxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister,
I lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano
I found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible
that the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day. Acting by my
advice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable
demands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as
long as he believed there was a sou left in her possession. One morning
he threatened her with the severest consequences if she did not supply
him with what he desired, and disappeared and remained away all day,
leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own
child, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence. Evening came,
and still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for
his return.

“As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air,
attended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon
companions. She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of
her, and one of the three—none other than the accursed Benedetto
exclaimed:

“‘Put her to torture and she’ll soon tell us where her money is.’

“It unfortunately happened that our neighbor, Wasilio, was at Bastia,
leaving no person in his house but his wife; no human creature beside
could hear or see anything that took place within our dwelling. Two
held poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended
to her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her
executioners. The third proceeded to barricade the doors and windows,
then returned, and the three united in stifling the cries of terror
incited by the sight of these preparations, and then dragged Assunta
feet foremost towards the brazier, expecting to wring from her an
avowal of where her supposed treasure was secreted. In the struggle her
clothes caught fire, and they were obliged to let go their hold in
order to preserve themselves from sharing the same fate. Covered with
flames, Assunta rushed wildly to the door, but it was fastened; she
flew to the windows, but they were also secured; then the neighbors
heard frightful shrieks; it was Assunta calling for help. The cries
died away in groans, and next morning, as soon as Wasilio’s wife could
muster up courage to venture abroad, she caused the door of our
dwelling to be opened by the public authorities, when Assunta, although
dreadfully burnt, was found still breathing; every drawer and closet in
the house had been forced open, and the money stolen. Benedetto never
again appeared at Rogliano, neither have I since that day either seen
or heard anything concerning him.

“It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your
excellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned
Benedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my
sister, since she was dead.”

“And in what light did you view the occurrence?” inquired Monte Cristo.

“As a punishment for the crime I had committed,” answered Bertuccio.
“Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race!”

“Truly they are,” murmured the count in a lugubrious tone.

“And now,” resumed Bertuccio, “your excellency may, perhaps, be able to
comprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time—this
garden, the actual scene of my crime—must have given rise to
reflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and
depression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who
was pleased to express a desire to know the cause. At this instant a
shudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on
the very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground
was dug to receive the corpse of his child.”

“Everything is possible,” said Monte Cristo, rising from the bench on
which he had been sitting; “even,” he added in an inaudible voice,
“even that the procureur be not dead. The Abbé Busoni did right to send
you to me,” he went on in his ordinary tone, “and you have done well in
relating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming
any erroneous opinions concerning you in future. As for that Benedetto,
who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace
out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?”

“No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should
shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God,
I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and
believe he is dead.”

“Do not think so, Bertuccio,” replied the count; “for the wicked are
not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special
watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance.”

“So be it,” responded Bertuccio, “all I ask of heaven is that I may
never see him again. And now, your excellency,” he added, bowing his
head, “you know everything—you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty
is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?”

“My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the
Abbé Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you,
and, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the
instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly
punished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but
one point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore,
after rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it
to its mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio—that was where you became
really culpable.”

“True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I
acted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in
recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in
order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which
would, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung
to life, partly on my sister’s account, and partly from that feeling of
pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and
victorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural
and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own.
And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor
brother.”

Bertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words, while
Monte Cristo fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning. After a brief
silence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the count
said, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner:

“In order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (the last
we shall ever hold upon this subject), I will repeat to you some words
I have heard from the lips of the Abbé Busoni. For all evils there are
two remedies—time and silence. And now leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to
walk alone here in the garden. The very circumstances which inflict on
you, as a principal in the tragic scene enacted here, such painful
emotions, are to me, on the contrary, a source of something like
contentment, and serve but to enhance the value of this dwelling in my
estimation. The chief beauty of trees consists in the deep shadow of
their umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures a moving multitude of
shapes and forms flitting and passing beneath that shade. Here I have a
garden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope for the
imagination, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose
leafy screen a visionary like myself may conjure up phantoms at will.
This to me, who expected but to find a blank enclosure surrounded by a
straight wall, is, I assure you, a most agreeable surprise. I have no
fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had
been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the
living in a single day. Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your
mind. Should your confessor be less indulgent to you in your dying
moments than you found the Abbé Busoni, send for me, if I am still on
earth, and I will soothe your ears with words that shall effectually
calm and soothe your parting soul ere it goes forth to traverse the
ocean called eternity.”

Bertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned away, sighing heavily. Monte
Cristo, left alone, took three or four steps onwards, and murmured:

“Here, beneath this plane-tree, must have been where the infant’s grave
was dug. There is the little door opening into the garden. At this
corner is the private staircase communicating with the sleeping
apartment. There will be no necessity for me to make a note of these
particulars, for there, before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around me,
I have the plan sketched with all the living reality of truth.”

After making the tour of the garden a second time, the count re-entered
his carriage, while Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful expression
of his master’s features, took his seat beside the driver without
uttering a word. The carriage proceeded rapidly towards Paris.

That same evening, upon reaching his abode in the Champs-Élysées, the
Count of Monte Cristo went over the whole building with the air of one
long acquainted with each nook or corner. Nor, although preceding the
party, did he once mistake one door for another, or commit the smallest
error when choosing any particular corridor or staircase to conduct him
to a place or suite of rooms he desired to visit. Ali was his principal
attendant during this nocturnal survey. Having given various orders to
Bertuccio relative to the improvements and alterations he desired to
make in the house, the Count, drawing out his watch, said to the
attentive Nubian:

“It is half-past eleven o’clock; Haydée will soon be here. Have the
French attendants been summoned to await her coming?”

Ali extended his hands towards the apartments destined for the fair
Greek, which were so effectually concealed by means of a tapestried
entrance, that it would have puzzled the most curious to have divined
their existence. Ali, having pointed to the apartments, held up three
fingers of his right hand, and then, placing it beneath his head, shut
his eyes, and feigned to sleep.

“I understand,” said Monte Cristo, well acquainted with Ali’s
pantomime; “you mean to tell me that three female attendants await
their new mistress in her sleeping-chamber.”

Ali, with considerable animation, made a sign in the affirmative.

“Madame will be tired tonight,” continued Monte Cristo, “and will, no
doubt, wish to rest. Desire the French attendants not to weary her with
questions, but merely to pay their respectful duty and retire. You will
also see that the Greek servants hold no communication with those of
this country.”

He bowed. Just at that moment voices were heard hailing the concierge.
The gate opened, a carriage rolled down the avenue, and stopped at the
steps. The count hastily descended, presented himself at the already
opened carriage door, and held out his hand to a young woman,
completely enveloped in a green silk mantle heavily embroidered with
gold. She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed
it with a mixture of love and respect. Some few words passed between
them in that sonorous language in which Homer makes his gods converse.
The young woman spoke with an expression of deep tenderness, while the
count replied with an air of gentle gravity.

Preceded by Ali, who carried a rose-colored flambeau in his hand, the
young lady, who was no other than the lovely Greek who had been Monte
Cristo’s companion in Italy, was conducted to her apartments, while the
count retired to the pavilion reserved for himself. In another hour
every light in the house was extinguished, and it might have been
thought that all its inmates slept.



 Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit

About two o’clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of
magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a
person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a
white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown
trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his
eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so
little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles
stamped on his features—a person, in a word, who, although evidently
past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards
from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the
armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the
porter’s lodge whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if
he were within.

While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the
garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants
who passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat
impertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than
intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed,
they were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and
projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the
flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull,
which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears,
combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the
eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage
must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when
they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the
red ribbon that depended from his button-hole.

The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the
porter’s lodge, saying:

“Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here?”

“His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but——” added
he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the
negative.

“But what?” asked the groom.

“His excellency does not receive visitors today.”

“Then here is my master’s card, the Baron Danglars. You will take it to
the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my
master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.”

“I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de
chambre will carry your message.”

The groom returned to the carriage.

“Well?” asked Danglars.

The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated
what the concierge had said.

“Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince
instead of a count by their styling him ‘excellency,’ and only
venturing to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre.
However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I
must see him when he requires his money.”

Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his
coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the
Chamber of Deputies.”

Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind
the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of
an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house,
garden, and servants.

“That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the count in a tone
of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it
that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding,
serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked
nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same
time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the
count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment.

“Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he.

“I did,” replied the count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing
a few minutes since at the door?”

“Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable
beauty.”

“Then how comes it,” said Monte Cristo with a frown, “that, when I
desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in
Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my
stables?”

At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count
spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head.

“It is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the count in the Arabic
language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of
showing, either in voice or face—“it is not your fault. You do not
understand the points of English horses.”

The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity.

“Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses
you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.”

Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, sir steward,” said he,
“that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as
care to pay the price.”

“His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000
francs for his horses?”

“Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an
opportunity of doubling his capital.”

“Is your excellency really in earnest?” inquired the steward.

Monte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words
with the look of one equally surprised and displeased.

“I have to pay a visit this evening,” replied he. “I desire that these
horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my
carriage.”

Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door,
he paused, and then said, “At what o’clock does your excellency wish
the carriage and horses to be ready?”

“At five o’clock,” replied the count.

“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” interposed the steward in a
deprecating manner, “for venturing to observe that it is already two
o’clock.”

“I am perfectly aware of that fact,” answered Monte Cristo calmly.
Then, turning towards Ali, he said, “Let all the horses in my stables
be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those
she prefers for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying
whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served
in her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to
come hither.”

Scarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber.

“Monsieur Baptistin,” said the count, “you have been in my service one
year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or
demerits of those about me. You suit me very well.”

Baptistin bowed low.

“It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?”

“Oh, your excellency!” exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.

“Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,” replied Monte
Cristo. “You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here—more
than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his
country, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who
work ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though
yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care
of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you.
Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet,
amounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages.”

“Nay, indeed, your excellency.”

“I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your
profits end here. It would be long indeed ere you would find so
lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I
neither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I
readily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My
commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather
be obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they
should be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to
know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I
should learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to anyone
favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my
conduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now
retire. I never caution my servants a second time—remember that.”

Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door.

“I forgot to mention to you,” said the count, “that I lay yearly aside
a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am
compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in
this money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those
domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my
death. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun
to accumulate—let it continue to do so.”

This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding
one word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved,
produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have
occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics.

“I assure your excellency,” said he, “that at least it shall be my
study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali
as my model.”

“By no means,” replied the count in the most frigid tones; “Ali has
many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly
serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid
servant, but a mere slave—a dog, who, should he fail in his duty
towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.”

Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.

“You seem incredulous,” said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the
Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French.

The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master’s words, then, kneeling on
one knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count. This corroboration
of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the
wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The count then motioned the
valet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where
they conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of the clock
pointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was
wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three
Bertuccio. The steward entered.

“My horses,” said Monte Cristo.

“They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency
desired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?”

“No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go.”

The count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage
drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning
as the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said:

“They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to
purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured
them sooner.”

“Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in
obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price.”

“Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful,”
inquired the count, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish.
Whither does your excellency desire to be driven?”

“To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.”

This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which
a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a
respectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back.

“I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio,” said he; “I am
desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy—for instance,
between Le Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will
be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small
harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at
anchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant
readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make
the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you
have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the
advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette
must now, I think, be on her way to Fécamp, must she not?”

20333m



“Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we
quitted Marseilles.”

“And the yacht.”

“Was ordered to remain at Martigues.”

“’Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in
charge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert.”

“And the steamboat?”

“She is at Châlons?”

“Yes.”

“The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels.”

“Very good.”

“When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of
horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road.”

“Your excellency may depend upon me.”

The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps,
and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the
banker’s house.

Danglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad
committee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his
visitor was announced. As the count’s title sounded on his ear he rose,
and addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other
Chamber, he said:

“Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most
ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this,—Thomson & French,
the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the
Count of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me.
I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course
of my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it
has greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to
call on the pretended count—if he were a real count he wouldn’t be so
rich. But, would you believe it, ‘He was not receiving.’ So the master
of Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a
capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the
Champs-Élysées is his own property, and certainly it was very decently
kept up. But,” pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles, “an
order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part
of the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see
this man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it
little knew whom they had to deal with. ‘They laugh best who laugh
last!’”

Having delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree
of energy that left the baron almost out of breath, he bowed to the
assembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous
furnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the
Chaussée d’Antin. It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to
be shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much
luxury. He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and
Fattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which,
mere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being
brought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the
ceiling.

The count turned round as he heard the entrance of Danglars into the
room. With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the
count to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded armchair,
covered with white satin embroidered with gold. The count sat down.

20335m



“I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de Monte Cristo.”

The count bowed.

“And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
and member of the Chamber of Deputies?”

Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the baron’s card.

Danglars felt the irony and compressed his lips.

“You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your
title when I first addressed you,” he said, “but you are aware that we
are living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a
representative of the liberties of the people.”

“So much so,” replied Monte Cristo, “that while you call yourself baron
you are not willing to call anybody else count.”

“Upon my word, monsieur,” said Danglars with affected carelessness, “I
attach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I
was made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return
for services rendered, but——”

“But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by
Messrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a noble example to
follow, monsieur.”

“Why,” replied Danglars, “not entirely so; with the servants,—you
understand.”

“I see; to your domestics you are ‘my lord,’ the journalists style you
‘monsieur,’ while your constituents call you ‘citizen.’ These are
distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government. I
understand perfectly.”

Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte
Cristo in an argument of this sort, and he therefore hastened to turn
to subjects more congenial.

“Permit me to inform you, Count,” said he, bowing, “that I have
received a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome.”

“I am glad to hear it, baron,—for I must claim the privilege of
addressing you after the manner of your servants. I have acquired the
bad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country
where barons are still barons by right of birth. But as regards the
letter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached you; that
will spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you
for money myself. You have received a regular letter of advice?”

“Yes,” said Danglars, “but I confess I didn’t quite comprehend its
meaning.”

“Indeed?”

“And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in
order to beg for an explanation.”

“Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you
desire.”

“Why,” said Danglars, “in the letter—I believe I have it about me”—here
he felt in his breast-pocket—“yes, here it is. Well, this letter gives
the Count of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our house.”

“Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that?”

“Merely the term _unlimited_—nothing else, certainly.”

“Is not that word known in France? The people who wrote are
Anglo-Germans, you know.”

“Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said;
but as regards the competency of the document, I certainly have
doubts.”

“Is it possible?” asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the
utmost simplicity and candor. “Is it possible that Thomson & French are
not looked upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray tell me what you
think, baron, for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some
considerable property in their hands.”

“Thomson & French are perfectly solvent,” replied Danglars, with an
almost mocking smile; “but the word _unlimited_, in financial affairs,
is so extremely vague.”

“Is, in fact, unlimited,” said Monte Cristo.

“Precisely what I was about to say,” cried Danglars. “Now what is vague
is doubtful; and it was a wise man who said, ‘when in doubt, keep
out.’”

“Meaning to say,” rejoined Monte Cristo, “that however Thomson & French
may be inclined to commit acts of imprudence and folly, the Baron
Danglars is not disposed to follow their example.”

“Not at all.”

“Plainly enough; Messrs. Thomson & French set no bounds to their
engagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise
man, according to his own showing.”

“Monsieur,” replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air,
“the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned.”

“It seems, then, reserved for me,” said Monte Cristo coldly, “to be the
first to do so.”

“By what right, sir?”

“By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you
have demanded, which certainly must have some motive.”

Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been
worsted, and this time on his own ground. His forced politeness sat
awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. Monte Cristo
on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a
certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus
possessed the advantage.

“Well, sir,” resumed Danglars, after a brief silence, “I will endeavor
to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum
you propose to draw upon me?”

“Why, truly,” replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of
the ground he had gained, “my reason for desiring an ‘unlimited’ credit
was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need.”

The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So
throwing himself back in his armchair, he said, with an arrogant and
purse-proud air:

“Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then
be convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however
limited, are still equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you
even to require a million——”

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Monte Cristo.

“I said a million,” replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance.

“But could I do with a million?” retorted the count. “My dear sir, if a
trifle like that could suffice me, I should never have given myself the
trouble of opening an account. A million? Excuse my smiling when you
speak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or
dressing-case.”

And with these words Monte Cristo took from his pocket a small case
containing his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the
treasury for 500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer. A man
like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of
correction. The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he
trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils of his eyes, as
he gazed at Monte Cristo dilated horribly.

“Come, come,” said Monte Cristo, “confess honestly that you have not
perfect confidence in Thomson & French. I understand, and foreseeing
that such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of
affairs, certain precautions. See, here are two similar letters to that
you have yourself received; one from the house of Arstein & Eskeles of
Vienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon
M. Lafitte. Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare
you all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of
these two firms.”

The blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a
trembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them
carelessly between finger and thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the
signatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as
insulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker.

“Oh, sir,” said Danglars, after he had convinced himself of the
authenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the
power of gold personified in the man before him,—“three letters of
unlimited credit! I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon
me, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment.”

“Nay,” answered Monte Cristo, with the most gentlemanly air, “’tis not
for such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be
incommoded. Then, you can let me have some money, can you not?”

“Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders.”

“Why,” replied Monte Cristo, “since we mutually understand each
other—for such I presume is the case?” Danglars bowed assentingly. “You
are quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your
mind?”

“Oh, my dear count,” exclaimed Danglars, “I never for an instant
entertained such a feeling towards you.”

“No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we
have come to so clear an understanding, and that all distrust and
suspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable
expenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to——”

“Six millions!” gasped Danglars—“so be it.”

“Then, if I should require more,” continued Monte Cristo in a careless
manner, “why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present
intention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that
period I scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned. However, we
shall see. Be kind enough, then, to send me 500,000 francs tomorrow. I
shall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my
steward.”

“The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o’clock tomorrow
morning, my dear count,” replied Danglars. “How would you like to have
it? in gold, silver, or notes?”

“Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please,” said
the count, rising from his seat.

“I must confess to you, count,” said Danglars, “that I have hitherto
imagined myself acquainted with the degree of all the great fortunes of
Europe, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me.
May I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it?”

“It has been in the family a very long while,” returned Monte Cristo,
“a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to be touched for a certain
period of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the
capital. The period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these
riches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed
by me within the last few years. Your ignorance on the subject,
therefore, is easily accounted for. However, you will be better
informed as to me and my possessions ere long.”

And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them
with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor
Franz d’Épinay.

“With your tastes, and means of gratifying them,” continued Danglars,
“you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor
miserable millionaires quite in the shade. If I mistake not you are an
admirer of paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you
appeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the room. If you will
permit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed
entirely of works by the ancient masters—warranted as such. Not a
modern picture among them. I cannot endure the modern school of
painting.”

“You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great
fault—that they have not yet had time to become old.”

“Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen,
Bartoloni, and Canova?—all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I
think but very indifferently of our French sculptors.”

“You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your
compatriots.”

“But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each
other. For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable
to you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars—excuse my
impatience, my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a
member of the family.”

Monte Cristo bowed, in sign that he accepted the proffered honor;
Danglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery.

“Is the baroness at home?” inquired Danglars.

“Yes, my lord,” answered the man.

“And alone?”

“No, my lord, madame has visitors.”

“Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or
do you desire to preserve a strict _incognito_?”

“No, indeed,” replied Monte Cristo with a smile, “I do not arrogate to
myself the right of so doing.”

“And who is with madame?—M. Debray?” inquired Danglars, with an air of
indulgence and good-nature that made Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as
he was with the secrets of the banker’s domestic life.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant, “M. Debray is with madame.”

Danglars nodded his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo, said, “M.
Lucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the
Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered
herself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the most ancient
families in France. Her maiden name was De Servières, and her first
husband was Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne.”

“I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already
met M. Lucien Debray.”

“Ah, indeed?” said Danglars; “and where was that?”

“At the house of M. de Morcerf.”

“Ah! you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you?”

“We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome.”

“True, true,” cried Danglars. “Let me see; have I not heard talk of
some strange adventure with bandits or thieves hid in ruins, and of his
having had a miraculous escape? I forget how, but I know he used to
amuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return
from Italy.”

“Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen,” said the servant,
who had gone to inquire the pleasure of his mistress.

“With your permission,” said Danglars, bowing, “I will precede you, to
show you the way.”

“By all means,” replied Monte Cristo; “I follow you.”



 Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays

The baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of
apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy
magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached
the boudoir of Madame Danglars—a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with
pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin. The chairs were of
ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches
of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher;
and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with
the furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the
great mansion in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was,
it had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged and followed out
by M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the
baron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most
fashionable and celebrated decorator of the day. The decorations of the
boudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien
Debray. M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for
the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory,
entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his
wife’s favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted
to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering
in some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had
rather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than
that of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or
frigid, in proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to
please or displease the baroness.

Madame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still
strikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate
piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before
a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album.

Lucien had found time, preparatory to the count’s arrival, to relate
many particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars. It will be
remembered that Monte Cristo had made a lively impression on the minds
of all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert de Morcerf;
and although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings,
he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in
his mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently
the description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored
tinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful
stories related of the count by de Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame
Danglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional
circumstances detailed by Debray. This posing at the piano and over the
album was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most
gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the
count, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though
graceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of
distant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod.

“Baroness,” said Danglars, “give me leave to present to you the Count
of Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my
correspondents at Rome. I need but mention one fact to make all the
ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take
up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes
to spend six millions of money. That means balls, dinners, and lawn
parties without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember
us, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble
entertainments.”

In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame
Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man
capable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had
selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance.

“And when did you arrive here?” inquired she.

“Yesterday morning, madame.”

“Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon
me—at least, such I have heard is your custom.”

“Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz.”

“You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit.
Paris is a horrible place in summer. Balls, parties, and _fêtes_ are
over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere
except in Paris. As for the Théatre Français, you know, of course, that
it is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at
the Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at
either of these races, count?”

“I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good
fortune to find someone who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas
of amusement.”

“Are you fond of horses, count?”

“I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and
you are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things—the
fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women.”

“Nay, count,” said the baroness, “it would have been somewhat more
gallant to have placed the ladies first.”

“You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a
preceptor to guide me in all my sayings and doings here.”

At this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the
boudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an
undertone. Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed:

“I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible.”

“I assure you, madame,” replied the woman, “it is as I have said.”

Turning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded, “Is
this true?”

“Is what true, madame?” inquired Danglars, visibly agitated.

“What my maid tells me.”

“But what does she tell you?”

“That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage,
he discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his
knowledge. I desire to know what is the meaning of this?”

“Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me,” said Danglars.

“Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what
explanation you will give. These two gentlemen shall decide between us;
but, first, I will state the case to them. Gentlemen,” continued the
baroness, “among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are
two that belong exclusively to me—a pair of the handsomest and most
spirited creatures to be found in Paris. But to you, at least, M.
Debray, I need not give a further description, because to you my
beautiful pair of dappled grays were well known. Well, I had promised
Madame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive tomorrow to the
Bois; but when my coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables
they are gone—positively gone. No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them
to the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry
francs. Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary
speculators!”

“Madame,” replied Danglars, “the horses were not sufficiently quiet for
you; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely
uneasy on your account.”

“Nonsense,” retorted the baroness; “you could not have entertained any
alarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have
had for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris. But,
perhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses?”

“My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you
another pair exactly like them in appearance, only more quiet and
steady.”

The baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable contempt,
while her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture,
turned towards Monte Cristo and said,—“Upon my word, count, I am quite
sorry not to have met you sooner. You are setting up an establishment,
of course?”

“Why, yes,” replied the count.

“I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses. I have
almost given them away, as it is; but, as I before said, I was anxious
to get rid of them upon any terms. They were only fit for a young man.”

“I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me,” said Monte
Cristo; “but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of
carriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear. There they are.
Come, M. Debray, you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your
opinion upon them.”

As Debray walked towards the window, Danglars approached his wife.

“I could not tell you before others,” said he in a low tone, “the
reason of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was
offered me this morning for them. Some madman or fool, bent upon
ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to
purchase them at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs
by the sale of them. Come, don’t look so angry, and you shall have
4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eugénie shall
have 2,000. There, what do you think now of the affair? Wasn’t I right
to part with the horses?”

Madame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt.

“Great heavens?” suddenly exclaimed Debray.

“What is it?” asked the baroness.

“I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses! The very animals we were
speaking of, harnessed to the count’s carriage!”

“My dappled grays?” demanded the baroness, springing to the window.
“’Tis indeed they!” said she.

Danglars looked absolutely stupefied.

“How very singular,” cried Monte Cristo with well-feigned astonishment.

“I cannot believe it,” murmured the banker. Madame Danglars whispered a
few words in the ear of Debray, who approached Monte Cristo, saying,
“The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses.”

“I scarcely know,” replied the count; “it was a little surprise
prepared for me by my steward, and cost me—well, somewhere about 30,000
francs.”

Debray conveyed the count’s reply to the baroness. Poor Danglars looked
so crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte Cristo assumed a pitying air
towards him.

“See,” said the count, “how very ungrateful women are. Your kind
attention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of
the horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her. But
so it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which
is dangerous to that which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion, my dear
baron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and
allow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows,
why, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves.”

Danglars made no reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming
scene between himself and the baroness, whose frowning brow, like that
of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm. Debray, who perceived the gathering
clouds, and felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars’
rage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take
his leave; while Monte Cristo, unwilling by prolonging his stay to
destroy the advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and
departed, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife.

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“Excellent,” murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came away. “All
has gone according to my wishes. The domestic peace of this family is
henceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by
which I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife—delightful!
Still,” added he, “amid all this, I have not yet been presented to
Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been
glad to make. But,” he went on with his peculiar smile, “I am here in
Paris, and have plenty of time before me—by and by will do for that.”

With these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home. Two
hours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle
from the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite
“dappled grays,” protesting that he could not endure the idea of making
his entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that
his splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely
woman’s regrets. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she
had seen on them in the morning; only, by the count’s orders, in the
centre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had
been fastened a large diamond.

To Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote, requesting him to excuse the
whimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to
pardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses.

During the evening, Monte Cristo quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied
by Ali. The following day, about three o’clock, a single blow struck on
the gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count.

“Ali,” observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber, “you
have frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are
in throwing the lasso, have you not?”

Ali drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in the
affirmative.

“I thought I did not mistake. With your lasso you could stop an ox?”

Again Ali repeated his affirmative gesture.

“Or a tiger?”

Ali bowed his head in token of assent.

“A lion even?”

Ali sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso,
then of a strangled lion.

“I understand,” said Monte Cristo; “you wish to tell me you have hunted
the lion?”

Ali smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed
both chased and captured many lions.

“But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing
forwards with ungovernable fury?”

The Nubian smiled.

“It is well,” said Monte Cristo. “Then listen to me. Ere long a
carriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses
you saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must
manage to stop those horses before my door.”

Ali descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement
immediately at the entrance of the house, and then pointed out the line
he had traced to the count, who was watching him. The count patted him
gently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased
and gratified with the commission assigned him, walked calmly towards a
projecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and,
seating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte
Cristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured of the success of his
plan.

Still, as five o’clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily
expected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience
and uneasiness might be observed in his manner. He stationed himself in
a room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with
restless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the
sound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali; but
the regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his
chibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment
of his favorite occupation.

Suddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and
almost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild,
ungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to
restrain their furious speed.

In the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight
clasped in each other’s arms. Terror seemed to have deprived them even
of the power of uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and rattled as it
flew over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels
would have caused disaster; but it kept on in the middle of the road,
and those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror.

Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket,
threw it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its
triple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by
the violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which
snapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way.
Gladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from
his box; but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse,
and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain,
sunk beside his companion.

All this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the
recital. The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man,
followed by a number of servants, to rush from the house before which
the accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the
carriage, to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the
cushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom
the young boy, who had lost consciousness. Monte Cristo carried them
both to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa.

“Compose yourself, madame,” said he; “all danger is over.” The woman
looked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than
any entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still
continued insensible. “I understand the nature of your alarms, madame,”
said the count, carefully examining the child, “but I assure you there
is not the slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has
not received the least injury; his insensibility is merely the effects
of terror, and will soon pass.”

“Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears? See how
deadly pale he is! My child, my darling Edward; speak to your
mother—open your dear eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir, in pity
send for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much
for the recovery of my boy.”

With a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, Monte Cristo signed to
the distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a
casket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass
incrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of
which he let fall a single drop on the child’s lips. Scarcely had it
reached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his
eyes, and eagerly gazed around him. At this, the delight of the mother
was almost frantic.

“Where am I?” exclaimed she; “and to whom am I indebted for so happy a
termination to my late dreadful alarm?”

“Madame,” answered the count, “you are under the roof of one who
esteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a
further continuance of your sufferings.”

“My wretched curiosity has brought all this about,” pursued the lady.
“All Paris rung with the praises of Madame Danglars’ beautiful horses,
and I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the
high praise given to them.”

“Is it possible,” exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment,
“that these horses belong to the baroness?”

“They do, indeed. May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame
Danglars?”

20351m



“I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger
that threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been
the unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have
incurred. I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the
baroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them
back to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them
from my hands.”

“You are, then, doubtless, the Count of Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine
has talked to me so much?”

“You have rightly guessed, madame,” replied the count.

“And I am Madame Héloïse de Villefort.”

The count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first
time.

“How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how
thankfully will he acknowledge that to you alone he owes the existence
of his wife and child! Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of
your intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have
perished.”

“Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in.”

“I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your
man.”

“I beseech you, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “not to spoil Ali, either
by too great praise or rewards. I cannot allow him to acquire the habit
of expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may
render. Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging
his duty to me.”

“Nay,” interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style
adopted by the count made a deep impression, “nay, but consider that to
preserve my life he has risked his own.”

“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my
having myself saved him from death.”

Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly
absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant
she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her.

During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo
scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in
her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments. The child was
small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair,
defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting
forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to
eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness
for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth was large, and the lips, which
had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the
deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s
face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so
young. His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from
the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket
from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without
asking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a
spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to
pull the corks out of all the bottles.

“Touch nothing, my little friend,” cried the count eagerly; “some of
those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale.”

Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son’s arm, drew
him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also
cast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost
upon the count. At this moment Ali entered. At sight of him Madame de
Villefort uttered an expression of pleasure, and, holding the child
still closer towards her, she said:

“Edward, dearest, do you see that good man? He has shown very great
courage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses
that were running away with us, and would certainly have dashed the
carriage to pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in your very best
manner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have
been alive to speak our thanks.”

The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful
manner, saying, “He’s too ugly.”

20353m



The count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while
Madame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and
moderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having
been committed.

“This lady,” said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language,
“is desirous that her son should thank you for saving both their lives;
but the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly.”

Ali turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he
gazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the
nostrils showed to the practiced eye of Monte Cristo that the Arab had
been wounded to the heart.

“Will you permit me to inquire,” said Madame de Villefort, as she arose
to take her leave, “whether you usually reside here?”

“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo; “it is a small place I have
purchased quite lately. My place of abode is No. 30, Avenue des
Champs-Élysées; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright,
and are, no doubt, desirous of returning home. Anticipating your
wishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put to one
of my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly,” continued
he, addressing the boy with a smiling air, “will have the honor of
driving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the
necessary repairs of your calash. As soon as that important business is
concluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it
direct to Madame Danglars.”

“I dare not return with those dreadful horses,” said Madame de
Villefort.

“You will see,” replied Monte Cristo, “that they will be as different
as possible in the hands of Ali. With him they will be gentle and
docile as lambs.”

Ali had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals, who
had been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed
their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar,
and wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths. Then,
commencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their
bodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd
collected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified
animals to the count’s chariot, took the reins in his hands, and
mounted the box, when to the utter astonishment of those who had
witnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same
horses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle
manner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that
could be obtained from the celebrated “dappled grays,” now changed into
a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace,
kept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort was more than
two hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

20355m



Scarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been
gone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars:—

“Dear Hermine,—I have just had a wonderful escape from the most
imminent danger, and I owe my safety to the very Count of Monte Cristo
we were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see
today. I remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your
eulogistic and exaggerated praises of him; but I have now ample cause
to admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell
far short of his merits. Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they
darted forward like mad things, and galloped away at so fearful a rate,
that there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but
that of being dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded
their progress, when a strange-looking man,—an Arab, a negro, or a
Nubian, at least a black of some nation or other—at a signal from the
count, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated
animals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and
certainly he must have had a most wonderful escape. The count then
hastened to us, and took us into his house, where he speedily recalled
my poor Edward to life. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will
be returned to you tomorrow. You will find your horses in bad
condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly
stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man. The
count, however, has commissioned me to assure you that two or three
days’ rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during that time,
will bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as
they were in yesterday.

20356m



Adieu! I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but,
after all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses,
more especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to
the Count of Monte Cristo,—and certainly that illustrious personage,
apart from the millions he is said to be so very anxious to dispose of,
seemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one,
delight in solving at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another
drive to the Bois behind your horses.

Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage—he did not utter a
single cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear fall from
his eyes after it was over. I doubt not you will consider these praises
the result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in
that delicate, fragile body. Valentine sends many affectionate
remembrances to your dear Eugénie. I embrace you with all my heart.

Héloïse de Villefort.

P.S.—Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte
Cristo at your house. I must and will see him again. I have just made
M. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be
returned.

That night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere. Albert
related it to his mother; Château-Renaud recounted it at the Jockey
Club, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister;
even Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of
the count’s courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating him as the
greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the
aristocracy.

Vast was the crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their
names at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of
renewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all
the interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure.

As for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of Héloïse to the
letter,—donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered
the servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and
drove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.



VOLUME THREE

30009m



30011m




 Chapter 48. Ideology

If the Count of Monte Cristo had been for a long time familiar with the
ways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the
significance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken. Standing well
at court, whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch,
whether the government was doctrinaire liberal, or conservative; looked
upon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced
a political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly
supported by others, without being really liked by anybody, M. de
Villefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his
eminence like a Harlay or a Molé. His drawing-room, under the
regenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first
marriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris
salons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of
rigid etiquette were carefully maintained. A freezing politeness, a
strict fidelity to government principles, a profound contempt for
theories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality,—these were
the elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort.

30023m



M. de Villefort was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist.
His relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with
dignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so
many things, that not only was he always carefully considered, but
sometimes consulted. Perhaps this would not have been so had it been
possible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who
rebelled against their sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress.
This fortress was his post as king’s attorney, all the advantages of
which he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have
resigned but to be made deputy, and thus to replace neutrality by
opposition.

Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits. His wife
visited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where
the weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were
accepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a
manifestation of professed superiority—in fact, the application of the
axiom, _Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think
well of you_, an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays
than that of the Greeks, “Know thyself,” a knowledge for which, in our
days, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous
science of _knowing others_.

To his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his
enemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent; for those who were
neither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man. He
had a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or
insolently piercing and inquisitorial. Four successive revolutions had
built and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based.

M. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the
least wearisome man in France. He gave a ball every year, at which he
appeared for a quarter of an hour only,—that is to say, five-and-forty
minutes less than the king is visible at his balls. He was never seen
at the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort.
Occasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken
to select partners worthy of him—sometimes they were ambassadors,
sometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some
dowager duchess.

Such was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count
of Monte Cristo’s door. The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort
at the moment when the count, leaning over a large table, was tracing
on a map the route from St. Petersburg to China.

The procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would
have employed in entering a court of justice. He was the same man, or
rather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as
assistant attorney at Marseilles. Nature, according to her way, had
made no deviation in the path he had marked out for himself. From being
slender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his
deep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes
seemed to be an integral portion of his face. He dressed entirely in
black, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance
was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost
imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of
blood traced with a delicate brush.

Although master of himself, Monte Cristo, scrutinized with
irrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and
who, distrustful by habit, and especially incredulous as to social
prodigies, was much more despised to look upon “the noble stranger,” as
Monte Cristo was already called, as an adventurer in search of new
fields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy
See, or a sultan of the _Thousand and One Nights_.

“Sir,” said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in
their oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest
themselves in society, “sir, the signal service which you yesterday
rendered to my wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my
thanks. I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express
to you my overwhelming gratitude.”

And as he said this, the “eye severe” of the magistrate had lost
nothing of its habitual arrogance. He spoke in a voice of the
procureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility of neck and shoulders
which caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he
was the living statue of the law.

“Monsieur,” replied the count, with a chilling air, “I am very happy to
have been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say
that the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good
fortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to
dispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly
great honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish
of the favor which he now bestows on me,—a favor which, however
estimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have in my own
consciousness.”

Villefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected,
started like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the
armor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from
that moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of
Monte Cristo was by no means a highly bred gentleman.

He glanced around, in order to seize on something on which the
conversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic. He saw
the map which Monte Cristo had been examining when he entered, and
said:

“You seem geographically engaged, sir? It is a rich study for you, who,
as I learn, have seen as many lands as are delineated on this map.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “I have sought to make of the human
race, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals—a
physiological study. I have believed it was much easier to descend from
the whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole. It is an
algebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from a known to an unknown
quantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg
of you.”

Monte Cristo pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to
take the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell
back into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort
entered. Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having
his back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical
chart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment,—a
conversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with
Danglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to the persons, if not to the
situation.

“Ah, you philosophize,” replied Villefort, after a moment’s silence,
during which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he
took breath; “well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to
do, I should seek a more amusing occupation.”

“Why, in truth, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s reply, “man is but an ugly
caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you
said, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask,
sir, have you?—do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in
plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called
anything?”

Villefort’s astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly
made by his strange adversary. It was a long time since the magistrate
had heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more
exactly, it was the first time he had ever heard of it. The procureur
exerted himself to reply.

“Sir,” he responded, “you are a stranger, and I believe you say
yourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental
countries, so you are not aware how human justice, so expeditious in
barbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course.”

“Oh, yes—yes, I do, sir; it is the _pede claudo_ of the ancients. I
know all that, for it is with the justice of all countries especially
that I have occupied myself—it is with the criminal procedure of all
nations that I have compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that
it is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation,
that I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God.”

“If this law were adopted, sir,” said the procureur, “it would greatly
simplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not
(as you just observed) have much to do.”

“It may, perhaps, come to this in time,” observed Monte Cristo; “you
know that human inventions march from the complex to the simple, and
simplicity is always perfection.”

“In the meanwhile,” continued the magistrate, “our codes are in full
force, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic
customs, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you
will agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs
tedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong
power of brain to retain it.”

“I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with
respect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code,
but as regards the codes of all nations. The English, Turkish,
Japanese, Hindu laws, are as familiar to me as the French laws, and
thus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that
everything is relative, sir)—that relatively to what I have done, you
have very little to do; but that relatively to all I have learned, you
have yet a great deal to learn.”

“But with what motive have you learned all this?” inquired Villefort,
in astonishment.

Monte Cristo smiled.

“Really, sir,” he observed, “I see that in spite of the reputation
which you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from
the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending
with man—that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which
it is possible for human understanding to embrace.”

“Pray, sir, explain yourself,” said Villefort, more and more
astonished, “I really do—not—understand you—perfectly.”

“I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of
nations, you see only the springs of the machine, and lose sight of the
sublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize
before you and around you any but those office-holders whose
commissions have been signed by a minister or king; and that the men
whom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by
giving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill—I say
that they escape your narrow, limited field of observation. It is thus
that human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs.
Tobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young
man. The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a
conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to
reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one
was compelled to say, ‘I am the angel of the Lord’; and the other, ‘I
am the hammer of God,’ in order that the divine essence in both might
be revealed.”

“Then,” said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he
was speaking to a mystic or a madman, “you consider yourself as one of
those extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned?”

“And why not?” said Monte Cristo coldly.

“Your pardon, sir,” replied Villefort, quite astounded, “but you will
excuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I
should meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far
surpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men. It is not usual
with us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like
yourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune—at least, so it is
said—and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely
repeat;—it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings
to waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in
philosophical reveries, intended at best to console those whom fate has
disinherited from the goods of this world.”

“Really, sir,” retorted the count, “have you attained the eminent
situation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without
having met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must
have acquired so much _finesse_ and certainty, to divine, at a glance,
the kind of man by whom you are confronted? Should not a magistrate be
not merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty
expounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search
hearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with
more or less of alloy?”

“Sir,” said Villefort, “upon my word, you overcome me. I really never
heard a person speak as you do.”

“Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general
conditions, and have never dared to raise your wings into those upper
spheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings.”

“And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and
invisible beings mingle amongst us?”

“Why should they not? Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without
which you could not for a moment exist?”

“Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude?”

“Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume
a material form. You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to
them, and they reply to you.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, smiling, “I confess I should like to be warned
when one of these beings is in contact with me.”

“You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just
now, and I now again warn you.”

“Then you yourself are one of these marked beings?”

“Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself
in a position similar to mine. The dominions of kings are limited
either by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration
of language. My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an
Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard—I am
a cosmopolite. No country can say it saw my birth. God alone knows what
country will see me die. I adopt all customs, speak all languages. You
believe me to be a Frenchman, for I speak French with the same facility
and purity as yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an
Arab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Haydée, my slave,
thinks me a Greek. You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no
country, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man
as my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the
obstacles which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or arrests me. I have only
two adversaries—I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I
subdue even them,—they are time and distance. There is a third, and the
most terrible—that is my condition as a mortal being. This alone can
stop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I
aim, for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms. What men
call the chances of fate—namely, ruin, change, circumstances—I have
fully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will
not overwhelm me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and
therefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from
the mouths of kings—for kings have need, and other persons have fear of
you. For who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as
incongruously organized as ours, ‘Perhaps some day I shall have to do
with the king’s attorney’?”

“But can you not say that, sir? The moment you become an inhabitant of
France, you are naturally subjected to the French law.”

“I know it sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “but when I visit a country I
begin to study, by all the means which are available, the men from whom
I may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as,
perhaps better than, they know themselves. It follows from this, that
the king’s attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal,
would assuredly be more embarrassed than I should.”

“That is to say,” replied Villefort with hesitation, “that human nature
being weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults.”

“Faults or crimes,” responded Monte Cristo with a negligent air.

“And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your
brothers—for you have said so,” observed Villefort in a tone that
faltered somewhat—“you alone are perfect.”

“No, not perfect,” was the count’s reply; “only impenetrable, that’s
all. But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is
displeasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you
by my second-sight.”

“No, no,—by no means,” said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to
abandon his ground. “No; by your brilliant and almost sublime
conversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no
longer talk, we rise to dissertation. But you know how the theologians
in their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies,
occasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we
are theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will
say to you, rude as it may seem, ‘My brother, you sacrifice greatly to
pride; you may be above others, but above you there is God.’”

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“Above us all, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s response, in a tone and with an
emphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered. “I have my
pride for men—serpents always ready to threaten everyone who would pass
without crushing them under foot. But I lay aside that pride before
God, who has taken me from nothing to make me what I am.”

“Then, count, I admire you,” said Villefort, who, for the first time in
this strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown
personage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur. “Yes, and I
say to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or
impenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same
thing—then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of
predominance. Yet you have unquestionably some ambition.”

“I have, sir.”

“And what may it be?”

“I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by
Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed
me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to
me, ‘Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?’ I
reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and
then I replied, ‘Listen,—I have always heard of Providence, and yet I
have never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make
me believe that he exists. I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel
that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is
to recompense and punish.’ Satan bowed his head, and groaned. ‘You
mistake,’ he said, ‘Providence does exist, only you have never seen
him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have
seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs,
and moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of
the agents of that Providence.’ The bargain was concluded. I may
sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?” added Monte Cristo. “If the
thing were to do again, I would again do it.”

Villefort looked at Monte Cristo with extreme amazement.

“Count,” he inquired, “have you any relations?”

“No, sir, I am alone in the world.”

“So much the worse.”

“Why?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down
your pride. You say you fear nothing but death?”

“I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could
check the execution of my plans.”

“And old age?”

“My end will be achieved before I grow old.”

“And madness?”

“I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom,—_non bis in idem_. It
is an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full
application.”

30031m



“Sir,” continued Villefort, “there is something to fear besides death,
old age, and madness. For instance, there is apoplexy—that
lightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which
brings everything to an end. You are still yourself as now, and yet you
are yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are
but an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this
is called in human tongues, as I tell you, neither more nor less than
apoplexy. Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation
at my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of
understanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father,
M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French
Revolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity,
seconded by a most powerful organization—a man who has not, perhaps,
like yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to
overturn one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like
you, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of
Providence, but of fate. Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on
the lobe of the brain has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an
hour, but in a second. M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night, was the
old Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the
guillotine, the cannon, and the dagger—M. Noirtier, playing with
revolutions—M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from
which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the
king was checkmated—M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning
_poor M. Noirtier_, the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the
weakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine;
a dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may
be given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its
decay.”

“Alas, sir,” said Monte Cristo “this spectacle is neither strange to my
eye nor my thought. I am something of a physician, and have, like my
fellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead
matter; yet, like Providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes,
although present to my heart. A hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca,
St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison
you have made, and yet I can well understand that a father’s sufferings
may effect great changes in the mind of a son. I will call on you, sir,
since you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this
terrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to
your family.”

“It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a
compensation. In contrast with the old man, who is dragging his way to
the tomb, are two children just entering into life—Valentine, the
daughter by my first wife—Mademoiselle Renée de Saint-Méran—and Edward,
the boy whose life you have this day saved.”

“And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?” inquired
Monte Cristo.

“My deduction is,” replied Villefort, “that my father, led away by his
passions, has committed some fault unknown to human justice, but marked
by the justice of God. That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but
one person, has visited this justice on him alone.”

Monte Cristo with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths of his
soul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it.

“Adieu, sir,” said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat; “I
leave you, bearing a remembrance of you—a remembrance of esteem, which
I hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I
am not a man to bore my friends, as you will learn. Besides, you have
made an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort.”

The count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the
door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by
two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with
every mark of attention. When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a
profound sigh, and said:

“Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote.”

Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered:

“I am going to madame’s chamber—have the carriage ready at one
o’clock.”



 Chapter 49. Haydée

It will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of
the Count of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other
than Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel.

The very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming
visits—the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over
the almost deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged,
illumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable joy and
calmness, as, immediately after Villefort’s departure, his thoughts
flew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a
brief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind. Even
Ali, who had hastened to obey the Count’s summons, went forth from his
master’s presence in charmed amazement at the unusual animation and
pleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as
though dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his
patron’s meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on
tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound
should dissipate his master’s happy reverie.

It was noon, and Monte Cristo had set apart one hour to be passed in
the apartments of Haydée, as though his oppressed spirit could not all
at once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a
gradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to
receive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary
natures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or
violent sensations.

The young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly
unconnected with those of the count. The rooms had been fitted up in
strict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the
richest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk
of the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber
luxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions,
that needed only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such
as sought repose.

Haydée had three French maids, and one who was a Greek. The first three
remained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the summons
of a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave,
who knew just enough French to be able to transmit her mistress’s
wishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most
peremptory instructions from Monte Cristo to treat Haydée with all the
deference they would observe to a queen.

The young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the
farther end of her apartments. This was a sort of boudoir, circular,
and lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass.
Haydée was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin
spotted with silver; her head, supported by one of her exquisitely
moulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the
other was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich
narghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant by
its passage through perfumed water. Her attitude, though perfectly
natural for an Eastern woman would, in a European, have been deemed too
full of coquettish straining after effect.

Her dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair
of white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet
so exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have
been taken for Parian marble, had not the eye been undeceived by their
movements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little
slippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and
pearls. She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves,
trimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice,
which, closing only from the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole
of the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened with
three magnificent diamond clasps. The junction of the bodice and
drawers was entirely concealed by one of the many-colored scarves,
whose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so
precious in the eyes of Parisian belles.

Tilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored
silk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled
its glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair, of which the
blackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue.

The extreme beauty of the countenance, that shone forth in loveliness
that mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly
and purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the
finely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to
her race and country.

And, to complete the whole, Haydée was in the very springtide and
fulness of youthful charms—she had not yet numbered more than nineteen
or twenty summers.

Monte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether
it would be agreeable to her mistress to receive his visit. Haydée’s
only reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the
tapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the
framework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the
graceful tableau presented by the young girl’s picturesque attitude and
appearance.

As Monte Cristo approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that
held the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a
smile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the
women of Athens and Sparta:

“Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or
have I ceased to be your slave?”

Monte Cristo returned her smile.

“Haydée,” said he, “you well know.”

“Why do you address me so coldly—so distantly?” asked the young Greek.
“Have I by any means displeased you? Oh, if so, punish me as you will;
but do not—do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and
constrained.”

“Haydée,” replied the count, “you know that you are now in France, and
are free.”

“Free to do what?” asked the young girl.

“Free to leave me.”

“Leave you? Why should I leave you?”

“That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society—to
visit and be visited.”

“I don’t wish to see anybody but you.”

“And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so
unjust——”

“I have never seen anyone I preferred to you, and I have never loved
anyone but you and my father.”

“My poor child,” replied Monte Cristo, “that is merely because your
father and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you.”

“I don’t want anybody else to talk to me. My father said I was his
‘joy’—you style me your ‘love,’—and both of you have called me ‘my
child.’”

“Do you remember your father, Haydée?”

The young Greek smiled.

“He is here, and here,” said she, touching her eyes and her heart.

“And where am I?” inquired Monte Cristo laughingly.

“You?” cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, “you are
everywhere!” Monte Cristo took the delicate hand of the young girl in
his, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of
nature hastily withdrew it, and presented her cheek.

“You now understand, Haydée,” said the count, “that from this moment
you are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are
at liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it
may suit your inclination. Within this mansion you are absolute
mistress of your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your
apartments as may seem most agreeable to you. A carriage waits your
orders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire
to go. There is but one favor I would entreat of you.”

“Speak.”

“Guard carefully the secret of your birth. Make no allusion to the
past; nor upon any occasion be induced to pronounce the names of your
illustrious father or ill-fated mother.”

“I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one.”

“It is possible, Haydée, that so perfect a seclusion, though
conformable with the habits and customs of the East, may not be
practicable in Paris. Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our
manner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome,
Florence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days,
whether you remain here or return to the East.”

The young girl raised her tearful eyes towards Monte Cristo as she said
with touching earnestness, “Whether _we_ return to the East, you mean
to say, my lord, do you not?”

“My child,” returned Monte Cristo “you know full well that whenever we
part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the
flower—the flower falls from the tree.”

“My lord,” replied Haydée, “I never will leave you, for I am sure I
could not exist without you.”

“My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still
young.”

“My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years
old, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw.”

“Then tell me, Haydée, do you believe you shall be able to accustom
yourself to our present mode of life?”

“Shall I see you?”

“Every day.”

“Then what do you fear, my lord?”

“You might find it dull.”

“No, my lord. In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your
coming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have
enjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty
pictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering
mountains of Pindus and Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three great
passions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, _ennui_
can find no place.”

“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, and your charming and
poetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who
claim your country as their birthplace. Depend on my care to see that
your youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial
solitude; and of this be well assured, that if you love me as a father,
I love you as a child.”

“You are wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from
the love I had for my father. My father died, but I did not die. If you
were to die, I should die too.”

The count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and
she carried it to her lips.

Monte Cristo, thus attuned to the interview he proposed to hold with
Morrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of
Pindar, “Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who,
after having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call
it his own.” The carriage was prepared according to orders, and
stepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace.



 Chapter 50. The Morrel Family

In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The
house was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two small
beds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gate
the count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye
had become somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did not
recognize the count.

The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to
avoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork,—an ornament that
had excited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the
place the appellation of _The Little Versailles_. It is needless to add
that there were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with
kitchens and cellars below, had above the ground floor, two stories and
attics. The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop,
two pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had
been purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make
of it a profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the
garden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had
let them upon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden. So
that for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut
out from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the
Faubourg St. Germain.

The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the
furnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and
green damask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a
music-room for Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story
was set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister’s
apartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a
billiard-room, where he received his friends. He was superintending the
grooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the
garden, when the count’s carriage stopped at the gate.

Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired
whether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel
would see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.

“The Count of Monte Cristo?” cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and
hastening to the carriage; “I should think we would see him. Ah, a
thousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise.”

And the young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly, that Monte
Cristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he saw
that he had been expected with impatience, and was received with
pleasure.

“Come, come,” said Maximilian, “I will serve as your guide; such a man
as you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My sister is in the
garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers,
_la Presse_ and _les Débats_, within six steps of her; for wherever you
see Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four
yards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and ‘reciprocally,’ as they say at
the Polytechnic School.”

At the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five-and-twenty,
dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the dead
leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, who
had become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had
predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise at
the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.

“Don’t disturb yourself, Julie,” said he. “The count has only been two
or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman
of the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him.”

“Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bring
you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,
Penelon!”

An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade
in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid
of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray
mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his
bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who
had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.

“I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he.

Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master’s daughter
“Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name to
Madame Herbault.

“Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this
gentleman’s visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon.”

Then, turning to Monte Cristo,—“I hope you will permit me to leave you
for a few minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply,
disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a
lateral alley.

30041m



“I am sorry to see,” observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, “that I cause no
small disturbance in your house.”

“Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changing
his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue
Meslay.”

“Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as if
speaking to himself.

“Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them
happy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each
other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy
themselves as rich as Rothschild.”

“Five-and-twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,” replied
Monte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to
Maximilian’s heart like the voice of a father; “but they will not be
content with that. Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?”

“He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my
poor father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which were
divided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children.
Her husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his
noble probity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation,
wished to possess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he
had amassed 250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object.
Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young
creatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling
together, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs
of their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less
scrupulous people would have effected in two or three. Marseilles
resounded with their well-earned praises. At last, one day, Emmanuel
came to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts.

“‘Julie,’ said he to her, ‘Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of
a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the
limits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortune
which we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house
transacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we
derive an income of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if
we please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay,
in which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite
with his own, for 300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do.’

“‘Emmanuel,’ returned my sister, ‘the house of Morrel can only be
carried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our
father’s name from the chances of evil fortune and failure?’

“‘I thought so,’ replied Emmanuel; ‘but I wished to have your advice.’

“‘This is my counsel:—Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all
we have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.’

“This was done instantly. It was three o’clock; at a quarter past, a
merchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit
of 15,000 francs.

“‘Monsieur,’ said Emmanuel, ‘have the goodness to address yourself to
M. Delaunay. We have quitted business.’

“‘How long?’ inquired the astonished merchant.

30043m



“‘A quarter of an hour,’ was the reply.

“And this is the reason, monsieur,” continued Maximilian, “of my sister
and brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year.”

Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count’s
heart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and
coat. He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the
rank of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the
little garden, he returned to the house.

A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the
air with their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed,
and her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten
minutes), received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds
were heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose
acacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains.
Everything in this charming retreat, from the warble of the birds to
the smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose.

The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he
entered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting that
he was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the
first salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painful
when, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie:

“Madame,” said he at length, “I pray you to excuse my emotion, which
must astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here;
but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary of
looking at yourself and your husband.”

“We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie; “but we have also known
unhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than
ourselves.”

The count’s features displayed an expression of the most intense
curiosity.

“Oh, all this is a family history, as Château-Renaud told you the other
day,” observed Maximilian. “This humble picture would have but little
interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the
misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have
experienced bitter sorrows.”

“And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all
who are in affliction?” said Monte Cristo inquiringly.

“Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has
done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his
angels.”

The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an
excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.

“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every
wish,” said Emmanuel, “know not what is the real happiness of life,
just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on
a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”

Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness
of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the
apartment with a slow step.

“Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who had
followed him with his eyes.

“No, no,” returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on
his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a
crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet
cushion. “I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse,
with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other.”

“Count,” replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, “those are our
most precious family treasures.”

“The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count.

“Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been
estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in
this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now.”

“This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation,
madame,” replied Monte Cristo bowing. “Pardon me, I had no intention of
committing an indiscretion.”

“Indiscretion,—oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for
expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action
this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh,
would we could relate it everywhere, and to everyone, so that the
emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence.”

“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.

“Monsieur,” returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and
respectfully kissing the silken purse, “this has touched the hand of a
man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from
shame and disgrace,—a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor
children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear everyone
envying our happy lot. This letter” (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a
letter from the purse and gave it to the count)—“this letter was
written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution,
and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her
dowry.”

Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable
feeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers know) to
Julie, and signed “Sinbad the Sailor.”

“Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service—unknown to
you?”

“Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,” continued
Maximilian. “We have supplicated Heaven in vain to grant us this favor,
but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot
comprehend—we have been guided by an invisible hand,—a hand as powerful
as that of an enchanter.”

“Oh,” cried Julie, “I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that
hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago,
Penelon was at Trieste—Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the
garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener—Penelon, when
he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point
of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who
called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this
letter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity,
but he did not venture to address him.”

“An Englishman,” said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention
with which Julie looked at him. “An Englishman you say?”

“Yes,” replied Maximilian, “an Englishman, who represented himself as
the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It
was this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de
Morcerf’s, that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That
happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell me, did you know
this Englishman?”

“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?”

30047m



“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.”

“And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?” inquired Emmanuel.

“Oh, if you do know him,” cried Julie, “can you tell us where he
is—where we can find him? Maximilian—Emmanuel—if we do but discover
him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!”

Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked
hastily up and down the room.

“In the name of Heaven,” said Maximilian, “if you know anything of him,
tell us what it is.”

“Alas,” cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, “if Lord
Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him
again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on
the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he
will never return.”

“Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and
the young lady’s eyes swam with tears.

“Madame,” replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two
liquid pearls that trickled down Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seen
what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you
shed would reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to
Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the
count.

“But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must
have known someone, can we not——”

“Oh, it is useless to inquire,” returned the count; “perhaps, after
all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no
secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me.”

“And he told you nothing?”

“Not a word.”

“Nothing that would lead you to suppose?”

“Nothing.”

“And yet you spoke of him at once.”

“Ah, in such a case one supposes——”

“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur
is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,
‘It was no Englishman that thus saved us.’”

Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said
he eagerly.

“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—he
believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it
was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself
believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith.
How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend—a
friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near
approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with
supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a
doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it
was Edmond Dantès!’”

At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been
increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch
like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to
Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and
Maximilian,—“Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit you
occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for
your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have
thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment.

“This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,” said Emmanuel.

“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,
and that he likes us.”

“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I
fancied that I had heard it before.”



 Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe

About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in the
rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,
where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and
magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the
wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls
in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a
shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases
that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron
gate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII.

This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and
the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they
waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with
their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of
the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves
to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted
courtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and to the garden
shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine
kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a
line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the
kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted
up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to
the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for
the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the
line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication
with the Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself, one of the most important
thoroughfares in the city of Paris.

In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” yet “money
disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost
in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high
price for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his
bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging
to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it
that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the
interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented
himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners,
at a yearly rental of 500 francs.

And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden
had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to
eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers
and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic
enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a
height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but
that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the
strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left
no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that
circumstance.

Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons
had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its
being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from
the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the
ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters,
and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not
even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house
the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,
without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and
flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as
though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one
corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a
large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered
spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant
of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of
verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred
paces off.

Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the
boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly
justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool,
refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the
sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of
hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the
entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the
mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet
bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown
upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which
hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little
distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the
iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means
of the openings in the planks,—the earnestness of her attitude and the
fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes,
proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.

At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to
the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man
appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but
his carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest
and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After
casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he
was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing
and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the
barrier.

At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a
costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a
hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the
narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe,
and observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close
to the planks, he exclaimed:

“Don’t be alarmed, Valentine—it is I!”

Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as
she did so:

“And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had
to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my
too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me
about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never
to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made
me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular
that at first I did not recognize you.”

“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our
respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,
but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour
forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to
carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even
thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you
did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to
suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my
being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the
reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have
chosen a trade.”

“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such
deep cause for uneasiness?”

“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than
life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about
it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously
alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about
here your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief.
That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of
the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place
where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might
well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently,
adopted the costume of my calling.”

“What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!”

“Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my
life by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually
screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger.”

30053m



“I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you
really mean.”

“Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I
stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by
the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucern. Think of
that, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a
little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.
Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely
contain myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price—as
a thing impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I
purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would
cheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of
500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to
fear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a
ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having
any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious
character. I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of
my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your
favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to
professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a
blouse and cap.”

A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of
Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though
some envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart:

“Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should
presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led
astray by our blind confidence in each other’s prudence.”

“How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear
Valentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance,
schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you
have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to
me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I
placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other
reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since,
by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from
the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?
You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d’Épinay,
and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that
from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known
to change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you
wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but
hoping that Providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and
order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties,
Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on
me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure
anything.”

“Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and
which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask
myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my
stepmother, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I
now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these
meetings, so fraught with danger to both.”

“I will not admit that word,” returned the young man; “it is at once
cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than
myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time,
Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or
elsewhere—have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this
enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate—to be
close to you without really seeing you—have I ever asked so much as to
touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a
trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a
murmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any
knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what
I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust.”

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“It is true,” said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender
fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian
to press his lips to them, “and you are a true and faithful friend; but
still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for
you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an
opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to
bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend
but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father,
harassed and persecuted by my stepmother, and left to the sole
companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered
hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye
alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness
for his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either
as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my
only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed,
Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of
pity.”

“Valentine,” replied the young man, deeply affected, “I will not say
you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and
brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no
manner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart
beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but
I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and
intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render
them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to
return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable
and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the
best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while
reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to
me—the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise
of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience
I have evinced?—none whatever. What granted me?—scarcely more. You tell
me of M. Franz d’Épinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the
idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other
sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life
and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your
service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours—that
were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing
misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the
wife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel
conscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as
mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between
these iron bars, and said, ‘Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and
believe that, living or dead, I am yours—yours only, and forever!’”

The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs
and tears. A rapid change took place in the young man’s feelings.

“Dearest, dearest Valentine,” exclaimed he, “forgive me if I have
offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly
caused you pain.”

“No, Maximilian, I am not offended,” answered she, “but do you not see
what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in
my father’s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been
thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the
iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted,
day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,
even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the
subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am
surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The
general remark is, ‘Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a
character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do
on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender
age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de
Villefort.’ The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from
utter indifference, while my stepmother detests me with a hatred so
much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.”

“Hate you, sweet Valentine,” exclaimed the young man; “how is it
possible for anyone to do that?”

“Alas,” replied the weeping girl, “I am obliged to own that my
stepmother’s aversion to me arises from a very natural source—her
overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward.”

“But why should it?”

“I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into
our present conversation, I will just say this much—that her extreme
dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the
fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than
doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Méran, whose sole heiress
I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for
being so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of
this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father’s love. God
knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me
a happy and affectionate home.”

“Poor Valentine!”

“I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same
time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the
restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too,
my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity;
protected as he is by his high position and firmly established
reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose
him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a
word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not
attempt to resist my father’s commands it is more on your account than
my own.”

“But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst,—why
picture so gloomy a future?”

“Because I judge it from the past.”

“Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is
termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not
altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such
distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in
France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with
those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself
with the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class;
and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging
as well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered,
and the memory of my late father is respected in our country,
Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the
city; I say our country, because you were born not far from
Marseilles.”

“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word
brings back my mother to my recollection—my angel mother, who died too
soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her
child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I
fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were
still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would
tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.”

“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should
never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been
too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on
me.”

“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there
is one thing I wish to know.”

“And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine
hesitated.

“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers
dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?”

“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any
ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties—your
father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine
was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any
other difference between them. But why do you ask?”

“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you
should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of
the Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting
with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also—you
recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses
ran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed
them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching
marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my
grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had
done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know
you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy,
and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before
so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but
for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause
of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly
and as steadily as I could.”

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“Dear Valentine!”

“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of
your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing,
I was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by
the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father
start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must
have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.”

“‘Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, ‘stop a bit;’ then knitting his
brows into a deep frown, he added, ‘surely this cannot be one of the
Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from
their violent Bonapartism—I mean about the year 1815.’

“‘Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, ‘I believe he is the son of the old
shipowner.’”

“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then,
Valentine?”

“Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.”

“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile.

“‘Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, ‘their idolized emperor
treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them ‘food for
cannon,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted
to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle
with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to
furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it
would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it
certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that
uncivilized country.’”

“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach
any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was
not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘does not
the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of
improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and
legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could
maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that
for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much
to choose between the language of either party. But what did M.
Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?”

“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to
himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up
and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation
of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only
person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I
suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his
presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old
man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong
impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him
to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that
depreciating manner.”

“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated
throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or
may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every
Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the
Bourbons.”

“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most
strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have
been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?
But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to
question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at
the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear
grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the
affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in
the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign
in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I
didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion
of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being
so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had
been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim
on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I
love him for showing so much interest in you.”

“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your
grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by
politics.”

“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian
leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up
in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in
weeding it.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.
“Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the
drawing-room.”

“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”

“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte
Cristo.”

“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.

The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man
on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s _“I am coming”_
was the customary signal of farewell.

“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I
would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of
Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”



 Chapter 52. Toxicology

It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame
de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and
at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in
confusion.

Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count
was announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly
to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great
personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come
to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of
gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance
remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent
speeches which made his mother say:

“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really
_so_ bright.”

After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort.

“My husband dines with the chancellor,” replied the young lady; “he has
just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the
pleasure of seeing you before he went.”

Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him
with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which
politeness admits and curiosity requires.

“What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of
Edward; “tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor
of introducing her to the count.”

“You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the count; “very young, I
presume?”

“The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the
young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.”

“But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out
of the tail of a splendid paroquet that was screaming on its gilded
perch, in order to make a plume for his hat.

Madame de Villefort merely cried, “Be still, Edward!” She then added,
“This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes
what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de
Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy
disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of
her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.”

“Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.”

“And where are they looking for her?”

“With grandpapa Noirtier.”

“And do you think she is not there?”

“No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his
words.

“And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?”

“She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he
gave, in spite of his mother’s commands, live flies to the parrot,
which seemed keenly to relish such fare.

Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct
her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the
young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected;
and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the
traces of recent tears in her eyes.

Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented
to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and
graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes,
and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her
mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks
tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who
have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of
a swan.

She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger
of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish
awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that
redoubled the count’s attention.

He rose to return the salutation.

“Mademoiselle de Villefort, my step-daughter,” said Madame de Villefort
to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards
Valentine with her hand.

“And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said
the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.

Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly
angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward;
but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy
complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy
and enthusiasm.

“But, madame,” replied the count, continuing the conversation, and
looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not
already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I
could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as
mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light
thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark.”

“I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very
fond of society, and we very seldom go out,” said the young lady.

“Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself,
madame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world
is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in
Paris but very few days. No,—but, perhaps, you will permit me to call
to mind—stay!”

The Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts.

“No—it was somewhere—away from here—it was—I do not know—but it appears
that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some
religious _fête_; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the
interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you,
madame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid,
madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?”

“No, indeed,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and yet it appears to me,
sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have
been imprinted on my memory.”

“Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly.

“Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,” replied Monte Cristo;
“you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?”

“Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for
my lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples. We went by Bologna,
Perugia, and Rome.”

“Ah, yes—true, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple
explanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought. “It
was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hôtel des
Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and
her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you.”

“I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hôtel des Postes, and
the festival of which you speak,” said Madame de Villefort, “but in
vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really
do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you
before.”

“It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,” observed
Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count.

30065m



“But I remember it perfectly,” interposed the darling Edward.

“I will assist your memory, madame,” continued the count; “the day had
been burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in
consequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of
the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock.”

“And I caught it, mamma, don’t you remember?” interposed Edward, “and I
pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail.”

“You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while
you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you,
Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed
for a considerable time with somebody?”

“Yes, in truth, yes,” answered the young lady, turning very red, “I do
remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he
was a medical man, I think.”

“Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been
at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a
fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a
reputation as a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame,
on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raphael, of manners, customs, of
the famous _aqua Tofana_, of which they had told you, I think you said,
that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.”

“Yes, true,” replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily, “I
remember now.”

“I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we
discoursed, madame,” continued the count with perfect calmness; “but I
perfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had
entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of
Mademoiselle de Villefort.”

“Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,” said Madame de
Villefort, “since you had cured the sick.”

“Molière or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was
precisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself,
I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the
natural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you
understand.”

At this moment the clock struck six.

“It is six o’clock,” said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated.
“Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his
dinner?”

Valentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without
speaking.

“Oh, madame,” said the count, when Valentine had left the room, “was it
on my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?”

“By no means,” replied the young lady quickly; “but this is the hour
when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his
pitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of
my husband’s father?”

“Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me—a paralysis, I think.”

“Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone
is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and
flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me,
sir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the
moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist.”

“No, madame, I did not say as much as that,” replied the count with a
smile; “quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having
determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of
following the example of King Mithridates.”

“_Mithridates, rex Ponticus_,” said the young scamp, as he tore some
beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, “the individual who took
cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast.”

“Edward, you naughty boy,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the
mutilated book from the urchin’s grasp, “you are positively past
bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join
your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier’s room.”

“The album,” said Edward sulkily.

“What do you mean?—the album!”

“I want the album.”

“How dare you tear out the drawings?”

“Oh, it amuses me.”

“Go—go at once.”

“I won’t go unless you give me the album,” said the boy, seating
himself doggedly in an armchair, according to his habit of never giving
way.

“Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer,” said Madame de
Villefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door,
led by his mother. The count followed her with his eyes.

“Let us see if she shuts the door after him,” he muttered.

Madame de Villefort closed the door carefully after the child, the
count appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance
around the chamber, the young wife returned to her chair, in which she
seated herself.

“Allow me to observe, madame,” said the count, with that kind tone he
could assume so well, “you are really very severe with that dear clever
child.”

“Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary,” replied Madame de
Villefort, with all a mother’s real firmness.

“It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he
referred to King Mithridates,” continued the count, “and you
interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no
means neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years.”

“The fact is, count,” answered the mother, agreeably flattered, “he has
great aptitude, and learns all that is set before him. He has but one
fault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment
to what he said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these
precautions, and that these precautions were efficacious?”

“I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I
might not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna—that is to
say, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must
have lost my life.”

“And your precautions were successful?”

“Completely so.”

“Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this
sort.”

“Indeed?” said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well
counterfeited; “I really did not remember.”

“I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect,
on men of the North as on men of the South; and you answered me that
the cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same
aptitude as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the
South.”

“And that is the case,” observed Monte Cristo. “I have seen Russians
devour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances
which would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab.”

“And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us
than in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would
habituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this
progressive absorption of poison?”

“Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he
should have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not
been accustomed.”

“Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for
instance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it?”

“Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be
made use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance,
brucine——”

“Brucine is extracted from the false angostura8 is it not?” inquired
Madame de Villefort.

“Precisely, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but I perceive I have not
much to teach you. Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such
learning is very rare among ladies.”

“Oh, I am aware of that,” said Madame de Villefort; “but I have a
passion for the occult sciences, which speak to the imagination like
poetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but
go on, I beg of you; what you say interests me to the greatest degree.”

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“Well,” replied Monte Cristo “suppose, then, that this poison was
brucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two
milligrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days
you would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days,
increasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred
centigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without
inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person
who had not taken the same precautions as yourself. Well, then, at the
end of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would
kill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise
than from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance
mingled with this water.”

“Do you know any other counter-poisons?”

“I do not.”

“I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates,” said
Madame de Villefort in a tone of reflection, “and had always considered
it a fable.”

“No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell
me, madame, what you inquire of me, is not the result of a chance
query, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said
then, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had
occupied your mind.”

“True, sir. The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and
mineralogy, and subsequently, when I learned that the use of simples
frequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life
of individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love
affair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a
Flamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis.”

“And the more, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “as the Orientals do not
confine themselves, as did Mithridates, to make a cuirass of his
poisons, but they also made them a dagger. Science becomes, in their
hands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an
offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings,
the other against all their enemies. With opium, belladonna, brucea,
snake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in
their way. There is not one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or
Greek, whom here you call ‘good women,’ who do not know how, by means
of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a
confessor.”

“Really,” said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange
fire at this conversation.

“Oh, yes, indeed, madame,” continued Monte Cristo, “the secret dramas
of the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion—begin
with paradise and end with—hell. There are as many elixirs of every
kind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral
nature of humanity; and I will say further—the art of these chemists is
capable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the
remedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance.”

“But, sir,” remarked the young woman, “these Eastern societies, in the
midst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as
fantastic as the tales that come from their strange land. A man can
easily be put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and
Bassora of the _Thousand and One Nights_. The sultans and viziers who
rule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the
government, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only
pardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister, if his crime has
been an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the
whole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of
idleness and _ennui_.”

“By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East. There,
disguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are
police agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They hang,
behead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible
manner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape
human justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning
stratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or
cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose
of, goes straight to the grocer’s or druggist’s, gives a false name,
which leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under
the pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or
six grammes of arsenic—if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to
five or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only
five or six times more easily traced;—then, when he has acquired his
specific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of
arsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which,
without rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans which alarm the
entire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables.
They fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the
entrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next day a
hundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and
the murderer. The same evening the grocer or grocers, druggist or
druggists, come and say, ‘It was I who sold the arsenic to the
gentleman;’ and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they
will recognize twenty. Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned,
interrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or
steel; or if she be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for
life. This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry,
madame. Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful.”

“What would you have, sir?” said the lady, laughing; “we do what we
can. All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias.”

“Now,” replied the count, shrugging his shoulders, “shall I tell you
the cause of all these stupidities? It is because, at your theatres, by
what at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see
persons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring,
and fall dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards the curtain falls, and
the spectators depart. They are ignorant of the consequences of the
murder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of
office, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor fools
believe that the whole thing is as easy as lying. But go a little way
from France—go either to Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome,
and you will see people passing by you in the streets—people erect,
smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by
the skirt of his mantle, would say, ‘That man was poisoned three weeks
ago; he will be a dead man in a month.’”

“Then,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “they have again discovered the
secret of the famous _aqua Tofana_ that they said was lost at Perugia.”

“Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything? The arts change about
and make a tour of the world; things take a different name, and the
vulgar do not follow them—that is all; but there is always the same
result. Poisons act particularly on some organ or another—one on the
stomach, another on the brain, another on the intestines. Well, the
poison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or
some other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however,
by no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were
not, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by
foolish doctors, who are generally bad chemists, and which will act in
favor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there is a
human being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of
whom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my
acquaintance, the worthy Abbé Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has
studied these national phenomena very profoundly.”

“It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting,” said the young lady,
motionless with attention. “I thought, I must confess, that these
tales, were inventions of the Middle Ages.”

“Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours. What is the use of time,
rewards of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead
society towards more complete perfection? Yet man will never be perfect
until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and
that is half the battle.”

“So,” added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object,
“the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the Renées, the Ruggieris,
and later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so
misused by modern drama and romance——”

“Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more,” replied the count. “Do
you suppose that the real _savant_ addresses himself stupidly to the
mere individual? By no means. Science loves eccentricities, leaps and
bounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term
them. Thus, for instance, the excellent Abbé Adelmonte, of whom I spoke
just now, made in this way some marvellous experiments.”

“Really?”

“Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full
of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he
selected the most simple—a cabbage, for instance. For three days he
watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the
cabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that moment he cut it. In
the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its
wholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abbé Adelmonte. He
then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits—for the Abbé
Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as
fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the
Abbé Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage.
The rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to
insinuate, anything against this? What procureur has ever ventured to
draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in
consequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed?—not
one. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice. This
rabbit dead, the Abbé Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook
and thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking
these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At the
moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is
flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte’s country); this
bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it
dines off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has
been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy
while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond.
The pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows—well,
they feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these
eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at
your table. Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth
remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the
intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the
body and say with an air of profound learning, ‘The subject has died of
a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!’”

“But,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “all these circumstances which you
link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the
vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the
fish-pond.”

“Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East,
one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved.”

Madame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively.

“But,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “arsenic is indelible, indestructible;
in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of
the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient
quantity to cause death.”

“Precisely so,” cried Monte Cristo—“precisely so; and this is what I
said to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by
a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb, ‘My son,
the world was not made in a day—but in seven. Return on Sunday.’ On the
Sunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his
cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of
salts, having their basis in strychnine, _strychnos colubrina_, as the
learned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of
disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust;
yet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at
the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the
vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had
disappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar
indication in any organ—an excitement of the nervous system—that was
it; a case of cerebral congestion—nothing more. The fowl had not been
poisoned—she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among
fowls, I believe, but very common among men.”

Madame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful.

“It is very fortunate,” she observed, “that such substances could only
be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning
each other.”

“By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,” said Monte
Cristo carelessly.

“And then,” said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and
with effort, to get away from her thoughts, “however skilfully it is
prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it
does not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are
in cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell—that is the
point.”

30075m



“Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure
mind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning.
The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of
Jean Jacques Rousseau,—you remember,—the mandarin who is killed five
hundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger. Man’s whole life
passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by
reflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and
brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will
administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe
on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of
which we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule—eccentric
or stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to
thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings
excited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is
permissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym,
then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an
‘elimination;’ you merely and simply remove from your path the
individual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence,
without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a
punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense
of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no
groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid
and compromising moment of accomplishing the act,—then one escapes the
clutch of the human law, which says, ‘Do not disturb society!’ This is
the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern
climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very
little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance.”

“Yet conscience remains,” remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated
voice, and with a stifled sigh.

“Yes,” answered Monte Cristo “happily, yes, conscience does remain; and
if it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring
exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a
thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons,
howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little
before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III.,
for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the
putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,
‘These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited
the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their
juvenile propensities—these two children are impediments in my way of
promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they
(the children) would infallibly have caused.’ Thus was Lady Macbeth
served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her
husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is
a great virtue, a powerful motive—so powerful that it excuses a
multitude of things, even if, after Duncan’s death, Lady Macbeth had
been at all pricked by her conscience.”

Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and
horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical
simplicity which was peculiar to him.

After a moment’s silence, the lady inquired:

“Do you know, my dear count,” she said, “that you are a very terrible
reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered
medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through
alembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the
elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost
instantaneously——”

30077m



“Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; _one_ drop of that
elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would
have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have
produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his
respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was;
ten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched
him from those phials which he so imprudently touched?”

“Is it then so terrible a poison?”

“Oh, no! In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not
exist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons,
which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies.”

“What, then, is it?”

“A skilful preparation of my friend’s the worthy Abbé Adelmonte, who
taught me the use of it.”

“Oh,” observed Madame de Villefort, “it must be an admirable
anti-spasmodic.”

“Perfect, madame, as you have seen,” replied the count; “and I
frequently make use of it—with all possible prudence though, be it
observed,” he added with a smile of intelligence.

“Most assuredly,” responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone. “As
for me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a
Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and
tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of
suffocation. In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in
France, and your abbé is not probably disposed to make a journey to
Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche’s
anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman’s drops are among my favorite
remedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they
are compounded doubly strong.”

Monte Cristo opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to
him, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur
who thoroughly appreciated their composition.

“They are indeed exquisite,” he said; “but as they are necessarily
submitted to the process of deglutition—a function which it is
frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish—I prefer my
own specific.”

“Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen
produced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as
to ask it of you.”

“But I,” said Monte Cristo, rising as he spoke—“I am gallant enough to
offer it you.”

30079m



“How kind you are.”

“Only remember one thing—a small dose is a remedy, a large one is
poison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will
inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured
into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its
flavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were
prescribing for you.”

The clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of
Madame de Villefort, who came to dine with her.

“If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time,
count, instead of only for the second,” said Madame de Villefort; “if I
had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the
happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on
detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first
refusal.”

“A thousand thanks, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “but I have an
engagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the
Académie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your
grand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither.”

“Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription.”

“Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour’s conversation
I have had with you, which is indeed impossible.”

Monte Cristo bowed, and left the house. Madame de Villefort remained
immersed in thought.

“He is a very strange man,” she said, “and in my opinion is himself the
Adelmonte he talks about.”

As to Monte Cristo the result had surpassed his utmost expectations.

“Good,” said he, as he went away; “this is a fruitful soil, and I feel
certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground.”

Next morning, faithful to his promise, he sent the prescription
requested.



 Chapter 53. Robert le Diable

The pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as
there chanced to be on that very night a more than ordinary attraction
at the Académie Royale. Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe
illness, made his reappearance in the character of _Bertram_, and, as
usual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite
composer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience.
Morcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his
orchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at
least a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his
acquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus
box. Château-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as
a journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre. It happened
that on this particular night the minister’s box was placed at the
disposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who
again, upon his rejection of it by Mercédès, sent it to Danglars, with
an intimation that he should probably do himself the honor of joining
the baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their
accepting the box in question. The ladies received the offer with too
much pleasure to dream of a refusal. To no class of persons is the
presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the
wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying
a king’s ransom in his waistcoat pocket.

Danglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a
ministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his
parliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not
permit him so to commit himself; the baroness had, therefore,
despatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being
wholly impossible for her to go alone with Eugénie to the opera.

There is no gainsaying the fact that a very unfavorable construction
would have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone
without escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her
mother’s admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice
and ill-nature. One must take the world as one finds it.

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The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of
the absurdities of Parisian fashion never to appear at the opera until
after the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is
generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that
part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in
observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of
opening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation.

“Surely,” said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened,
“that must be the Countess G——.”

“And who is the Countess G——?” inquired Château-Renaud.

“What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick
a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who
the Countess G—— was.”

“Ah, to be sure,” replied Château-Renaud; “the lovely Venetian, is it
not?”

“Herself.” At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned
his salutation with a smile.

“You know her, it seems?” said Château-Renaud.

“Franz introduced me to her at Rome,” replied Albert.

“Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you
in Rome?”

“With pleasure.”

There was a cry of “Shut up!” from the audience. This manifestation on
the part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the
music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who
continued their conversation.

“The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,” said
Château-Renaud.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?”

“Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.”

“And who was the winner?”

“Nautilus. I staked on him.”

“But there were three races, were there not?”

“Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club—a gold cup, you
know—and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.”

“What was it?”

“Oh, shut up!” again interposed some of the audience.

“Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.”

“Is that possible?”

“True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the
name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last
moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist,
presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff
at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to
make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare,
against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths.”

“And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey
belonged?”

“No.”

“You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?”

“Exactly; that was the title.”

“Then,” answered Albert, “I am better informed than you are, and know
who the owner of that horse was.”

“Shut up, there!” cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and
manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility
that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate
was addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized
the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one
person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they
deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the
challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and
affected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of
the minister’s box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her
daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted
them to their seats.

“Ha, ha,” said Château-Renaud, “here come some friends of yours,
viscount! What are you looking at there? don’t you see they are trying
to catch your eye?”

Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan
from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugénie, she scarcely vouchsafed
to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of
the stage.

“I tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “I cannot
imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle
Danglars—that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat
inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very much about.
Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!”

“Handsome, certainly,” replied Albert, “but not to my taste, which I
confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.”

“Ah, well,” exclaimed Château-Renaud, who because he had seen his
thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of
paternal air with his more youthful friend, “you young people are never
satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you
a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not
content.”

“No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked
something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this
chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a
sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.”

And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to
comprehend the justness of Morcerf’s remark. She was beautiful, but her
beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious
taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat
rebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by
well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost
habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of
firmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler
attributes of her sex—her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have
chosen for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found
fault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered
still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips,
contrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion. But that which
completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his
taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of
nature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the
effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that
characterized her countenance.

The rest of Mademoiselle Eugénie’s person was in perfect keeping with
the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as
Château-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.

As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was
the same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her
beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young
a person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote
poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to
be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance,
assisted by a schoolfellow,—a young woman without fortune whose talent
promised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored
that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the
principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in
the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of
wealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided
Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public
with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this
principle, the banker’s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow
Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa)
to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen
in her company. Still, though not actually received at the Hôtel
Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated
with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a
governess.

The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame
Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the
accustomed half-hour’s interval allowed between the acts, and the
audience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to
pay and receive visits in their respective boxes.

Morcerf and Château-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves
of this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that
this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his
impatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her
daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them.
Mademoiselle Eugénie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of
the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her
mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the
Countess G——, and where Morcerf had just made his appearance.

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“So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?” cried the countess,
extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old
acquaintance; “it was really very good of you to recognize me so
quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.”

“Be assured,” replied Albert, “that if I had been aware of your arrival
in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to
you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de
Château-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in
France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of
the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.”

Château-Renaud bowed to the countess.

“So you were at the races, baron?” inquired the countess eagerly.

“Yes, madame.”

“Well, then,” pursued Madame G—— with considerable animation, “you can
probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?”

“I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking
the same question of Albert.”

“Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert.

“To know what?”

“The name of the owner of the winning horse?”

“Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really
are acquainted with it or no?”

“I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story,
were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray
continue.”

“Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid
roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a
pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their
success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were
at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the
winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with
joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I
met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I
concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse
must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments,
I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and
rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written
these words—‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’”

“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf.

“Sure of what?”

“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.”

“What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”

“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”

“To be sure,—why not?”

“And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”

“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud
has also the honor of his acquaintance.”

“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club
prize?”

“Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”

“What of that?”

“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I
was made prisoner?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a
manner?”

“To be sure, I remember it all now.”

“He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the count got the
name.”

“But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”

“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you
may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a
countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”

“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish
remarks we used to make about him?”

“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his
presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven——”

“Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.”

“Does his action appear like that of an enemy?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Well, then——”

“And so he is in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“And what effect does he produce?”

“Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the
coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of
Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.”

“My good fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “the count is your friend and
you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you,
countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by
the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon
myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding
act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth
32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous
preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has
carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain,
in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest
at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a
month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which,
after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the
Russian ambassador’s box?”

“Which box do you mean?” asked the countess.

“The one between the pillars on the first tier—it seems to have been
fitted up entirely afresh.”

“Did you observe anyone during the first act?” asked Château-Renaud.

“Where?”

“In that box.”

“No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first
act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she
said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte
Cristo that gained the prize?”

“I am sure of it.”

“And who afterwards sent the cup to me?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to
return it.”

“Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed
of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is
his way, and you must take him as you find him.”

At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain
for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place.

“Shall I see you again?” asked the countess.

“At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and
inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?”

“Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22
Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday
evening. So now, you are both forewarned.”

The young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls,
they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and
directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian
ambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in
deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed
after the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the
rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her.

“Hullo,” said Albert; “it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!”

The strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Haydée. In a
few moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole
house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize
her magnificent diamonds.

The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices—one deep
whisper—intimating that some great and universally interesting event
had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and
beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most
extraordinary spectacle.

Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated
her desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the
second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would
permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the
close of the act he therefore went to the baroness.

Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the
baroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eugénie received him
with her accustomed coldness.

“My dear fellow,” said Debray, “you have come in the nick of time.
There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count;
she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and
parentage, where he came from, and whither he is going. Being no
disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of
getting out of the scrape, I said, ‘Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole
history of his beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers’ ends;’ whereupon
the baroness signified her desire to see you.”

“Is it not almost incredible,” said Madame Danglars, “that a person
having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command,
should possess so little information?”

“Let me assure you, madame,” said Lucien, “that had I really the sum
you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in
troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte
Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich
as a nabob. However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so
pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own
part, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings.”

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“I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth
32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000
francs each.”

“He seems to have a mania for diamonds,” said Morcerf, smiling, “and I
verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for
the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint
stones.”

“Perhaps he has discovered some mine,” said Madame Danglars. “I suppose
you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron’s banking
establishment?”

“I was not aware of it,” replied Albert, “but I can readily believe
it.”

“And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only
staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six
millions.

“He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling _incog_.”

“Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?”
inquired Eugénie.

“I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms
of another as yourself,” responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his
eye. “A most lovely creature, upon my soul!” was his verdict.

“Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?” inquired Eugénie; “does
anybody know?”

“Mademoiselle,” said Albert, replying to this direct appeal, “I can
give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most
points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now
conversing—the young woman is a Greek.”

“So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that,
everyone here is as well-informed as yourself.”

“I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a _cicerone_,” replied
Morcerf, “but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing
further to communicate—yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely,
that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting
with the count, I heard the sound of a guzla—it is impossible that it
could have been touched by any other finger than her own.”

“Then your count entertains visitors, does he?” asked Madame Danglars.

“Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you.”

“I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner,
or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in
return.”

“What,” said Debray, laughing; “do you really mean you would go to his
house?”

“Why not? my husband could accompany me.”

“But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor?”

“You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,” said the
baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.

“No, no!” exclaimed Debray; “that girl is not his wife: he told us
himself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling
us so at your breakfast?”

“Well, then,” said the baroness, “if slave she be, she has all the air
and manner of a princess.”

“Of the ‘Arabian Nights’.”

“If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes
a princess. Why, diamonds—and she is covered with them.”

“To me she seems overloaded,” observed Eugénie; “she would look far
better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely
formed throat and wrists.”

“See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor
Eugénie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.”

“I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady.

“What do you think of the count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much
amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.”

“The count,” repeated Eugénie, as though it had not occurred to her to
observe him sooner; “the count?—oh, he is so dreadfully pale.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very
pallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G—— insists upon it
that he is a vampire.”

“Then the Countess G—— has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the
baroness.

“Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugénie; “almost opposite to us, with that
profusion of beautiful light hair?”

“Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you
ought to do, Morcerf?”

“Command me, madame.”

“Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us.”

“What for?” asked Eugénie.

“What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no
desire to meet him?”

“None whatever,” replied Eugénie.

“Strange child,” murmured the baroness.

“He will very probably come of his own accord,” said Morcerf. “There;
do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows.”

The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful
manner.

“Well,” said Morcerf, “I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself
away to forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go and try if there are any
means of speaking to him.”

“Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan.”

“But I have never been presented.”

“Presented to whom?”

“To the beautiful Greek.”

“You say she is only a slave?”

“While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I
hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out.”

“That is possible—go.”

“I am going,” said Albert, as he made his parting bow.

Just as he was passing the count’s box, the door opened, and Monte
Cristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in
the lobby, the count took Albert’s arm. Carefully closing the box door,
Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled
round the Nubian.

“Upon my word,” said Monte Cristo, “Paris is a strange city, and the
Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected
around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one
might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can
promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in
Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that
way.”

“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste
their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as
far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is
merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are
at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.”

“Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction?”

“What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand
louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the
name of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not
larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy
of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the
first handsome woman you think of!”

“And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?”

“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the
by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by
others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly,
from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call
your horse Vampa?”

“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the count; “but tell me,
does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking
for him, but without success.”

“He will be here tonight.”

“In what part of the house?”

“In the baroness’s box, I believe.”

“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?”

“Yes.”

“I congratulate you.”

Morcerf smiled.

“We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he.
“But what do you think of the music?”

“What music?”

“Why, the music you have been listening to.”

“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by
featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.”

“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure
enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of
paradise?”

30097m



“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more
exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I
go to sleep.”

“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what
else was opera invented for?”

“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner
I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain
preparation——”

“I know—the famous hashish!”

“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with
music come and sup with me.”

“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said
Morcerf.

“Do you mean at Rome?”

“I do.”

“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haydée’s guzla; the poor exile
frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her
native land.”

Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into
a silent reverie.

The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain.

“You will excuse my leaving you,” said the count, turning in the
direction of his box.

“What? Are you going?”

“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her
friend the vampire.”

“And what message shall I convey to the baroness!”

“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my
respects in the course of the evening.”

The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf,
according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame
Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either
interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence,
therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in
which he had just seated himself.

The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight
though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haydée, whose soul seemed
centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures,
delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.

30099m



The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julia, and
Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the
Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella,
taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic
strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and
mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured
forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon.

The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne
Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and
surprise.

“You are welcome, count!” she exclaimed, as he entered. “I have been
most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing
can so ill express.”

“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your
remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.”

“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day
after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame
de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity
restored to me.”

30101m



“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my
Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.”

“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the
hands of bandits?”

“No, count,” replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by
the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your
thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your
debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find
you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to
honor me with an introduction to your daughter?”

“Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name,” replied Madame
Danglars, “and the last two or three days we have really talked of
nothing but you. Eugénie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her
daughter, “this is the Count of Monte Cristo.”

The count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly.

“You have a charming young person with you tonight, count,” said
Eugénie. “Is she your daughter?”

“No, mademoiselle,” said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and
freedom of the question. “She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my
care.”

“And what is her name?”

“Haydée,” replied Monte Cristo.

“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf.

“Yes, indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever
see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly
served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?”

“Did I hear rightly, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo “that you served at
Yanina?”

“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and
it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality
of the illustrious Albanese chief.”

“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars.

“Where?” stammered Morcerf.

“There,” said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and
leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haydée, whose eyes
were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian,
perceived his pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the
young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to
assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint
cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people
about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door.

“Why, count,” exclaimed Eugénie, “what has happened to your ward? she
seems to have been taken suddenly ill.

“Very probably,” answered the count. “But do not be alarmed on her
account. Haydée’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is
peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some
which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,”
continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have
an infallible remedy.”

So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a
parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame
Danglars’ box. Upon his return to Haydée he found her still very pale.
As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist
and icy cold.

“Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked.

“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered Monte Cristo. “He tells me he
served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Haydée, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my
father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his
treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?”

“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said Monte Cristo; “but the
particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my
child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.”

“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain
long near that dreadful man.”

So saying, Haydée arose, and wrapping herself in her burnouse of white
cashmere embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box
at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.

“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—— to Albert, who had returned to
her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most
devoutly to the third act of _Robert le Diable_, and when the fourth
begins, takes his departure.”



 Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks

Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of
Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs-Élysées, which had already
assumed that palace-like appearance which the count’s princely fortune
enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to
renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to
the count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars,
_née_ Hermine de Servieux.”

Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s
conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the
count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was
convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity,
the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussée
d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to
examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a
man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera
with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of
money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to
give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this
incomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that
there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the
curiosity of the baroness.

“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the count
inquired of Albert de Morcerf.

“Yes, count, you know what I told you?”

“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?”

“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien,—and, considering
that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make,
he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed
cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and
the pictures.

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “I did not expect that the affair would be so
promptly concluded.”

“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are
forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when,
again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the
progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M.
Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M.
Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father,
ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any
patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit
which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien,
who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugénie is
pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.”

“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that
style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.”

“You speak as if you were already her husband.”

“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien
was doing.

“Really,” said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to
me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.”

“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that
frightens me.”

“Bah,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you
not rich yourself?”

“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give
me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.”

“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris
especially,” said the count; “but everything does not depend on wealth,
and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high
station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent;
and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see
the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin;
disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can
shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a
most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.”

Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful.

“There is still something else,” said he.

“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in
comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and
beautiful.”

“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called,
is not all on my side.”

“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the
marriage.”

“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating
judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account
for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the
Danglars.”

30107m



“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily
explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement
itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with
one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”

“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do
know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite
miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to
talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of
indisposition——”

“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling.

“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they postponed
the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet
twenty-one, and Eugénie is only seventeen; but the two months expire
next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my
mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”

“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from
being so?”

“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not
marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”

“Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the
shoulders.

“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive
grief.”

“Then do not marry her,” said the count.

“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to
be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible
extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give
pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.”

Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark.

“Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at
the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right
hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are
you making a sketch after Poussin?”

“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt
anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”

“In arithmetic?”

“Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns
you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the
last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three
days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must
have made 300,000 livres.”

“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a
million in Spaniards this last year?”

“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who
will say to you, as the Italians do,—

      “‘Denaro e santità,

      Metà della metà.’9


“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say
nothing.”

“But you were speaking of Haitians?” said Monte Cristo.

“Ah, Haitians,—that is quite another thing! Haitians are the _écarté_
of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be
enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always
come back to _écarté_—it is not only a game, it is a _hors-d’œuvre_! M.
Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but
waited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of
gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.”

“And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?” asked Monte
Cristo. “I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing
intrigues.”

“Because,” said Albert, laughing, “one piece of news follows another,
and there is often great dissimilarity between them.”

“Ah,” said the count, “I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at
gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.”

“It is not he who plays!” exclaimed Lucien; “it is Madame Danglars; she
is indeed daring.”

“But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little
dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the
fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,” said Morcerf, with a
smile.

“How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?” asked Lucien;
“you know the character of the baroness—no one has any influence with
her, and she does precisely what she pleases.”

“Ah, if I were in your place——” said Albert.

“Well?”

“I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future
son-in-law.”

“How would you set about it?”

“Ah, that would be easy enough—I would give her a lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority
great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but
the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a
hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.”

“I do not understand,” stammered Lucien.

“It is very clear, notwithstanding,” replied the young man, with an
artlessness wholly free from affectation; “tell her some fine morning
an unheard-of piece of intelligence—some telegraphic despatch, of which
you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen
yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the market; she will buy
heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the
following day, in his gazette, ‘The report circulated by some usually
well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s
house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his
majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.’”

Lucien half smiled. Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had
not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had
even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary.
This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien
to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in
taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he
answered, “Willingly, count; I accept.” The count returned to young
Morcerf.

“Do you not think, on reflection,” said he to him, “that you have done
wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M.
Debray?”

“My dear count,” said Morcerf, “I beg of you not to apply that title so
prematurely.”

“Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very
much averse to this marriage?”

“So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my
mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole
life.”

“Then,” said the count, “I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M.
Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with
politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune
enabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of
dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be
beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting
M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my
country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and
Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of
being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look
upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the
honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in
aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to
stand high in her esteem.”

“Indeed, count,” said Morcerf, “I thank you sincerely for having used
so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which
you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you
it is already yours to a very unusual extent.”

30111m



“Do you think so?” said Monte Cristo, with interest.

“Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the
other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could
know of this attention on your part—and I will venture to tell her—I am
sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father
will be equally angry.” The count laughed.

“Well,” said he to Morcerf, “but I think your father will not be the
only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very
ill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you—that you
are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances—and they
will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not
invite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement
which shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact
to me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a
written document will be valid.”

“I will do better than that,” said Albert; “my mother is wishing to go
to the sea-side—what day is fixed for your dinner?”

“Saturday.”

“This is Tuesday—well, tomorrow evening we leave, and the day after we
shall be at Tréport. Really, count, you have a delightful way of
setting people at their ease.”

“Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what
will be agreeable to you, that is all.”

“When shall you send your invitations?”

“This very day.”

“Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my
mother and myself must leave Paris tomorrow. I have not seen you,
consequently I know nothing of your dinner.”

“How foolish you are! Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen
you at my house?”

“Ah, true.”

“Fix it this way. I have seen you, and invited you without any
ceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for
you to accept, as you were going to Tréport.”

“Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother
before tomorrow?”

“Before tomorrow?—that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides,
I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure.”

“Well, you can do better. You were only a charming man before, but, if
you accede to my proposal, you will be adorable.”

“What must I do to attain such sublimity?”

“You are today free as air—come and dine with me; we shall be a small
party—only yourself, my mother, and I. You have scarcely seen my
mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely.
She is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist
another like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure
you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As
to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines
with the chief referendary. We will talk over our travels; and you, who
have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures—you shall tell
us the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night
at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a
princess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation,
and my mother will thank you.”

“A thousand thanks,” said the count, “your invitation is most gracious,
and I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it. I am
not so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most
important engagement.”

“Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an
invitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse. I require
the proof of a pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but
I am quite as incredulous as he is.”

“I am going to give you a proof,” replied the count, and he rang the
bell.

“Humph,” said Morcerf, “this is the second time you have refused to
dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her.”

Monte Cristo started. “Oh, you do not mean that,” said he; “besides,
here comes the confirmation of my assertion.”

Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door.

“I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?”

“Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer
for it.”

“At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I
called you into my laboratory?”

“To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,”
replied the valet.

“What then?”

“Ah, my dear count,” said Albert.

“No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you
have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting
Manfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin.”

“Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.”

“You hear—Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti—a man who ranks amongst the most
ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth
canto of _The Inferno_, you remember it, do you not? Then there is his
son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount,
bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into
the Parisian world, aided by his father’s millions. The major will
bring his son with him this evening, the _contino_, as we say in Italy;
he confides him to my care. If he proves himself worthy of it, I will
do what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work,
will you not?”

“Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours,
then?”

“By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and
agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of
very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence,
Bologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his
arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort
of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention
which you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a
passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the
man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your
journey. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of
Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire,
when he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he
will confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I
shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then
I shall have done my part.”

“Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor,” said Albert “Good-bye, we
shall return on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz.”

“Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy?”

“I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you
were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy;
I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains.”

“His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?”

“No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible
and mysterious of beings.”

“He is a charming young man,” said Monte Cristo “and I felt a lively
interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met
him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion
of mine. He is, I think, the son of General d’Épinay?”

“He is.”

“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?”

“By the Bonapartists.”

“Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial
engagement contemplated for him?”

“Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.”

“Indeed?”

30115m



“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert,
laughing.

“You smile.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you do so?”

“I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination
for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my
own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they
do of us; it is unpardonable.”

Albert rose.

“Are you going?”

“Really, that is a good idea!—two hours have I been boring you to death
with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if
I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world.
And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite
a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get
such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see
in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit
themselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part
with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him.”

“By all means.”

“That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese,
Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing
to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her
mother’s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will
help you in the search.”

“Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, really, nothing is certain in this world.”

“Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a
hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain
a bachelor, even were it only for ten years.”

“Nothing is impossible,” gravely replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave
of Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times.
Bertuccio appeared.

“Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company
on Saturday at Auteuil.” Bertuccio slightly started. “I shall require
your services to see that all be properly arranged. It is a beautiful
house, or at all events may be made so.”

“There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your
excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old.”

“Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of
the sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that
exactly as it is.” Bertuccio bowed. “You will not touch the garden
either; as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should
prefer that being altered beyond all recognition.”

“I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your
excellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency’s
commands concerning the dinner.”

“Really, my dear M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “since you have been in
Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your
element; you no longer seem to understand me.”

“But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you
are expecting to receive?”

“I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do
so. ‘Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.”

Bertuccio bowed, and left the room.



 Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti

Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to
Morcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristo
as a pretext for declining Albert’s invitation. Seven o’clock had just
struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given
him, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the
door, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately
hurried away, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about
fifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts,
ornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their
popularity all over Europe. He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots
tolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too
thick in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape
those usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with
white, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will,
might have passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one. Such was
the picturesque costume of the person who rang at the gate, and
demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées that
the Count of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being answered by the porter
in the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to
ascend the steps.

The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray
moustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had
received an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was
awaiting him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to
pronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival. He was
ushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to
meet him with a smiling air.

“Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.”

“Indeed,” said the Italian, “was your excellency then aware of my
visit?”

“Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o’clock.”

“Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have
been forgotten.”

30119m



“What precaution?”

“That of informing you beforehand of my coming.”

“Oh, no, it has not.”

“But you are sure you are not mistaken.”

“Very sure.”

“It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o’clock this
evening?”

“I will prove it to you beyond a doubt.”

“Oh, no, never mind that,” said the Italian; “it is not worth the
trouble.”

“Yes, yes,” said Monte Cristo. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy.
“Let me see,” said the count; “are you not the Marquis Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti?”

“Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,” joyfully replied the Italian; “yes, I am
really he.”

“Ex-major in the Austrian service?”

“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “you were a major; that is the title the
French give to the post which you filled in Italy.”

“Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand——”

“Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said
Monte Cristo.

“No, certainly not.”

“You were sent by some other person?”

“Yes.”

“By the excellent Abbé Busoni?”

“Exactly so,” said the delighted major.

“And you have a letter?”

“Yes, there it is.”

“Give it to me, then.” And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he
opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring
eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost
immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.

“Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a
descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’” continued Monte Cristo,
reading aloud, “‘possessing an income of half a million.’”

Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.

“Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!”

“Half a million, is it?” said the major.

“Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctly
the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.”

“Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea
that it was so much.”

“Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation
in that quarter.”

“You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show the
gentlemen the door.”

Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter:

“‘And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.’”

“Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh.

“‘Which is to recover a lost and adored son.’”

“A lost and adored son!”

“‘Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or
by the gypsies.’”

“At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and
raising his eye to heaven.

“Unhappy father,” said Monte Cristo. The count continued:

“‘I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you
have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for
fifteen years.’”

The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of
anxiety.

“I have the power of so doing,” said Monte Cristo. The major recovered
his self-possession.

“So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?”

“Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?”

“No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office,
as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a
joke; but your excellency has not read all.”

“Ah, true,” said Monte Cristo “there is a postscript.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes—there—is—a—postscript.”

“‘In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his
banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling
expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which
you still owe me.’”

The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with
great anxiety.

“Very good,” said the count.

“He said ‘very good,’” muttered the major, “then—sir——” replied he.

“Then what?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Then the postscript——”

“Well; what of the postscript?”

“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the
letter?”

“Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open
between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I
am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference.
You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear
Monsieur Cavalcanti?”

“I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in the
signature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other
funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found
myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.”

“Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed
anywhere?” said Monte Cristo.

“Why, really I know no one,” said the major.

“But then you yourself are known to others?”

“Yes, I am known, so that——”

“Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.”

“So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?”

“Certainly, at your first request.” The major’s eyes dilated with
pleasing astonishment. “But sit down,” said Monte Cristo; “really I do
not know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept you
standing for the last quarter of an hour.”

“Don’t mention it.” The major drew an armchair towards him, and
proceeded to seat himself.

“Now,” said the count, “what will you take—a glass of sherry, port, or
Alicante?”

“Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.”

“I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will
you not?”

“Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.”

Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him.

“Well?” said he in a low voice.

“The young man is here,” said the valet de chambre in the same tone.

“Into what room did you take him?”

“Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.”

“That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.”

Baptistin left the room.

“Really,” said the major, “I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am
giving you.”

“Pray don’t mention such a thing,” said the count. Baptistin re-entered
with glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in
the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The
bottle was covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which
indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man’s face.
The major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The
count told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who
began by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction,
and then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.

30123m



“So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in
great esteem—had all that could render a man happy?”

“All,” said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, “positively
all.”

“And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your
happiness?”

“Only one thing,” said the Italian.

“And that one thing, your lost child.”

“Ah,” said the major, taking a second biscuit, “that consummation of my
happiness was indeed wanting.” The worthy major raised his eyes to
heaven and sighed.

“Let me hear, then,” said the count, “who this deeply regretted son
was; for I always understood you were a bachelor.”

“That was the general opinion, sir,” said the major, “and I——”

“Yes,” replied the count, “and you confirmed the report. A youthful
indiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the
world at large?”

The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at the
same time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose
his countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an
under-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still
announced the same polite curiosity.

“Yes,” said the major, “I did wish this fault to be hidden from every
eye.”

“Not on your own account, surely,” replied Monte Cristo; “for a man is
above that sort of thing?”

“Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,” said the major with a smile
and a shake of the head.

“But for the sake of the mother?” said the count.

“Yes, for the mother’s sake—his poor mother!” cried the major, taking a
third biscuit.

“Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring out
for him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcome
you.”

“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal
gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false
tear.

“She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she
not?”

“She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.”

“And her name was——”

“Do you desire to know her name——?”

“Oh,” said Monte Cristo “it would be quite superfluous for you to tell
me, for I already know it.”

“The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing.

“Oliva Corsinari, was it not?”

“Oliva Corsinari!”

“A marchioness?”

“A marchioness!”

“And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her
family?”

“Yes, that was the way it ended.”

“And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said Monte
Cristo.

“What papers?”

“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the
register of your child’s birth.”

“The register of my child’s birth?”

“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his
name Andrea?”

“I believe so,” said the major.

“What? You believe so?”

“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a
time.”

“Well, then,” said Monte Cristo “you have all the documents with you?”

“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to
come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.”

“That is unfortunate,” returned Monte Cristo.

“Were they, then, so necessary?”

“They were indispensable.”

The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, _perbacco_,
indispensable, were they?”

“Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to
the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?”

“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.”

“In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.”

“It would be fatal to his interests.”

“It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.”

“_O peccato!_”

“You must know that in France they are very particular on these points;
it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say, ‘We
love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair
in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have
papers which undeniably establish your identity.”

“That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.”

“Fortunately, I have them, though,” said Monte Cristo.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You have them?”

“I have them.”

“Ah, indeed?” said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey
frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his
forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000
francs—“ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really
is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.”

“I do not at all wonder at it—one cannot think of everything; but,
happily, the Abbé Busoni thought for you.”

“He is an excellent person.”

“He is extremely prudent and thoughtful.”

“He is an admirable man,” said the major; “and he sent them to you?”

“Here they are.”

The major clasped his hands in token of admiration.

“You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del
Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.”

“Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with
astonishment.

“And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé
of Saravezza.”

“All quite correct.”

“Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them
to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.”

“I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them——”

“Well, and if he were to lose them?” said Monte Cristo.

“In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to
the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be
obtained.”

“It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said Monte Cristo.

“Almost an impossibility,” replied the major.

“I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.”

“I regard them as invaluable.”

“Now,” said Monte Cristo “as to the mother of the young man——”

“As to the mother of the young man——” repeated the Italian, with
anxiety.

“As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——”

“Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will
she be wanted in any way?”

“No, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “besides, has she not——”

“Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has——”

30127m



“Paid the last debt of nature?”

“Alas, yes,” returned the Italian.

“I knew that,” said Monte Cristo; “she has been dead these ten years.”

“And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from
his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the
left and then the right eye.

“What would you have?” said Monte Cristo; “we are all mortal. Now, you
understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to
tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for
fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all
in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent
him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you
wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the
reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived
since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.”

“You think so?”

“Certainly.”

“Very well, then.”

“If they should hear of the separation——”

“Ah, yes; what could I say?”

“That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family——”

“By the Corsinari?”

“Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might
become extinct.”

“That is reasonable, since he is an only son.”

“Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened
remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I
was preparing a surprise for you?”

“An agreeable one?” asked the Italian.

“Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his
heart.”

“Hum!” said the major.

“Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was
here.”

“That who was here?”

“Your child—your son—your Andrea!”

“I did guess it,” replied the major with the greatest possible
coolness. “Then he is here?”

“He is,” said Monte Cristo; “when the valet de chambre came in just
now, he told me of his arrival.”

“Ah, very well, very well,” said the major, clutching the buttons of
his coat at each exclamation.

“My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you must
have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare
the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is
not less impatient for it than yourself.”

“I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti.

“Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.”

“You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to
present him to me yourself?”

“No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview
will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of
nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by
this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too
fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for
yourself.”

“By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs
which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling
expenses, and——”

“And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti.
Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.”

The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly.

“It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said Monte Cristo.

“Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same
time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.

“For what?” said the count.

“I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.”

“Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a
receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I
think, quite unnecessary.”

“Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.”

“One word more,” said Monte Cristo.

“Say on.”

“You will permit me to make one remark?”

“Certainly; pray do so.”

“Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.”

“Indeed,” said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete
satisfaction.

“Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant
in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can
easily resume it when you leave Paris.”

“But what shall I wear?”

“What you find in your trunks.”

“In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.”

“I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring
one’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to
march with as little baggage as possible.”

“That is just the case—precisely so.”

“But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your
luggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue de
Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.”

“Then, in these trunks——”

“I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all
you are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand
occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not
forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always
wear them, for all that.”

“Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at the
attention paid him by the count.

“Now,” said Monte Cristo, “that you have fortified yourself against all
painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet
your lost Andrea.”

Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry,
leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful
reception which he had received at the hands of the count.



 Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti

The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin
had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of
graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab
about half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty
in recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for
admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red
beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so
particularly described to him. When the count entered the room the
young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the
gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he
rose quickly.

“The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?” said he.

“Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea
Cavalcanti?”

“Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying his
words with a bow.

“You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you
not?” said the count.

“I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so
strange.”

“The letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?”

“Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception
of the one celebrated in the _Thousand and One Nights_——”

“Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is
a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name
is Lord Wilmore.”

“Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” said
Andrea. “He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met—at—ah—yes, indeed.
Well, monsieur, I am at your service.”

“If what you say be true,” replied the count, smiling, “perhaps you
will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your
family?”

“Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness which
gave proof of his ready invention. “I am (as you have said) the Count
Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of
the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at
Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income
amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I
myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my
tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my
existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my
own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At
length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my
father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for
information respecting him.”

“Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” said
Monte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “and
you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend
Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.”

The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not
once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he
had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice;
but at these words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed
here, and is seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My
father? Is my father here?”

“Most undoubtedly,” replied Monte Cristo; “your father, Major
Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.” The expression of terror which, for the moment,
had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared.

“Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And
you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?”

“Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company.
The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the
quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might
furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he
one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now
offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be
found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of
ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent
to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were
in the south of France, I think?”

“Yes,” replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, “I was in the south of
France.”

“A carriage was to await you at Nice?”

“Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to
Turin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and
from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.”

30133m



“Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for
it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we
have been able to trace your journey to this place.”

“But,” said Andrea, “if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have
recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me.”

“Oh, the voice of nature,” said Monte Cristo.

“True,” interrupted the young man, “I had not looked upon it in that
light.”

“Now,” replied Monte Cristo “there is only one source of uneasiness
left in your father’s mind, which is this—he is anxious to know how you
have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been
treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves
towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is
anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad
moral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely
more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover
if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been
weakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider
yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high
position to which your rank entitles you.”

“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, “I hope no false
report——”

“As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the
philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but
do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.
Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been
interesting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the
position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until
he found him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is
here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave
me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite
aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as
rich as a gold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities
without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to
his instructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I
am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your
patron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to
you—misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree
diminish my regard for you—I would wish to know if they have not, in
some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in
which your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous
figure?”

“Sir,” returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, “make your
mind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and who
always intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original
proprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make
the most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in
possession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to
increase the value, if possible. I have, therefore, received a very
good education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as
the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them
grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch
a higher price in the Roman market.”

Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had not
expected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti.

“Besides,” continued the young man, “if there did appear some defect in
education, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I
suppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which
accompanied my birth, and followed me through my youth.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone, “you will do as you
please, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the
person most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not
divulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance,
and the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely
mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they
be gilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished
to represent to you, my dear count. You would hardly have recited your
touching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed
unlikely and unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, but
you would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a
mushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it is
not everyone who likes to be made the centre of observation and the
subject of unpleasant remark.”

“I agree with you, monsieur,” said the young man, turning pale, and, in
spite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his
companion, “such consequences would be extremely unpleasant.”

“Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,” said Monte Cristo,
“for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another. You
must resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man
of your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must
form honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice
which may attach to the obscurity of your former life.”

Andrea visibly changed countenance.

“I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,” said Monte
Cristo, “did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and a
sort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in
departing from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a
part quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being
hissed, which would be an act of folly.”

“However, your excellency,” said Andrea, “in consideration of Lord
Wilmore, by whom I was recommended to you——”

“Yes, certainly,” interrupted Monte Cristo; “but Lord Wilmore did not
omit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was
rather a stormy one. Ah,” said the count, watching Andrea’s
countenance, “I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely
to avoid that necessity that your father was sent for from Lucca. You
shall soon see him. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and
he is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has
been for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be
pardoned. We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In
short, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure
you.”

“Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were
separated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides,
you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all
defects.”

“He is a millionaire—his income is 500,000 francs.”

“Then,” said the young man, with anxiety, “I shall be sure to be placed
in an agreeable position.”

“One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an
income of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in
Paris.”

“Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there.”

“You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; ‘man proposes, and God
disposes.’” Andrea sighed.

“But,” said he, “so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me
to quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum
you just now mentioned to me?”

“You may.”

“Shall I receive it from my father?” asked Andrea, with some
uneasiness.

“Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore
will be the security for the money. He has, at the request of your
father, opened an account of 5,000 francs a month at M. Danglars’,
which is one of the safest banks in Paris.”

“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea.

“Only a few days,” replied Monte Cristo. “His service does not allow
him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together.”

“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea
of his speedy departure.

“Therefore,” said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his
meaning—“therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure
of your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?”

“I hope you do not doubt it.”

30137m



“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find
your father awaiting you.”

Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room.
Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring
in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from
the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived
that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied
by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and
advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps
approaching him.

“Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the
count might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?”

“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely.

“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the same
tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is
to meet again!”

“Indeed it is, after so long a separation.”

“Will you not embrace me, sir?” said Andrea.

30139m



“If you wish it, my son,” said the major; and the two men embraced each
other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each
rested his head on the other’s shoulder.

“Then we are once more reunited?” said Andrea.

“Once more,” replied the major.

“Never more to be separated?”

“Why, as to that—I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so
accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.”

“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I should be exceedingly
grieved to leave it.”

“As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca;
therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can.”

“But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in
possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my
descent.”

“Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much
trouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands,
and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few
remaining years of my life.”

“Where are these papers, then?”

“Here they are.”

Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his own
baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness
which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a
facility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and
with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the
contents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression
of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a
most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan:

“Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to
the galleys?”

The major drew himself up to his full height.

“Why?—what do you mean by that question?”

“I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with
impunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a
piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to
Toulon for five years, for change of air.”

“Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?” said the major,
endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest
majesty.

“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a
confidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?”

The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice:

“Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me
50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand
that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent.”

The major looked anxiously around him.

“Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,” said Andrea; “besides, we are
conversing in Italian.”

“Well, then,” replied the major, “they paid me 50,000 francs down.”

“Monsieur Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, “do you believe in fairy tales?”

“I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have
faith in them.”

“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some
proofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful of
gold.

“Most palpable proofs,” said he, “as you may perceive.”

“You think, then, that I may rely on the count’s promises?”

“Certainly I do.”

“You are sure he will keep his word with me?”

“To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to
play our respective parts. I, as a tender father——”

“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from
you.”

“Whom do you mean by they?”

“_Ma foi_, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the
letter; you received one, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“From a certain Abbé Busoni.”

“Have you any knowledge of him?”

“No, I have never seen him.”

“What did he say in the letter?”

“You will promise not to betray me?”

“Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same.”

“Then read for yourself;” and the major gave a letter into the young
man’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice:

“‘You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to
become rich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris,
and demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No.
30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken
from you at five years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In
order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this
letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in
Florence, at Signor Gozzi’s; also a letter of introduction to the Count
of Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember
to go to the count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening.


“(Signed) ‘Abbé Busoni.’”


“It is the same.”

“What do you mean?” said the major.

“I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same
effect.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“From the Abbé Busoni?”

“No.”

“From whom, then?”

“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad
the Sailor.”

“And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbé Busoni?”

“You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you.”

“You have seen him, then?”

“Yes, once.”

“Where?”

“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you
as wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do.”

“And what did the letter contain?”

“Read it.”

“‘You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you
wish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master?’”


“_Parbleu!_” said the young man; “was it possible there could be two
answers to such a question?”

“‘Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de
Gênes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambéry, and
Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des
Champs-Élysées, on the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening,
and demand of him your father. You are the son of the Marchese
Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you
some papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear
under that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual
income of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably. I
enclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice,
and also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I
have directed to supply all your wants.


“‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”


“Humph,” said the major; “very good. You have seen the count, you say?”

“I have only just left him.”

“And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?”

“He has.”

“Do you understand it?”

“Not in the least.”

“There is a dupe somewhere.”

“At all events, it is neither you nor I.”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then——”

“Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?”

“No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, and
consent to be blindfolded.”

“Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to
admiration.”

“I never once doubted your doing so.” Monte Cristo chose this moment
for re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his
footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while
they were in the midst of this embrace, the count entered.

“Well, marquis,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be in no way
disappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you.”

“Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight.”

“And what are your feelings?” said Monte Cristo, turning to the young
man.

“As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness.”

“Happy father, happy son!” said the count.

“There is only one thing which grieves me,” observed the major, “and
that is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon.”

“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have
had the honor of presenting you to some of my friends.”

“I am at your service, sir,” replied the major.

“Now, sir,” said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea, “make your
confession.”

“To whom?”

“Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances.”

“_Ma foi!_ monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord.”

“Do you hear what he says, major?”

“Certainly I do.”

“But do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Your son says he requires money.”

“Well, what would you have me do?” said the major.

“You should furnish him with some of course,” replied Monte Cristo.

“I?”

“Yes, you,” said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea,
and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man’s hand.

“What is this?”

“It is from your father.”

“From my father?”

“Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then,
he deputes me to give you this.”

“Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?”

“No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris.”

“Ah, how good my dear father is!”

“Silence,” said Monte Cristo; “he does not wish you to know that it
comes from him.”

“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the notes
hastily into his pocket.

“And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,” said Monte Cristo.

“And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your
excellency?” asked Cavalcanti.

“Ah,” said Andrea, “when may we hope for that pleasure?”

“On Saturday, if you will—Yes.—Let me see—Saturday—I am to dine at my
country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.
Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your
banker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should
know you, as he is to pay your money.”

“Full dress?” said the major, half aloud.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” said the count; “uniform, cross, knee-breeches.”

“And how shall I be dressed?” demanded Andrea.

30145m



“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white
waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin
or Véronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do
not know their address. The less pretension there is in your attire,
the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to
buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go
to Baptiste for it.”

“At what hour shall we come?” asked the young man.

“About half-past six.”

“We will be with you at that time,” said the major. The two Cavalcanti
bowed to the count, and left the house. Monte Cristo went to the
window, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm.

“There go two miscreants;” said he, “it is a pity they are not really
related!” Then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go
to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more
sickening than hatred.”

30147m




 Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch

Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure
surrounding M. de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate, half
screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides
spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our
acquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to arrive. He was
intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting
with anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk.

At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure,
as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The
delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugénie,
which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was
expected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to
Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take
a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was
doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect
on her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover,
quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily
placed, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming
within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could
see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed,
unperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young
man, which seemed to say, “Have patience! You see it is not my fault.”

And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally
contrasting the two girls,—one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a
figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette,
with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It
is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine
did not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went
away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars’ visit had
at last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the
garden alone. For fear that anyone should be observing her return, she
walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards
the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her
eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she
presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.

“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice.

“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw
the cause of my delay.”

“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were
so intimate with her.”

“Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?”

“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked
and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls
telling your secrets to each other.”

“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she
was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and
I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to
think of marrying M. d’Épinay.”

“Dear Valentine!”

“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed
between me and Eugénie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not
love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections
were fixed.”

“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which
can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm
which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the
fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.”

“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.”

“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you
both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at
all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot
understand how any man can really love her.”

“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the
effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”

“No; but tell me—it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was
suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle
Danglars——”

“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It
only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,”
interrupted Valentine.

“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each
other.”

“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of
excitement. But return to your question.”

30151m



“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf
on account of loving another?”

“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.”

“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly
intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see
you are smiling.”

“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden
partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight
security.”

“Come, what did she say?”

“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked
the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an
independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father
might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her
friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”

“Ah, you see——”

“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.

“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.

“Then why did you smile?”

“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself,
Valentine.”

“Do you want me to go away?”

“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which
I wish to speak.”

“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass
together.”

“_Ma foi!_” said Maximilian, in consternation.

“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause
you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I
bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”

“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and
feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five
minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a
deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts,
harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to
separate us at last.”

“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both,
Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.”

“But why must you leave me so soon?”

“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de
Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to
make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune,
I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will
leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were
poor, would you not, Maximilian?”

“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or
poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one
could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication
may relate to your marriage?”

“I do not think that is the case.”

“However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you
that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!”

“Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian?”

“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you
that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.”

“Well?”

“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.”

“What then?”

“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his
immediate return.” Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against
the gate.

“Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come
through Madame de Villefort.”

“Why not?”

“Because—I scarcely know why—but it has appeared as if Madame de
Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not
choose openly to oppose it.”

“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.”

“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad
smile.

“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Épinay, she would be all the more
likely to listen to any other proposition.”

“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort
objects, it is marriage itself.”

“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry
herself?”

“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of
retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks
which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the
proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was
only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the
project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye
when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I
had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my
resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on
me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his
lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such
remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I
exclaimed,—‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may
do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased
speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering
a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my
grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.”

“Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know
what I—sabring right and left among the Bedouins—can have done to merit
your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, Heaven took into
consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But
tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining
unmarried?”

“Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian—too rich? I
possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and
my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, will leave me
as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My
brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore,
be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this
fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his
son.”

“Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should
be so avaricious.”

“It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you
regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of
maternal love.”

“But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your
fortune to her son?”

“How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always
professes to be so entirely disinterested?”

“Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something
sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and
hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even
my sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to
make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?”

Valentine started. “A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I
tremble to give my permission.”

“Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for anyone that sudden
and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it
had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the
first time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to
recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse,
and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits
must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior
to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of
the past?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first
saw that extraordinary man.”

“Extraordinary, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“You have known him for some time, then?”

“Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.”

“And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight
or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the
title of friend.”

“Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can
never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession
of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be
associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me,
and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to
come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according
to his own will.”

“He must be a prophet, then,” said Valentine, smiling.

“Indeed,” said Maximilian, “I have often been almost tempted to
attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a
wonderful power of foretelling any future good.”

“Ah,” said Valentine in a mournful tone, “do let me see this man,
Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently
to make amends for all I have suffered.”

“My poor girl, you know him already.”

“I know him?”

“Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo?”

“The same.”

“Ah,” cried Valentine, “he is too much the friend of Madame de
Villefort ever to be mine.”

“The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine,
you are mistaken?”

“No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household
is almost unlimited. Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the
epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never
before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by
Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count’s large black eyes,
runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he
is sure to find some delightful present,—M. de Monte Cristo appears to
exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the
members of our family.”

“If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt,
or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets
Albert de Morcerf in Italy—it is to rescue him from the hands of the
banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars—it is that he may
give her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his
door—it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man
evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards
men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater
magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget
it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever
looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you
will be happy.”

“Me?” said the young girl, “he never even glances at me; on the
contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid
me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural
penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have
perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me
sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and
since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart
with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how
do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like
you, with a fierce moustache and a long sabre, but they think they may
crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.”

“Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken.”

“If it were otherwise—if he treated me diplomatically—that is to say,
like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in
the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its
occupants—he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the
smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he
understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no
attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame
de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in
his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any
reason. Ah, forgive me,” said Valentine, perceiving the effect which
her words were producing on Maximilian: “I have done wrong, for I have
given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even
know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you
speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has
been productive of evil rather than good.”

“Well, Valentine,” said Morrel with a sigh, “we will not discuss the
matter further. I will not make a confidant of him.”

“Alas!” said Valentine, “I see that I have given you pain. I can only
say how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I
am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this
Count of Monte Cristo has done for you.”

30157m



“I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say
that the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have
already told you, I have an instinctive affection for him, the source
of which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No;
he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see
you—nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No;
its odor charms one of my senses—that is all I can say when I am asked
why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable
as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be
something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of
friendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret
thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me
when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have
involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has
befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty
years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a
little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on
Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have
I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming
to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future
advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be
no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some
hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is
apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular
man, who appears to fathom the motives of everyone, has purposely
arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I
confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he
was in possession of the secret of our love.”

“My good friend,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary,
and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk
in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything
more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My
father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of
refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is
burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own
house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father
to accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian,—there is no
one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my
grandfather, who is little better than a corpse—no support to cling to
but my mother in heaven!”

“I see that you are right, logically speaking,” said Maximilian; “but
the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince
me today.”

“I feel the same as regards yourself.” said Valentine; “and I own that,
if you have no stronger proof to give me——”

“I have another,” replied Maximilian; “but I fear you will deem it even
more absurd than the first.”

“So much the worse,” said Valentine, smiling.

“It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service
have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for
I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which
directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in
order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side,
while it left me unharmed.”

“Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers
for your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but
for you.”

30159m



“Yes, since you have known me,” said Morrel, smiling; “but that cannot
apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.”

“You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but
let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.”

“Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new
horse which I rode here.”

“Ah! what a beautiful creature!” cried Valentine; “why did you not
bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?”

“He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,” said Maximilian. “You know
that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man
of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw
this magnificent horse, which I have named Médéah. I asked the price;
they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it
up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy
heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his
head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most
delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with
him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me,—M. de
Château-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom
you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of _bouillotte_. I
never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently
poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so
there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.

“Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived.
He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost
ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at
midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and
drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door.
The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed
at once to the stable. Médéah was standing at the rack, eating his hay.
I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent
himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs
into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my
intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs-Élysées. As I
rode by the count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows,
and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain.
Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess
this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of
procuring him.”

“My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love
even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of
poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common,
every-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do
you hear?”

“Ah, Valentine,” said Maximilian, “give me but one finger through this
opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I
may have the happiness of kissing it.”

“Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two
shadows.”

“As you will, Valentine.”

“Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?”

“Oh, yes!”

Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her
whole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight,
and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and
imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The little hand was
then immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying
towards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own
sensations.



 Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort

We will now relate what was passing in the house of the king’s attorney
after the departure of Madame Danglars and her daughter, and during the
time of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which we
have just detailed.

M. de Villefort entered his father’s room, followed by Madame de
Villefort. Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and
speaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years
in his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic.

M. Noirtier was sitting in an armchair, which moved upon casters, in
which he was wheeled into the room in the morning, and in the same way
drawn out again at night. He was placed before a large glass, which
reflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move,
which would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room
and everything which was going on around him. M. Noirtier, although
almost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the new-comers with a quick
and intelligent expression, perceiving at once, by their ceremonious
courtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official
character.

Sight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two
solitary sparks, remained to animate the miserable body which seemed
fit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one of
these senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still
occupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his
inner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller
sees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being
dwells beyond the silence and obscurity.

Noirtier’s hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders;
while in his eyes, shaded by thick black lashes, was concentrated, as
it often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the
others, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were
formerly diffused over his whole body; and so although the movement of
the arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were
wanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all. He commanded with it; it
was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short, his
whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with
living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the
expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the
rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the
power of participation. Three persons only could understand this
language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and
the old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw
his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he
never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all
the old man’s happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by
means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read
in Noirtier’s look all the varied feelings which were passing in his
mind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she
answered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her
countenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained
between the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could
scarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a
fund of knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as
ever although clogged by a body rendered utterly incapable of obeying
its impulses.

Valentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand his
thoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring
and devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions
of every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living,
thinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body.

As to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for
five-and-twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was
seldom that Noirtier found it necessary to ask for anything, so prompt
was he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid.

Villefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in
order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was
about to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man’s
vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only
indifference and _ennui_ which prevented him from so doing. He
therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois,
and after having seated himself at his father’s right hand, while
Madame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus:

“I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come
with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one
which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either.
Madame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you.”

Noirtier’s face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble,
while, on the contrary, Villefort’s eye was endeavoring to penetrate
into the inmost recesses of the old man’s heart.

“This communication,” continued the procureur, in that cold and
decisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion, “will,
we are sure, meet with your approbation.”

The eye of the invalid still retained that vacancy of expression which
prevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which
were passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more.

“Sir,” resumed Villefort, “we are thinking of marrying Valentine.” Had
the old man’s face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less
emotion at this news than was now to be traced there. “The marriage
will take place in less than three months,” said Villefort.

Noirtier’s eye still retained its inanimate expression.

Madame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added:

“We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have
always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only
now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she
is destined. It is one of the most desirable connections which could
possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and
every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely
happy,—his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M.
Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Épinay.”

While his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old
man’s countenance. When Madame de Villefort pronounced the name of
Franz, the pupil of M. Noirtier’s eye began to dilate, and his eyelids
trembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an
individual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame
de Villefort and his son. The procureur, who knew the political hatred
which had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d’Épinay,
well understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had
produced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed
the narrative begun by his wife.

“Sir,” said he, “you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her
nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no
time in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been
forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that
Valentine’s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for
that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should
live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each
other, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly
the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead
of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you
two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you.”

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Noirtier’s look was furious; it was very evident that something
desperate was passing in the old man’s mind, for a cry of anger and
grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance,
appeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple
with the struggle. Villefort quietly opened a window, saying, “It is
very warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier.” He then returned to his
place, but did not sit down.

“This marriage,” added Madame de Villefort, “is quite agreeable to the
wishes of M. d’Épinay and his family; besides, he had no relations
nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and
his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he
was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was
permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom
acknowledged any other authority but that of his own will.”

“That assassination was a mysterious affair,” said Villefort, “and the
perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has
fallen on the head of more than one person.”

Noirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile.

“Now,” continued Villefort, “those to whom the guilt really belongs, by
whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may
probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would
rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a
peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so
ruthlessly destroyed.” Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion
more than could have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and
shattered frame.

“Yes, I understand,” was the reply contained in his look; and this look
expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound
contempt. Villefort fully understood his father’s meaning, and answered
by a slight shrug of his shoulders. He then motioned to his wife to
take leave.

“Now sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “I must bid you farewell. Would
you like me to send Edward to you for a short time?”

It had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by
closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he
had some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven. If he
wanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the
left. At Madame de Villefort’s proposition he instantly winked his
eyes.

Provoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said, “Then shall I
send Valentine to you?” The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby
intimating that such was his wish.

M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that
Valentine should be summoned to her grandfather’s presence, and feeling
sure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the
perturbed spirit of the invalid. Valentine, with a color still
heightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had
quitted it. One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather
was suffering, and that there was much on his mind which he was wishing
to communicate to her.

“Dear grandpapa,” cried she, “what has happened? They have vexed you,
and you are angry?”

The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent.

“Who has displeased you? Is it my father?”

“No.”

“Madame de Villefort?”

“No.”

“Me?” The former sign was repeated.

“Are you displeased with me?” cried Valentine in astonishment. M.
Noirtier again closed his eyes.

“And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with
me?” cried Valentine.

There was no answer, and she continued:

“I have not seen you all day. Has anyone been speaking to you against
me?”

“Yes,” said the old man’s look, with eagerness.

“Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa—Ah—M. and Madame de
Villefort have just left this room, have they not?”

“Yes.”

“And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was
it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of
making my peace with you?”

“No, no,” said Noirtier’s look.

“Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?” and she again tried to
think what it could be.

“Ah, I know,” said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old
man. “They have been speaking of my marriage,—have they not?”

“Yes,” replied the angry look.

“I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on
the subject. The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping
the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They
did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered
them by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear
grandpapa. Pray forgive me.”

But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say
was, “It is not only your reserve which afflicts me.”

“What is it, then?” asked the young girl. “Perhaps you think I shall
abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am
married?”

“No.”

“They told you, then, that M. d’Épinay consented to our all living
together?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you still vexed and grieved?” The old man’s eyes beamed
with an expression of gentle affection.

“Yes, I understand,” said Valentine; “it is because you love me.” The
old man assented.

“And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“You do not like M. Franz?” The eyes repeated several times, “No, no,
no.”

“Then you are vexed with the engagement?”

“Yes.”

“Well, listen,” said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and
putting her arm round her grandfather’s neck, “I am vexed, too, for I
do not love M. Franz d’Épinay.”

An expression of intense joy illumined the old man’s eyes.

“When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you
were with me?” A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid. “Well,”
continued Valentine, “the reason of my proposing it was that I might
escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair.” Noirtier’s
breathing came thick and short.

“Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you
could but help me—if we could both together defeat their plan! But you
are unable to oppose them,—you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will
is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am
myself. Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me
in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my
joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them.
However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and Heaven has not taken
away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness.”

At these words there appeared in Noirtier’s eye an expression of such
deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words
there: “You are mistaken; I can still do much for you.”

“Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine.

“Yes.” Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him
and Valentine when he wanted anything.

“What is it you want, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine, and she
endeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be likely to
need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated
them aloud, then,—finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a
constant _“No,”_—she said, “Come, since this plan does not answer, I
will have recourse to another.”

She then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When
she arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she
had spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted.

“Ah,” said Valentine, “the thing you desire begins with the letter N;
it is with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you
want that begins with N? Na—Ne—Ni—No——”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the old man’s eye.

“Ah, it is No, then?”

“Yes.”

Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before
Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the old man’s eye was
thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down
the columns. During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first
fell into this sad state, Valentine’s powers of invention had been too
often put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients
for gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so
perfected her in the art that she guessed the old man’s meaning as
quickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted. At
the word _Notary_, Noirtier made a sign to her to stop.

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“Notary,” said she, “do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?” The old man
again signified that it was a notary he desired.

“You would wish a notary to be sent for then?” said Valentine.

“Yes.”

“Shall my father be informed of your wish?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you
want?”

“Yes.” Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell
Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M.
Noirtier’s room.

“Are you satisfied now?” inquired Valentine.

“Yes.”

“I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that.” And the
young girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a child. M. de
Villefort entered, followed by Barrois.

“What do you want me for, sir?” demanded he of the paralytic.

“Sir,” said Valentine, “my grandfather wishes for a notary.” At this
strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged
looks.

“Yes,” motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare
that with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what
his wishes were, he was quite prepared to maintain the contest.

“Do you wish for a notary?” asked Villefort.

“Yes.”

“What to do?”

Noirtier made no answer.

“What do you want with a notary?” again repeated Villefort. The
invalid’s eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to
intimate that his resolution was unalterable.

“Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is worth while?” said
Villefort.

“Still,” said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant,
“if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really wishes for a
notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one.” Barrois
acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in
any way to be contradicted.

30171m



“Yes, I do want a notary,” motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with
a look of defiance, which seemed to say, “and I should like to see the
person who dares to refuse my request.”

“You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,” said
Villefort; “but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make
excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous
one.”

“Never mind that,” said Barrois; “I shall go and fetch a notary,
nevertheless.” And the old servant departed triumphantly on his
mission.



 Chapter 59. The Will

As soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with
a malicious expression that said many things. The young girl perfectly
understood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became
clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily. He took a seat, and
quietly awaited the arrival of the notary. Noirtier saw him seat
himself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time
giving a side look at Valentine, which made her understand that she
also was to remain in the room. Three-quarters of an hour after,
Barrois returned, bringing the notary with him.

“Sir,” said Villefort, after the first salutations were over, “you were
sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here. All his limbs have become
completely paralysed, he has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find
much trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning.”

Noirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so
earnest and imperative, that she answered immediately.

“Sir,” said she, “I perfectly understand my grandfather’s meaning at
all times.”

“That is quite true,” said Barrois; “and that is what I told the
gentleman as we walked along.”

“Permit me,” said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to
Valentine—“permit me to state that the case in question is just one of
those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act
without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing
necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be
thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and
wishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the
approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the
object of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me,
on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite
useless, and cannot be legally exercised.”

The notary then prepared to retire. An imperceptible smile of triumph
was expressed on the lips of the procureur. Noirtier looked at
Valentine with an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the
departure of the notary.

“Sir,” said she, “the language which I speak with my grandfather may be
easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it
almost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in
order to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject?”

“In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation
or disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the
validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite.”

“Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you
presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather
is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M.
Noirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey
his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify ‘yes,’ and to
wink when he means ‘no.’ You now know quite enough to enable you to
converse with M. Noirtier;—try.”

Noirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it
was comprehended even by the notary himself.

“You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying,
sir, have you?” asked the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes.

“And you approve of what she said—that is to say, you declare that the
signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are
accustomed to convey your thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“It was you who sent for me?”

“Yes.”

“To make your will?”

“Yes.”

“And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original
intentions?” The old man winked violently.

“Well, sir,” said the young girl, “do you understand now, and is your
conscience perfectly at rest on the subject?”

But before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside.

“Sir,” said he, “do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a
physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment
to his mental faculties?”

“It is not exactly that, sir,” said the notary, “which makes me uneasy,
but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so
as to be able to get his answers.”

“You must see that to be an utter impossibility,” said Villefort.
Valentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed
his eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the
look.

“Sir,” said she, “that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it
may at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my
grandfather’s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and
fears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and
let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a
thought which he was unable to make me understand.”

“No,” signed the old man.

“Let us try what we can do, then,” said the notary. “You accept this
young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you
wish to be drawn up?”

Valentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W. At
this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was
to stop.

“It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants,”
said the notary.

“Wait,” said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated,
“Wa—We—Wi——” The old man stopped her at the last syllable. Valentine
then took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned
over the pages.

She passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the
word “Will,” M. Noirtier’s eye bade her stop.

“Will,” said the notary; “it is very evident that M. Noirtier is
desirous of making his will.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” motioned the invalid.

“Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary,” said the
astonished notary, turning to M. de Villefort.

“Yes,” said the procureur, “and I think the will promises to be yet
more extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without
the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as
too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable
interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather.”

“No, no, no,” replied the eye of the paralytic.

“What?” said Villefort, “do you mean to say that Valentine is not
interested in your will?”

“No.”

“Sir,” said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and
who had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this
extraordinary and picturesque scene, “what appeared so impossible to me
an hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be
a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven
witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the
presence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very
much more than the generality of wills. There are certain forms
necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the
details, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in
which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having
had the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the
subject. But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be
contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity,
therefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom,
will assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir?”
continued the notary, addressing the old man.

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“Yes,” looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready
interpretation of his meaning.

“What is he going to do?” thought Villefort, whose position demanded
much reserve, but who was longing to know what his father’s intentions
were. He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent,
but Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master’s
wishes, and had already gone to fetch one. The procureur then told his
wife to come up. In the course of a quarter of an hour everyone had
assembled in the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also
arrived.

A few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two
officers of the law. They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will,
in order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are
generally couched; then, in order to test the capacity of the testator,
the first notary said, turning towards him:

“When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in
prejudice of some person.”

“Yes.”

“Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune?”

“Yes.”

“I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you
will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own
possessions?”

“Yes.”

There was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation. Never had the
struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it
was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle. They had
formed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a
table, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the
testator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we
have alluded.

“Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?” asked he. Noirtier
made a sign that it did.

“Do you possess 400,000 francs?” inquired the notary. Noirtier’s eye
remained immovable.

“500,000?” The same expression continued.

“600,000—700,000—800,000—900,000?”

Noirtier stopped him at the last-named sum.

“You are then in possession of 900,000 francs?” asked the notary.

“Yes.”

“In landed property?”

“No.”

“In stock?”

“Yes.”

“The stock is in your own hands?”

The look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was
something wanting which he knew where to find. The old servant left the
room, and presently returned, bringing with him a small casket.

“Do you permit us to open this casket?” asked the notary. Noirtier gave
his assent.

They opened it, and found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first
notary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague.

The total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated.

“It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still
retains its full force and vigor.” Then, turning towards the paralytic,
he said, “You possess, then, 900,000 francs of capital, which,
according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring
in an income of about 40,000 livres?”

“Yes.”

“To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?”

“Oh!” said Madame de Villefort, “there is not much doubt on that
subject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de
Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and
has, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had
almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that
she should reap the fruit of her devotion.”

The eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression that he was not
deceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort’s words and
manner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain.

“Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave
these 900,000 francs?” demanded the notary, thinking he had only to
insert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which
it was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this
singular scene.

Valentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had
stepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast
down, and she was crying. The old man looked at her for an instant with
an expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the
notary, he significantly winked his eye in token of dissent.

“What,” said the notary, “do you not intend making Mademoiselle
Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?”

“No.”

“You are not making any mistake, are you?” said the notary; “you really
mean to declare that such is not your intention?”

“No,” repeated Noirtier; “No.”

Valentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment. It was not so
much the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief,
but her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked
her grandfather to such an act. But Noirtier looked at her with so much
affectionate tenderness that she exclaimed:

“Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you
deprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed.”

“Ah, yes, most assuredly,” said the eyes of the paralytic, for he
closed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake.

“Thank you, thank you,” murmured she. The old man’s declaration that
Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the
hopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and
said:

“Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to
your grandson, Edward de Villefort?”

The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and
terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.

“No?” said the notary; “then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de
Villefort?”

“No.” The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and
inquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator. Villefort
and his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger.

“What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine; “you no
longer seem to love any of us?”

The old man’s eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and
rested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness.

“Well,” said she; “if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love
to bear upon your actions at this present moment. You know me well
enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune;
besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother—too rich,
even. Explain yourself, then.”

Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine’s hand.

“My hand?” said she.

“Yes.”

“Her hand!” exclaimed everyone.

“Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father’s mind is
really impaired,” said Villefort.

“Ah,” cried Valentine suddenly, “I understand. It is my marriage you
mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of
joyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning.

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“You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?”

“Yes?”

“Really, this is too absurd,” said Villefort.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied the notary; “on the contrary, the meaning of
M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the
train of ideas passing in his mind.”

“You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d’Épinay?” observed Valentine.

“I do not wish it,” said the eye of her grandfather.

“And you disinherit your granddaughter,” continued the notary, “because
she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?”

“Yes.”

“So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir?”

“Yes.”

There was a profound silence. The two notaries were holding a
consultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair.
Valentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense
gratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while
Madame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling
of joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance.

“But,” said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence, “I
consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in
question. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my
daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz
d’Épinay—and she shall marry him.”

Valentine sank weeping into a chair.

“Sir,” said the notary, “how do you intend disposing of your fortune in
case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz?”
The old man gave no answer.

“You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?”

“Yes.”

“In favor of some member of your family?”

“No.”

“Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?” pursued the
notary.

“Yes.”

“But,” said the notary, “you are aware that the law does not allow a
son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?”

“Yes.”

“You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which
the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son?”
Noirtier made no answer.

“Do you still wish to dispose of all?”

“Yes.”

“But they will contest the will after your death?”

“No.”

“My father knows me,” replied Villefort; “he is quite sure that his
wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my
position I cannot plead against the poor.” The eye of Noirtier beamed
with triumph.

“What do you decide on, sir?” asked the notary of Villefort.

“Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know
he never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs
will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is
ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall,
therefore, act according to my conscience.”

Having said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his
father at liberty to do as he pleased. The same day the will was made,
the witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in
the presence of all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family
notary.



 Chapter 60. The Telegraph

M. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of
Monte Cristo, who had come to visit them in their absence, had been
ushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there.
Madame de Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her
late emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately,
retired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend
upon himself, proceeded at once to the salon.

Although M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view,
he had completely masked the feelings which were passing in his mind,
he did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much
so that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his
sombre and thoughtful air.

“_Ma foi!_” said Monte Cristo, after the first compliments were over,
“what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have I arrived at the
moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?”

Villefort tried to smile.

“No, count,” he replied, “I am the only victim in this case. It is I
who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have
caused it to be decided against me.”

“To what do you refer?” said Monte Cristo with well-feigned interest.
“Have you really met with some great misfortune?”

“Oh, no, monsieur,” said Villefort with a bitter smile; “it is only a
loss of money which I have sustained—nothing worth mentioning, I assure
you.”

“True,” said Monte Cristo, “the loss of a sum of money becomes almost
immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your
philosophic spirit.”

“It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,” said
Villefort, “though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but
I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to
call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may
blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old
man relapsed into second childhood.”

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“What do you say?” said the count; “900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum
which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of
all this annoyance?”

“My father, as I told you.”

“M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely
paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?”

“Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak,
nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described.
I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating
his will to two notaries.”

“But to do this he must have spoken?”

“He has done better than that—he has made himself understood.”

“How was such a thing possible?”

“By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you
perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.”

“My dear,” said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room,
“perhaps you exaggerate the evil.”

“Good-morning, madame,” said the count, bowing.



Madame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most
gracious smiles.

“What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?” demanded Monte
Cristo “and what incomprehensible misfortune——”

“Incomprehensible is the word!” interrupted the procureur, shrugging
his shoulders. “It is an old man’s caprice!”

“And is there no means of making him revoke his decision?”

“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort; “and it is still entirely in the power
of my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of
Valentine, to be altered in her favor.”

The count, who perceived that M. and Madame de Villefort were beginning
to speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation,
and feigned to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was
mischievously pouring some ink into the bird’s water-glass.

“My dear,” said Villefort, in answer to his wife, “you know I have
never been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I
ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my
nod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in
my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child
should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained
for so many years. The Baron d’Épinay was my friend, as you know, and
an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly
be arranged.”

“Do you think,” said Madame de Villefort, “that Valentine is in league
with him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should
not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing
but the execution of a plan concerted between them.”

“Madame,” said Villefort, “believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is
not so easily renounced.”

“She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir,
since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a
convent.”

“Never mind,” replied Villefort; “I say that this marriage _shall_ be
consummated.”

“Notwithstanding your father’s wishes to the contrary?” said Madame de
Villefort, selecting a new point of attack. “That is a serious thing.”

Monte Cristo, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every
word that was said.

30185m



“Madame,” replied Villefort “I can truly say that I have always
entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural
feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral
superiority. The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be
reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to
obey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting
the wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his
anger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct
by such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect
toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary
deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my
determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his
side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz
d’Épinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match
for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my
daughter’s hand on whomever I please.”

“What?” said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had
frequently solicited during this speech. “What? Do you say that M.
Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to
marry M. le Baron Franz d’Épinay?”

“Yes, sir, that is the reason,” said Villefort, shrugging his
shoulders.

“The apparent reason, at least,” said Madame de Villefort.

“The _real_ reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father.”

“But I want to know in what way M. d’Épinay can have displeased your
father more than any other person?”

“I believe I know M. Franz d’Épinay,” said the count; “is he not the
son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d’Épinay by Charles
X.?”

“The same,” said Villefort.

“Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas.”

“He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier
to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in
their affection,” said Madame de Villefort.

“But,” said Monte Cristo “do you not know any cause for this hatred?”

“Ah, _ma foi!_ who is to know?”

“Perhaps it is some political difference?”

“My father and the Baron d’Épinay lived in the stormy times of which I
only saw the ending,” said Villefort.

“Was not your father a Bonapartist?” asked Monte Cristo; “I think I
remember that you told me something of that kind.”

“My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else,” said Villefort,
carried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence; “and the
senator’s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to
disguise the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father
conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for
M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian
schemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities,
and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible
theories of The Mountain,—theories that never shrank from any means
that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “it is just as I thought; it was politics
which brought Noirtier and M. d’Épinay into personal contact. Although
General d’Épinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain
royalist sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one
evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited
on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?”

Villefort looked at the count almost with terror.

“Am I mistaken, then?” said Monte Cristo.

“No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated,” said Madame
de Villefort; “and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M.
de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the
two children of these inveterate enemies.”

“It was a sublime and charitable thought,” said Monte Cristo, “and the
whole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle
Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d’Épinay.”

Villefort shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished to read
in his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he
had just uttered. But the count completely baffled the procureur, and
prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile
he was so constantly in the habit of assuming.

“Although,” said Villefort, “it will be a serious thing for Valentine
to lose her grandfather’s fortune, I do not think that M. d’Épinay will
be frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in
greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice
everything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that
Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all
probability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran, her
mother’s parents, who both love her tenderly.”

“And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier,”
said Madame de Villefort; “besides, they are to come to Paris in about
a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not
consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut
up with M. Noirtier.”

The count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love
and defeated ambition.

“But it seems to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and I must begin by asking
your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits
Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose
father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against
this dear Edward.”

“True,” said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it
is impossible to describe; “is it not unjust—shamefully unjust? Poor
Edward is as much M. Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if
she had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left
her all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her
grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he.”

The count listened and said no more.

“Count,” said Villefort, “we will not entertain you any longer with our
family misfortunes. It is true that my patrimony will go to endow
charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my
lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have
the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and
feeling. M. d’Épinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum,
shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations.”

“However,” said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which
incessantly occupied her mind, “perhaps it would be better to explain
this unlucky affair to M. d’Épinay, in order to give him the
opportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle
de Villefort.”

“Ah, that would be a great pity,” said Villefort.

“A great pity,” said Monte Cristo.

“Undoubtedly,” said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice, “a
marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit
on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to
put an end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M.
d’Épinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than
ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a
decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible.”

“I agree with M. de Villefort,” said Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on
Madame de Villefort; “and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to
allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told
M. d’Épinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all
possibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project
which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort.”

The procureur arose, delighted with the proposition, but his wife
slightly changed color.

“Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor
such as you are,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo.
“Therefore let everyone here look upon what has passed today as if it
had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as
a change in our original plans.”

“Sir,” said the count, “the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased
with your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M.
d’Épinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry,
which he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a
family which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and
fulfil a duty.”

At the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart.

“Are you going to leave us, count?” said Madame de Villefort.

“I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of
your promise for Saturday.”

“Did you fear that we should forget it?”

“You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important
and urgent occupations.”

“My husband has given me his word, sir,” said Madame de Villefort; “you
have just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose,
and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has
everything to gain.”

“And,” said Villefort, “is it at your house in the Champs-Élysées that
you receive your visitors?”

“No,” said Monte Cristo, “which is precisely the reason which renders
your kindness more meritorious,—it is in the country.”

“In the country?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?”

“Very near, only half a league from the Barriers,—it is at Auteuil.”

“At Auteuil?” said Villefort; “true, Madame de Villefort told me you
lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in
what part of Auteuil do you reside?”

“Rue de la Fontaine.”

“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what
number?”

“No. 28.”

“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s
house!”

“Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?” demanded Monte Cristo.

“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it,
count——”

“Believe what?”

“You think this house pretty, do you not?”

“I think it charming.”

“Well, my husband would never live in it.”

“Indeed?” returned Monte Cristo, “that is a prejudice on your part, M.
de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.”

“I do not like Auteuil, sir,” said the procureur, making an evident
effort to appear calm.

“But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me
of the pleasure of your company, sir,” said Monte Cristo.

“No, count,—I hope—I assure you I shall do my best,” stammered
Villefort.

“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six
o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall
think—for how do I know to the contrary?—that this house, which has
remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition
or dreadful legend connected with it.”

“I will come, count,—I will be sure to come,” said Villefort eagerly.

“Thank you,” said Monte Cristo; “now you must permit me to take my
leave of you.”

“You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,” said
Madame de Villefort, “and you were about to tell us why when your
attention was called to some other subject.”

“Indeed madame,” said Monte Cristo: “I scarcely know if I dare tell you
where I am going.”

“Nonsense; say on.”

“Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for
hours together.”

“What is it?”

“A telegraph. So now I have told my secret.”

“A telegraph?” repeated Madame de Villefort.

“Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on
a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every
direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I
assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could
not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should
be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the
distance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting
at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at
the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of
volition on the part of the sender of the message. I began to think of
genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult
sciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination.
Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these
large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find
under their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with
cabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned
that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for
twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the
heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler,
or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him,
but all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied,
black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At
length I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and
to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors
when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of
string.”

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“And are you going there?”

“I am.”

“What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or
of the observatory?”

“Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand
things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to
explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not
understand. _Ma foi!_ I should wish to keep my illusions concerning
insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I
had formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either
of these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a
good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is
employed to work.”

“You are a singular man,” said Villefort.

“What line would you advise me to study?”

“The one that is most in use just at this time.”

“The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?”

“Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain
to you——”

“No,” said Monte Cristo; “since, as I told you before, I do not wish to
comprehend it. The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a
telegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duchâtel,
or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified
by two Greek words, _têle_, _graphein_. It is the insect with black
claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in
all its purity and all its importance.”

“Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will
not be able to see anything.”

“_Ma foi!_ you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne?”

“Yes; the road to Bayonne.”

“And afterwards the road to Châtillon?”

“Yes.”

“By the tower of Montlhéry, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Good-bye. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions
concerning the telegraph.”

At the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just
completed the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were
leaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not
fail of redounding considerably to their credit.



 Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice that Eat His
 Peaches

Not on the same night as he had stated, but the next morning, the Count
of Monte Cristo went out by the Barrière d’Enfer, taking the road to
Orléans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the
telegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count
reached the tower of Montlhéry, situated, as everyone knows, upon the
highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the
count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about
eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself
stopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and
white flowers.

Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long
in finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened
with a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate
opened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet
long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which
contained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the
other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers.

No one would have thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten,
floral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed
up to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have
been capable of telling strange things, if,—in addition to the menacing
ears which the proverb says all walls are provided with,—it had also a
voice.

The garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of
thick box, of many years’ growth, and of a tone and color that would
have delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was
formed in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a
walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.

Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been
honored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was
paid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees
which formed the _parterre_, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor
were there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so
destructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not
because the damp had been excluded from the garden; the earth, black as
soot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides,
had natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately
supplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk in one of
the corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a
toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two
opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of grass to be seen
in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained
and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, in her
porcelain _jardinière_ with more pains than this hitherto unseen
gardener bestowed upon his little enclosure.

Monte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the
string to the nail, and cast a look around.

“The man at the telegraph,” said he, “must either engage a gardener or
devote himself passionately to agriculture.”

Suddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow
filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of
astonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a man about fifty
years old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon
grape leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries,
which, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand.

“You are gathering your crop, sir?” said Monte Cristo, smiling.

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“Excuse me, sir,” replied the man, raising his hand to his cap; “I am
not up there, I know, but I have only just come down.”

“Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,” said the
count; “gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left.”

“I have ten left,” said the man, “for here are eleven, and I had
twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the
spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir.
This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have
this year, you see, eleven, already plucked—twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here
last night, sir—I am sure they were here—I counted them. It must be the
son of Mère Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here
this morning. Ah, the young rascal—stealing in a garden—he does not
know where that may lead him to.”

“Certainly, it is wrong,” said Monte Cristo, “but you should take into
consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent.”

“Of course,” said the gardener, “but that does not make it the less
unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an
officer that I am detaining here.” And he glanced timidly at the
count’s blue coat.

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“Calm yourself, my friend,” said the count, with the smile which he
made at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed
only the kindliest feeling; “I am not an inspector, but a traveller,
brought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to
lose your time.”

“Ah, my time is not valuable,” replied the man with a melancholy smile.
“Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but,
having received the signal that I might rest for an hour” (here he
glanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of
Montlhéry, even a sun-dial), “and having ten minutes before me, and my
strawberries being ripe, when a day longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think
dormice eat them?”

“Indeed, I should think not,” replied Monte Cristo; “dormice are bad
neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did.”

“What? Did the Romans eat them?” said the gardener—“ate dormice?”

“I have read so in Petronius,” said the count.

“Really? They can’t be nice, though they do say ‘as fat as a dormouse.’
It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to
eat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots—they stole one, I
had one nectarine, only one—well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall;
a splendid nectarine—I never ate a better.”

“You ate it?”

“That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was
exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels;
like Mère Simon’s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But
this year,” continued the horticulturist, “I’ll take care it shall not
happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch
when the strawberries are ripe.”

Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man has a devouring passion in his
heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was
horticulture. He began gathering the grape-leaves which screened the
sun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener.

“Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?” he said.

“Yes, if it isn’t contrary to the rules.”

“Oh, no,” said the gardener; “not in the least, since there is no
danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying.”

“I have been told,” said the count, “that you do not always yourselves
understand the signals you repeat.”

“That is true, sir, and that is what I like best,” said the man,
smiling.

“Why do you like that best?”

“Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and
nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me.”

“Is it possible,” said Monte Cristo to himself, “that I can have met
with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans.”

“Sir,” said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, “the ten minutes
are almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?”

“I follow you.”

Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into three stories.
The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots,
hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the
man’s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it contained a few
poor articles of household furniture—a bed, a table, two chairs, a
stone pitcher—and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which the
count recognized as sweet peas, and of which the good man was
preserving the seeds; he had labelled them with as much care as if he
had been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes.

“Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?” asked
Monte Cristo.

“The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that
was so tedious.”

“And what is the pay?”

“A thousand francs, sir.”

“It is nothing.”

“No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.”

Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was
the telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in turn at the two iron handles
by which the machine was worked. “It is very interesting,” he said,
“but it must be very tedious for a lifetime.”

“Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end
of a year I became used to it; and then we have our hours of
recreation, and our holidays.”

“Holidays?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When we have a fog.”

“Ah, to be sure.”

“Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I
prune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen.”

“You are——”

“Fifty-five years old.”

“How long must you have served to claim the pension?”

“Oh, sir, twenty-five years.”

“And how much is the pension?”

“A hundred crowns.”

“Poor humanity!” murmured Monte Cristo.

“What did you say, sir?” asked the man.

“I was saying it was very interesting.”

“What was?”

“All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these
signals?”

“None at all.”

“And have you never tried to understand them?”

“Never. Why should I?”

“But still there are some signals only addressed to you.”

“Certainly.”

“And do you understand them?”

“They are always the same.”

“And they mean——”

“‘_Nothing new; You have an hour;_’ or ‘_Tomorrow_.’”

“This is simple enough,” said the count; “but look, is not your
correspondent putting itself in motion?”

“Ah, yes; thank you, sir.”

“And what is it saying—anything you understand?”

“Yes; it asks if I am ready.”

“And you reply?”

“By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand
correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand
correspondent to prepare in his turn.”

“It is very ingenious,” said the count.

“You will see,” said the man proudly; “in five minutes he will speak.”

“I have, then, five minutes,” said Monte Cristo to himself; “it is more
time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a
question?”

“What is it, sir?”

“You are fond of gardening?”

“Passionately.”

“And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty
feet, an enclosure of two acres?”

“Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it.”

“You live badly on your thousand francs?”

“Badly enough; but yet I do live.”

“Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden.”

“True, the garden is not large.”

“And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat
everything.”

“Ah, they are my scourges.”

“Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your
right-hand correspondent was telegraphing——”

“I should not see him.”

“Then what would happen?”

“I could not repeat the signals.”

“And then?”

“Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined.”

“How much?”

“A hundred francs.”

“The tenth of your income—that would be fine work.”

“Ah!” said the man.

“Has it ever happened to you?” said Monte Cristo.

“Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree.”

“Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?”

“Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my
pension.”

“Three hundred francs?”

“A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any
of these things.”

“Not even for fifteen years’ wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?”

“For fifteen thousand francs?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, you alarm me.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sir, you are tempting me?”

“Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?”

“Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent.”

“On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this.”

“What is it?”

“What? Do you not know these bits of paper?”

“Bank-notes!”

“Exactly; there are fifteen of them.”

“And whose are they?”

“Yours, if you like.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the man, half-suffocated.

“Yes; yours—your own property.”

“Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling.”

“Let him signal.”

“Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined.”

“That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to
take my bank-notes.”

“Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is
impatient.”

“Never mind—take these;” and the count placed the packet in the man’s
hands. “Now this is not all,” he said; “you cannot live upon your
fifteen thousand francs.”

“I shall still have my place.”

“No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent’s
message.”

“Oh, sir, what are you proposing?”

“A jest.”

“Sir, unless you force me——”

“I think I can effectually force you;” and Monte Cristo drew another
packet from his pocket. “Here are ten thousand more francs,” he said,
“with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make
twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little
house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring
you in a thousand francs a year.”

“A garden with two acres of land!”

“And a thousand francs a year.”

“Oh, heavens!”

“Come, take them,” and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes into his
hand.

“What am I to do?”

“Nothing very difficult.”

“But what is it?”

“To repeat these signs.” Monte Cristo took a paper from his pocket,
upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order
in which they were to be worked.

“There, you see it will not take long.”

“Yes; but——”

“Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest.”

The shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his
brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by
the count, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand
correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the
gardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously
repeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted to the
Minister of the Interior.

“Now you are rich,” said Monte Cristo.

“Yes,” replied the man, “but at what a price!”

“Listen, friend,” said Monte Cristo. “I do not wish to cause you any
remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no
man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind.”

The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale,
then red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he
had no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his
dried herbs. Five minutes after the new telegram reached the minister,
Debray had the horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars’
house.

“Has your husband any Spanish bonds?” he asked of the baroness.

“I think so, indeed! He has six millions’ worth.”

“He must sell them at whatever price.”

“Why?”

“Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain.”

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“How do you know?” Debray shrugged his shoulders.

“The idea of asking how I hear the news,” he said.

The baroness did not wait for a repetition; she ran to her husband, who
immediately hastened to his agent, and ordered him to sell at any
price. When it was seen that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell
directly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand francs; but he rid
himself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the following was
read in _Le Messager_:

“[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his
guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian
frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor.”

All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars,
who had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only
lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept
their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as
ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning _Le Moniteur_
contained the following:

“It was without any foundation that _Le Messager_ yesterday announced
the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don
Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of
profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to
the fog, was the cause of this error.”

The funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This,
reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, made the difference
of a million to Danglars.

“Good,” said Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house when the news
arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had been
the victim, “I have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand
francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand.”

“What have you discovered?” asked Morrel.

“I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that
eat his peaches.”



 Chapter 62. Ghosts

At first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no
indications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destined
residence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicity
was according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing
to be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost before
the door opened, the scene changed.

M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing,
and in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc
d’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed
Louis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court
with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of
the house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones,
half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid
down, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the
orders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to
Bertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the
shape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of the
paving-stones.

Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself
declared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework
of trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it,
to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had
positively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however,
by loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with
flowers.

What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the
profound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of
the other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so
sad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy
to be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of
life, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the very
light regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had
under his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favorite
pictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the
antechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with
their music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like the
sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses
we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them,
we leave a part of our souls.

The servants passed gayly along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to
the kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day,
as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the
coach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to
have been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the
horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much
more respect than many servants pay their masters.

The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and
contained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely
devoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the
day before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red
and gold binding.

On the other side of the house, to match with the library, was the
conservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars;
and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and
smell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned
during the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth.

One chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio.
Before this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by
the back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio
with terror.

At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at
Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival with
impatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments,
while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo
descended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving
any sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom,
situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a
little piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a
previous visit.

“That can only be to hold gloves,” he said.

“Will your excellency deign to open it?” said the delighted Bertuccio,
“and you will find gloves in it.”

Elsewhere the count found everything he required—smelling-bottles,
cigars, knick-knacks.

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“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so
powerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all who
surrounded him.

At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at the
entrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on Médéah.
“I am sure I am the first,” cried Morrel; “I did it on purpose to have
you a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a
thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell
me, count, will your people take care of my horse?”

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian—they understand.”

“I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he
came—like the wind!”

“I should think so,—a horse that cost 5,000 francs!” said Monte Cristo,
in the tone which a father would use towards a son.

“Do you regret them?” asked Morrel, with his open laugh.

“I? Certainly not,” replied the count. “No; I should only regret if the
horse had not proved good.”

“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of the
best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s
Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars,
who always go at six leagues an hour.”

“Then they follow you?” asked Monte Cristo.

“See, they are here.” And at the same minute a carriage with smoking
horses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate,
which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the
steps, followed by the horsemen.

The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door.
He offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a
peculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but Monte Cristo. But
nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note,
passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the
hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary.

After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued
from his tomb instead of his carriage.

Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be
interpreted by Monte Cristo, around the courtyard, over the peristyle,
and across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion,
which must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her
color, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel:

“Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell
your horse.”

Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned
round to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to extricate him from his
embarrassment. The count understood him.

“Ah, madame,” he said, “why did you not make that request of me?”

“With you, sir,” replied the baroness, “one can wish for nothing, one
is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——”

“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannot
give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.”

“How so?”

“He laid a wager he would tame Médéah in the space of six months. You
understand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time
named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was
afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify
a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred
obligations in the world.”

“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile
on Monte Cristo.

“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a
forced smile, “that you have already got horses enough.”

Madame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed,
but, to the surprise of the young people, she pretended not to hear it,
and said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at her unusual humility, and
showed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants,
of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness
was astonished.

“Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the
Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?”

“Ah! madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “you must not ask of us, the
manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of
another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.”

“How so?—at what period can that have been?”

“I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven
built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were
successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten
were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing
what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them
with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by
two hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a
revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and
only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their
descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents
were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended
in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they
were thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been
broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps,
misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in
which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the
pursuit of their enemies.”

Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was
mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one
after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at
the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree,
pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though
awaking from a dream.

“Sir,” said Monte Cristo to him, “I do not recommend my pictures to
you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are
two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael,
a Van Dyck, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.”

“Stay,” said Debray; “I recognize this Hobbema.”

“Ah, indeed!”

“Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.”

“Which, I believe, does not contain one?” said Monte Cristo.

“No; and yet they refused to buy it.”

“Why?” said Château-Renaud.

“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.”

“Ah, pardon me,” said Château-Renaud; “I have heard of these things
every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them
yet.”

“You will, by and by,” said Debray.

“I think not,” replied Château-Renaud.

“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced
Baptistin.

A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a
bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five
crosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was the
appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom
we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new
clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son,
whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the
entrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and
then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began
criticising.

“Cavalcanti!” said Debray.

“A fine name,” said Morrel.

“Yes,” said Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly
dressed.”

“You are fastidious, Château-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothes
are well cut and quite new.”

“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well
dressed for the first time in his life.”

“Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of Monte Cristo.

“You heard—Cavalcanti.”

“That tells me their name, and nothing else.”

“Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all
descended from princes.”

“Have they any fortune?”

“An enormous one.”

“What do they do?”

“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from
what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them
here today on your account. I will introduce you to them.”

“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said
Danglars.

“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near
Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.”

“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars.

“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from
Paris.”

“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.
Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any
other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she
controlled herself.

“The baron appears thoughtful today,” said Monte Cristo to her; “are
they going to put him in the ministry?”

“Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse,
and has lost money.”

“M. and Madame de Villefort,” cried Baptistin.

They entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his self-control, was
visibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt it
tremble.

“Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Cristo to
himself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the procureur,
and embracing his wife.

After a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been
occupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room.
He went to him.

“What do you want, M. Bertuccio?” said he.

“Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.”

“Ah, true.”

“How many covers?”

“Count for yourself.”

“Is everyone here, your excellency?”

“Yes.”

Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched
him. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed.

“What is the matter?” said the count.

“That woman—that woman!”

“Which?”

“The one with a white dress and so many diamonds—the fair one.”

“Madame Danglars?”

“I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!”

“Whom do you mean?”

“The woman of the garden!—she that was _enceinte_—she who was walking
while she waited for——”

Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair
on end.

“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort
with something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo.

“Oh, oh!” he at length muttered, “do you see?”

“What? Who?”

“Him!”

“Him!—M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.”

“Then I did not kill him?”

“Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,” said the count.

“Then he is not dead?”

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“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the
sixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have
struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or
rather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a fright
of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of
thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had
the nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M.
and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de
Château-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo
Cavalcanti, eight.”

“Eight!” repeated Bertuccio.

“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of my
guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti,
the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s ‘Madonna’; now he
is turning.”

This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look
from Monte Cristo silenced him.

“Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!”

“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the count
severely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;”
and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the
wall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards
the doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing
said, with a violent effort, “The dinner waits.”

The Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Madame de Villefort. “M.
de Villefort,” he said, “will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?”

Villefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room.



 Chapter 63. The Dinner

It was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering
the dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them
to this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they
still felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events,
the solitary and eccentric position of the count, his enormous, nay,
almost incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have
altogether prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of
their own sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to
lead them to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum.

And all present, even including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding
the stiffness of the one and the carelessness of the other, were
thoughtful, on finding themselves assembled at the house of this
incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars had started when Villefort, on
the count’s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his
glance was uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of
the baroness press upon his own. None of this had escaped the count,
and even by this mere contact of individuals the scene had already
acquired considerable interest for an observer.

M. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on his left
Morrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and Danglars;
the other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between the two
Cavalcanti, and by Château-Renaud, seated between Madame de Villefort
and Morrel.

The repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo had endeavored completely to
overturn the Parisian ideas, and to feed the curiosity as much as the
appetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to
them, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to
prepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe
could provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare
birds, retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread
upon massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the
Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose
grotesque shape seemed to give an additional flavor to the draught,—all
these, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his
guests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians,
who understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a
dinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls,
like Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de’ Medici.

Monte Cristo noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing and
joking about it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you will admit that, when arrived at a certain
degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be
desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a
certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be more exalted. Now,
to follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous?—that which we do
not understand. What is it that we really desire?—that which we cannot
obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure
impossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by
two means—my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit
of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new railway line;
you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray,
in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Château-Renaud, in pleasing a woman;
and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one can ride. For example,
you see these two fish; one brought from fifty leagues beyond St.
Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to
see them both on the same table?”

“What are the two fish?” asked Danglars.

“M. Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of
one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of
the other.”

“This one is, I think, a sterlet,” said Château-Renaud.

“And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey.”

“Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught.”

“Sterlets,” said Château-Renaud, “are only found in the Volga.”

“And,” said Cavalcanti, “I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies
lampreys of that size.”

“Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro.”

“Impossible!” cried all the guests simultaneously.

“Well, this is just what amuses me,” said Monte Cristo. “I am like
Nero—_cupitor impossibilium_; and that is what is amusing you at this
moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no
better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it,
and here it is.”

“But how could you have these fish brought to France?”

“Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask—one filled
with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they
were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived
twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized
them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe
me, M. Danglars!”

“I cannot help doubting,” answered Danglars with his stupid smile.

“Baptistin,” said the count, “have the other fish brought in—the
sterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are
yet alive.”

Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their hands.
Four servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants, and in
each of which was breathing a fish similar to those on the table.

“But why have two of each sort?” asked Danglars.

“Merely because one might have died,” carelessly answered Monte Cristo.

“You are certainly an extraordinary man,” said Danglars; “and
philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich.”

“And to have ideas,” added Madame Danglars.

“Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans,
who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from
Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the
_mulus_, and which, from the description, must probably be the
goldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being
an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color
three or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass
through all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the
kitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit—if they were not seen
alive, they were despised when dead.”

“Yes,” said Debray, “but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome.”

“True,” said Monte Cristo; “but what would be the use of living
eighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he
could?”

The two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense
not to say anything.

“All this is very extraordinary,” said Château-Renaud; “still, what I
admire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which
your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this
house five or six days ago?”

“Certainly not longer.”

“Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember
rightly, it had another entrance, and the courtyard was paved and
empty; while today we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which
appear to be a hundred years old.”

“Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,” said Monte Cristo.

“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort, “the door was towards the road before,
and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house
from the road, I remember.”

“Yes, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “but I preferred having an entrance
which would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate.”

“In four days,” said Morrel; “it is extraordinary!”

“Indeed,” said Château-Renaud, “it seems quite miraculous to make a new
house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect
coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Méran advertised it
for sale two or three years ago.”

“M. de Saint-Méran?” said Madame de Villefort; “then this house
belonged to M. de Saint-Méran before you bought it?”

“It appears so,” replied Monte Cristo.

“Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it?”

“Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me.”

“It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied,” said
Château-Renaud, “and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the
blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if
the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one
might have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had
been committed.”

Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of
rare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it
off. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then said:

“It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time
I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my
steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow
had been bribed by the notary.”

“It is probable,” stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; “but I can
assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This
house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Méran
wished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two
uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.”

It was Morrel’s turn to become pale.

“There was, above all, one room,” continued Monte Cristo, “very plain
in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to
me quite dramatic.”

“Why so?” said Danglars; “why dramatic?”

“Can we account for instinct?” said Monte Cristo. “Are there not some
places where we seem to breathe sadness?—why, we cannot tell. It is a
chain of recollections—an idea which carries you back to other times,
to other places—which, very likely, have no connection with the present
time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me
forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges10 or Desdemona. Stay,
since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will
take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.”

Monte Cristo looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort
rose, Monte Cristo did the same, and the rest followed their example.
Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to
their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances.

“Did you hear?” said Madame Danglars.

“We must go,” replied Villefort, offering his arm.

The others, attracted by curiosity, were already scattered in different
parts of the house; for they thought the visit would not be limited to
the one room, and that, at the same time, they would obtain a view of
the rest of the building, of which Monte Cristo had created a palace.
Each one went out by the open doors. Monte Cristo waited for the two
who remained; then, when they had passed, he brought up the rear, and
on his face was a smile, which, if they could have understood it, would
have alarmed them much more than a visit to the room they were about to
enter. They began by walking through the apartments, many of which were
fitted up in the Eastern style, with cushions and divans instead of
beds, and pipes instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms were decorated
with the rarest pictures by the old masters, the boudoirs hung with
draperies from China, of fanciful colors, fantastic design, and
wonderful texture. At length they arrived at the famous room. There was
nothing particular about it, excepting that, although daylight had
disappeared, it was not lighted, and everything in it was
old-fashioned, while the rest of the rooms had been redecorated. These
two causes were enough to give it a gloomy aspect.

“Oh.” cried Madame de Villefort, “it is really frightful.”

Madame Danglars tried to utter a few words, but was not heard. Many
observations were made, the import of which was a unanimous opinion
that there was something sinister about the room.

30221m



“Is it not so?” asked Monte Cristo. “Look at that large clumsy bed,
hung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon
portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say,
with their pale lips and staring eyes, ‘We have seen’?”

Villefort became livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long seat placed
near the chimney.

“Oh,” said Madame de Villefort, smiling, “are you courageous enough to
sit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was
committed?”

Madame Danglars rose suddenly.

“And then,” said Monte Cristo, “this is not all.”

“What is there more?” said Debray, who had not failed to notice the
agitation of Madame Danglars.

“Ah, what else is there?” said Danglars; “for, at present, I cannot say
that I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M.
Cavalcanti?”

“Ah,” said he, “we have at Pisa, Ugolino’s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso’s
prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo.”

“Yes, but you have not this little staircase,” said Monte Cristo,
opening a door concealed by the drapery. “Look at it, and tell me what
you think of it.”

“What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,” said Château-Renaud with a
smile.

“I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but
certainly everything appears to me black in this house,” said Debray.

Ever since Valentine’s dowry had been mentioned, Morrel had been silent
and sad.

“Can you imagine,” said Monte Cristo, “some Othello or Abbé de Ganges,
one stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying
a load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from
God?”

Madame Danglars half fainted on the arm of Villefort, who was obliged
to support himself against the wall.

“Ah, madame,” cried Debray, “what is the matter with you? how pale you
look!”

“It is very evident what is the matter with her,” said Madame de
Villefort; “M. de Monte Cristo is relating horrible stories to us,
doubtless intending to frighten us to death.”

“Yes,” said Villefort, “really, count, you frighten the ladies.”

“What is the matter?” asked Debray, in a whisper, of Madame Danglars.

“Nothing,” she replied with a violent effort. “I want air, that is
all.”

“Will you come into the garden?” said Debray, advancing towards the
back staircase.

“No, no,” she answered, “I would rather remain here.”

“Are you really frightened, madame?” said Monte Cristo.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Madame Danglars; “but you suppose scenes in a
manner which gives them the appearance of reality.”

30223m



“Ah, yes,” said Monte Cristo smiling; “it is all a matter of
imagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest
mother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess
Lucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not
to disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or even the father
carrying the sleeping child?”

Here Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed by the soft picture,
uttered a groan and fainted.

“Madame Danglars is ill,” said Villefort; “it would be better to take
her to her carriage.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” said Monte Cristo, “and I have forgotten my
smelling-bottle!”

“I have mine,” said Madame de Villefort; and she passed over to Monte
Cristo a bottle full of the same kind of red liquid whose good
properties the count had tested on Edward.

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, taking it from her hand.

“Yes,” she said, “at your advice I have made the trial.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“I think so.”

Madame Danglars was carried into the adjoining room; Monte Cristo
dropped a very small portion of the red liquid upon her lips; she
returned to consciousness.

“Ah,” she cried, “what a frightful dream!”

Villefort pressed her hand to let her know it was not a dream. They
looked for M. Danglars, but, as he was not especially interested in
poetical ideas, he had gone into the garden, and was talking with Major
Cavalcanti on the projected railway from Leghorn to Florence. Monte
Cristo seemed in despair. He took the arm of Madame Danglars, and
conducted her into the garden, where they found Danglars taking coffee
between the Cavalcanti.

“Really, madame,” he said, “did I alarm you much?”

“Oh, no, sir,” she answered; “but you know, things impress us
differently, according to the mood of our minds.” Villefort forced a
laugh.

“And then, you know,” he said, “an idea, a supposition, is sufficient.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “you may believe me if you like, but it is
my opinion that a crime has been committed in this house.”

“Take care,” said Madame de Villefort, “the king’s attorney is here.”

“Ah,” replied Monte Cristo, “since that is the case, I will take
advantage of his presence to make my declaration.”

“Your declaration?” said Villefort.

“Yes, before witnesses.”

“Oh, this is very interesting,” said Debray; “if there really has been
a crime, we will investigate it.”

“There has been a crime,” said Monte Cristo. “Come this way, gentlemen;
come, M. Villefort, for a declaration to be available, should be made
before the competent authorities.”

He then took Villefort’s arm, and, at the same time, holding that of
Madame Danglars under his own, he dragged the procureur to the
plantain-tree, where the shade was thickest. All the other guests
followed.

“Stay,” said Monte Cristo, “here, in this very spot” (and he stamped
upon the ground), “I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to
refresh these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather,
the iron-work of a box, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a
newly born infant.”

30225m



Monte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of
Villefort trembled.

“A newly born infant,” repeated Debray; “this affair becomes serious!”

“Well,” said Château-Renaud, “I was not wrong just now then, when I
said that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors
carried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because
it was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime.”

“Who said it was a crime?” asked Villefort, with a last effort.

“How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?” cried
Monte Cristo. “And pray what do you call such an action?”

“But who said it was buried alive?”

“Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a
cemetery.”

“What is done to infanticides in this country?” asked Major Cavalcanti
innocently.

“Oh, their heads are soon cut off,” said Danglars.

“Ah, indeed?” said Cavalcanti.

“I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Yes, count,” replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human.

Monte Cristo, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this
scene could scarcely endure it, and not wishing to carry it too far,
said:

“Come, gentlemen,—some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,” and he
conducted the guests back to the table on the lawn.

“Indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars, “I am ashamed to own it, but all
your frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me
sit down;” and she fell into a chair.

Monte Cristo bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort.

“I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,” he said. But
before Madame de Villefort could reach her friend, the procureur had
found time to whisper to Madame Danglars, “I must speak to you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“In my office, or in the court, if you like,—that is the surest place.”

“I will be there.”

At this moment Madame de Villefort approached.

“Thanks, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, trying to smile; “it is
over now, and I am much better.”



 Chapter 64. The Beggar

The evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return
to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding
the uneasiness she experienced. On his wife’s request, M. de Villefort
was the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his
landau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his
wife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with
M. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While
Monte Cristo had begged the smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he
had noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon
guessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been
uttered in so low a voice as hardly to be heard by Madame Danglars.
Without opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Château-Renaud,
and Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort’s
carriage. Danglars, more and more delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had
offered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury
waiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the
English fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray
horse.

Andrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad,
and he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people,
amongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king’s attorney. Then he
had been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the
stiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into
consideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he
was in the society of some nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly
education of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the
large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger; for the major,
like a prudent man, in case of any accident happening to his
bank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset.
Then, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the
father and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son,
previously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive
his 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of
affability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker’s
servants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself
upon.

One thing above all the rest heightened the respect, nay almost the
veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the
principle of Horace, _nil admirari_, had contented himself with showing
his knowledge by declaring in what lake the best lampreys were caught.
Then he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore,
concluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the
illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca fed
upon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by
the same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake
Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much
politeness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words:

“Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on
business.”

“And I, sir,” said Danglars, “shall be most happy to receive you.”

Upon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in his carriage to the Hôtel
des Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his
son. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his
son had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and
carriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult
for them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by
the side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of
order and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to
allow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a
fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres.

As for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom,
who, instead of bringing the tilbury to the steps of the house, had
taken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking
thirty steps to reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the
bit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with the right held
out the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished
boot lightly on the step.

At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round,
thinking that Danglars or Monte Cristo had forgotten something they
wished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But
instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face,
sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles,
and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white
teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s. A red handkerchief
encircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered his large
bony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they
would rattle as he walked; and the hand with which he leaned upon the
young man’s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw, seemed
of gigantic size.

30229m



Did the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in
his tilbury, or was he merely struck with the horrible appearance of
his interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that he
shuddered and stepped back suddenly.

“What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,” said the man with the red
handkerchief, “but I want to speak to you.”

“You have no right to beg at night,” said the groom, endeavoring to rid
his master of the troublesome intruder.

“I am not begging, my fine fellow,” said the unknown to the servant,
with so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile,
that he withdrew; “I only wish to say two or three words to your
master, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.”

“Come,” said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to
perceive his agitation, “what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.”

The man said, in a low voice: “I wish—I wish you to spare me the walk
back to Paris. I am very tired, and as I have not eaten so good a
dinner as you, I can scarcely stand.”

The young man shuddered at this strange familiarity.

“Tell me,” he said—“tell me what you want?”

“Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry
me back.” Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.

“Yes,” said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking
impudently at the youth; “I have taken the whim into my head; do you
understand, Master Benedetto?”

At this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went
towards his groom, saying:

“This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the
result of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier, there take a cab,
that you may not be too late.”

The surprised groom retired.

“Let me at least reach a shady spot,” said Andrea.

“Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,” said the man with
the handkerchief; and taking the horse’s bit he led the tilbury where
it was certainly impossible for anyone to witness the honor that Andrea
conferred upon him.

“Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,” said
he; “oh, no, it’s only because I am tired, and also because I have a
little business to talk over with you.”

“Come, step in,” said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not
occurred in daylight, for it was curious to see this rascal throwing
himself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver
of the tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without
saying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though
well-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle.
Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself
that he could neither be seen nor heard, and then, stopping the horse
and crossing his arms before the man, he asked:

“Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity?”

“Let me ask you why you deceived me?”

“How have I deceived you?”

“‘How,’ do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you
were going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that,
you come to Paris.”

“How does that annoy you?”

“It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose.”

“So,” said Andrea, “you are speculating upon me?”

“What fine words he uses!”

“I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken.”

“Well, well, don’t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to
be unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were
earning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as _facchino_ or
_cicerone_, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own.
You know I always did call you my child.”

“Come, come, what then?”

“Patience—patience!”

“I am patient, but go on.”

“All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a
tilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else
become a stockbroker.”

“So that, as you confess, you are jealous?”

“No, I am pleased—so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as
I am not quite properly dressed, I chose my opportunity, that I might
not compromise you.”

“Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen!” exclaimed Andrea; “you
speak to me before my servant.”

“How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You
have a quick horse, a light tilbury, you are naturally as slippery as
an eel; if I had missed you tonight, I might not have had another
chance.”

“You see, I do not conceal myself.”

“You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself;
and then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did,” added
Caderousse with his unpleasant smile. “It was very polite of you.”

“Come,” said Andrea, “what do you want?”

“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that
is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.”

This menace smothered the young man’s passion. He urged the horse again
into a trot.

“You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you
said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am——”

“Do you know then now what you are?”

“No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am
young and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place,
everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune,
which has frowned on you, has been kind to me?”

“Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your
clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,” said
Caderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice.

“Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,” said Andrea,
becoming more and more excited. “If I had been wearing a handkerchief
like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet,
you would not have known me.”

“You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being
as well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your
heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to
divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.”

“True,” said Andrea.

“What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Andrea, laughing.

“How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have
just left?”

“He is not a prince; simply a count.”

“A count, and a rich one too, eh?”

“Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not
a very good-tempered gentleman.”

“Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him
all to yourself. But,” said Caderousse, again smiling with the
disagreeable expression he had before assumed, “you must pay for it—you
understand?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I think that with a hundred francs a month——”

“Well?”

“I could live——”

“Upon a hundred francs!”

“Come—you understand me; but that with——”

“With?”

“With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy.”

“Here are two hundred,” said Andrea; and he placed ten gold louis in
the hand of Caderousse.

30233m



“Good!” said Caderousse.

“Apply to the steward on the first day of every month, and you will
receive the same sum.”

“There now, again you degrade me.”

“How so?”

“By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business
with you alone.”

“Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I
receive my income, you shall be paid yours.”

“Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing
when good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it?”

“Why do you wish to know?” asked Cavalcanti.

“What? do you again defy me?”

“No; the fact is, I have found my father.”

“What? a real father?”

“Yes, so long as he pays me——”

“You’ll honor and believe him—that’s right. What is his name?”

“Major Cavalcanti.”

“Is he pleased with you?”

“So far I have appeared to answer his purpose.”

“And who found this father for you?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“The man whose house you have just left?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather,
since he holds the money-chest!”

“Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?”

“I?”

“Yes, you.”

“It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me.”

“Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn
to ask you some questions.”

“Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a
decent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a café.
Then, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some
retired baker. That is what I want.”

“Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady,
nothing could be better.”

“Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you—what will you become? A peer of
France?”

“Ah,” said Andrea, “who knows?”

“Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is
abolished.”

“No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that
we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.”

“Not at all, my good friend.”

“How? Not at all?”

“Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head,
with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my
pocket, without reckoning what was there before—making in all about two
hundred francs,—why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers.
Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this
would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without
giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of
the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-bye to
my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer
remaining honorably in the capital.”

Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of
Major Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a
rapid glance around him, and then his hand fell instantly into his
pocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile,
Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his
hand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife, which he always
carried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we
see, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea’s hand left his
pocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red moustache, which it
played with for some time.

“Good Caderousse,” he said, “how happy you will be.”

“I will do my best,” said the innkeeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting
up his knife.

“Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the
barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more
danger riding than on foot.”

“Wait,” said Caderousse, “we shall see.” He then took the greatcoat
with the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury,
and put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti’s hat, which he
placed upon his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude
of a servant whose master drives himself.

“But, tell me,” said Andrea, “am I to remain bareheaded?”

“Pooh,” said Caderousse; “it is so windy that your hat can easily
appear to have blown off.”

“Come, come; enough of this,” said Cavalcanti.

“What are you waiting for?” said Caderousse. “I hope I am not the
cause.”

“Hush,” said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the
first cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out.

“Well!” said Andrea,—“my servant’s coat and my hat?”

“Ah,” said Caderousse, “you would not like me to risk taking cold?”

“But what am I to do?”

“You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. _Au revoir_,
Benedetto;” and running into a court, he disappeared.

“Alas,” said Andrea, sighing, “one cannot be completely happy in this
world!”



 Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene

At the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated—that is to say,
Morrel went to the Boulevards, Château-Renaud to the Pont de la
Révolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and
Château-Renaud returned to their “domestic hearths,” as they say in the
gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of
the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with
Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the
left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through the Rue Saint-Roch,
and, issuing from the Rue de la Michodière, he arrived at M. Danglars’
door just at the same time that Villefort’s landau, after having
deposited him and his wife at the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, stopped to
leave the baroness at her own house.

Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first
into the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and
returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he offered his
arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray
and the baroness alone in the court, he asked:

“What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at
that story, or rather fable, which the count related?”

“Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my
friend,” said the baroness.

“No, Hermine,” replied Debray; “you cannot make me believe that; on the
contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the
count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much
you care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one
to annoy you.”

“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and
what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you
remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.”

It was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous
irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to
themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some
secret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man
who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent
penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited
for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate
her, or receive an avowal _proprio motu_.

At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornélie,
her confidential maid.

“What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars.

“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied
Mademoiselle Cornélie.

“Yet I think I hear her piano.”

“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle
Danglars is in bed.”

“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.”

They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch,
and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle
Cornélie.

“My dear M. Lucien,” said Madame Danglars through the door, “you are
always complaining that Eugénie will not address a word to you.”

“Madame,” said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him
as a friend of the house, expected to be caressed, “I am not the only
one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he
could not extract a word from his betrothed.”

“True,” said Madame Danglars; “yet I think this will all pass off, and
that you will one day see her enter your study.”

“My study?”

“At least that of the minister.”

“Why so!”

“To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an
infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of
fashion.”

Debray smiled. “Well,” said he, “let her come, with your consent and
that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though
we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.”

“Go, Cornélie,” said Madame Danglars, “I do not require you any
longer.”

Cornélie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a
charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she
began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her
for a moment in silence.

“Come, Hermine,” he said, after a short time, “answer
candidly,—something vexes you—is it not so?”

30239m



“Nothing,” answered the baroness.

And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went towards a
looking-glass. “I am frightful tonight,” she said. Debray rose,
smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter
point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray
reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned
round, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no
trouble to conceal.

“Good-evening, madame,” said the banker; “good-evening, M. Debray.”

Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire
to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming
a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her
husband.

“Read me something, M. Debray,” she said. Debray, who was slightly
disturbed at this visit, recovered himself when he saw the calmness of
the baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife
inlaid with gold.

“Excuse me,” said the banker, “but you will tire yourself, baroness, by
such late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here.”

Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and
politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness
there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his
wife might wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her
astonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon
her husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where
he was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was,
that the proud look entirely failed of its purpose.

“M. Lucien,” said the baroness, “I assure you I have no desire to
sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening,
which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.”

“I am at your service, madame,” replied Lucien coldly.

“My dear M. Debray,” said the banker, “do not kill yourself tonight
listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as
well tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will
allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife.”

This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly, that Lucien
and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with
their eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the
irresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband
was victorious.

“Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,” continued
Danglars; “oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to
ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I
make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.”

Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking himself against
the edge of the door, like Nathan in _Athalie_.

“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him,
“how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over
us.”

30241m



Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the
open book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he
began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him as well as
Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of
his neck and threw him upon a couch on the other side of the room. The
animal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its
destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such
unusual treatment remained silent and motionless.

“Do you know, sir,” asked the baroness, “that you are improving?
Generally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal.”

“It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,” replied Danglars.
Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances
frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took
no notice of them.

“And what have I to do with your ill-humor?” said the baroness,
irritated at the impassibility of her husband; “do these things concern
me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have
clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.”

“Not so,” replied Danglars; “your advice is wrong, so I shall not
follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier
says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks
are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their
deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore
I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in
a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my
fortune.”

“And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain
yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.”

“Oh, make yourself easy!—I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon
know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw
out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said the baroness, trying to disguise
the agitation of her voice and the flush of her face.

“You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,” said Danglars: “but, if
you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs
upon the Spanish loan.”

“And pray,” asked the baroness, “am I responsible for this loss?”

“Why not?”

“Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?”

“Certainly it is not mine.”

“Once for all, sir,” replied the baroness sharply, “I tell you I will
not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the
house of my parents or in that of my first husband.”

“Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.”

“The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the
bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that
noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and
re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more,
which is the sound of your voice.”

“Really?” said Danglars. “Well, this surprises me, for I thought you
took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!”

30243m



“I? What could put such an idea into your head?”

“Yourself.”

“Ah?—what next?”

“Most assuredly.”

“I should like to know upon what occasion?”

“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ that is very easily done. Last February you were the
first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had
entered the harbor at Le Havre, that this ship brought news that a
payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how
clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as
many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs
by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as
you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question
about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each
offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct,—and although
you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the
contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain
affairs,—well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the
grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two
thirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares
trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs
were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000
francs?—it is no business of mine.”

“When are you coming to the point?” cried the baroness, shivering with
anger and impatience.

“Patience, madame, I am coming to it.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private
conversation respecting Spanish affairs—on the expulsion of Don Carlos.
I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed
600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these
600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of
them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not
the less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres.”

“Well, sir, and what then?”

“Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.”

“Really, your manner of speaking——”

“It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days
after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his
words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares,
the news got out, and I no longer sold—I gave them away, next day I
find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000
francs.”

“Well?”

“Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a
fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs.”

“What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed
up in this affair.”

“Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must
have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.”

30245m



“For shame!” exclaimed the baroness.

“Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will
oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole
of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he
smiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful
players have never discovered—that is, a roulette where he wins without
playing, and is no loser when he loses.”

The baroness became enraged.

“Wretch!” she cried, “will you dare to tell me you did not know what
you now reproach me with?”

“I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know
it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four
years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it
has not always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished
to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a
successful appearance at the Théâtre Italien; at the same time I felt
inclined to learn dancing of the _danseuse_ who acquired such a
reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000
francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and
100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in
music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of
singing, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s
secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you
pay for your lessons out of your own cash box. But today I find you are
drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000
francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the
diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or
he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand,
madame?”

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Hermine, choking, “you are worse than
despicable.”

“But,” continued Danglars, “I find you did not even pause there——”

“Insults!”

“You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I
have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me
in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash box. Be it
so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine.
Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the
minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the
popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin
me?”

“A probable thing!”

“Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this?—a false
telegraphic despatch—it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be
made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for
me—I am sure of it.”

“Sir,” said the baroness humbly, “are you not aware that the man
employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with
him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would
have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which
proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake.”

“Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a
sleepless night, which has caused the minister’s secretaries to blacken
several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.”

“But, sir,” said Hermine suddenly, “if all this is, as you say, caused
by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell
me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?”

“Do I know M. Debray?—do I wish to know him?—do I wish to know that he
gives advice?—do I wish to follow it?—do I speculate? No; you do all
this, not I.”

“Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it——”

Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed.
“Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three
intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had
even hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the
commencement of the art—for generally husbands _will_ not see—you would
then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the
women of the world. But it has not been so with me,—I see, and always
have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden
a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me,
while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you
had deceived me. What has been the result?—that, thanks to my pretended
ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M.
Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not
treated me as the master of the house,—the only title I desire with
respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to
speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make
me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above
all, I forbid you to ruin me.”

The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort
had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if
touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an
apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as
though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which
he withheld from some odious calculation,—odious, as all his
calculations were.

“M. de Villefort!—What do you mean?”

“I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a
philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was
nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at
finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been _enceinte_
six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of
the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill
himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs
to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his
share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become
bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear.
He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it
is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than
he.”

Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to
reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of
Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes
which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and
changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous
debate.

Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He
shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and
returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her
half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a
disagreeable dream.



 Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects

The day following this scene, at the hour Debray usually chose to pay a
visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his _coupé_ did not
appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars
ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain,
watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he
should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two
o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to
the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From
twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his
dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure
upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major
Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself
precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business
with the banker.

On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of
agitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against
the ministry, re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive
to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30.

Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with someone and begged
Danglars to wait for a moment in the drawing-room. While the banker was
waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbé
and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and
instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments,
and disappeared.

A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and
Monte Cristo appeared.

“Pardon me,” said he, “my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbé
Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not
having seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave
him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made
you wait.”

“Nay,” said Danglars, “it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a
wrong time, and will retire.”

“Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with
you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a
capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to
the world.”

“I have been in ill-luck for several days,” said Danglars, “and I have
heard nothing but bad news.”

“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. “Have you had another fall at the
Bourse?”

“No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a
bankrupt of Trieste.”

“Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?”

“Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I
don’t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during
the year. Never a mistake or delay—a fellow who paid like a prince.
Well, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo
Manfredi suspends payment!”

“Really?”

“It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my
bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of
exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his
correspondent’s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I
present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my
Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.”

“Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?”

“Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash box—nothing more!”

“Why, how could you make such a mistake—such an old stager?”

“Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to
Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she
dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction
I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she
speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not
mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave
the wife’s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to
say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous
noise.”

“Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no
one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.”

30251m



“Then you do not speculate?”

“I?—How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in
regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep
a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the
baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers
said something about it, did they not?”

“Then you believe the papers?”

“I?—not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest
_Messager_ was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced
telegraphic despatches.”

“Well, that’s what puzzles me,” replied Danglars; “the news of the
return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.”

“So that,” said Monte Cristo, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs
this month.”

“Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.”

“_Diable!_” said Monte Cristo compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a
third-rate fortune.”

“Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?”

“Certainly,” continued Monte Cristo, “I make three assortments in
fortune—first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those
first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s
hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as
France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property
form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate
fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock
companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than
1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions;
finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a
fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances
which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks,
speculations of the day—in fact, all operations under the influence of
greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious
capital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position,
is it not?”

“Confound it, yes!” replied Danglars.

“The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce
the third-rate house to despair.”

“Oh,” said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on!”

“Let us imagine seven such months,” continued Monte Cristo, in the same
tone. “Tell me, have you ever thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs
make nearly twelve millions? No, you have not;—well, you are right, for
if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your
principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized
man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others,—this is our
credit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on
retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of
about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are
never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive
on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam
surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your
real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of
course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune;
to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and
this if repeated three or four times will cause death—so pay attention
to it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to
lend you some?”

30253m



“What a bad calculator you are!” exclaimed Danglars, calling to his
assistance all his philosophy and dissimulation. “I have made money at
the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up the
loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been
defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some
galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.”

“Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the
first loss.”

“No, for I am only embarked in certainties,” replied Danglars, with the
air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; “to involve me, three
governments must crumble to dust.”

“Well, such things have been.”

“That there should be a famine!”

“Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine.”

“Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and
even then my vessels would become caravans.”

“So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars,” said
Monte Cristo; “I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class
of second-rate fortunes.”

“I think I may aspire to that honor,” said Danglars with a smile, which
reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond
of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of
business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing
the subject, “tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti.”

“Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation
seems good.”

“Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000
francs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you
to me, with your endorsement—of course, I immediately counted him over
the forty bank-notes.”

Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent.

“But that is not all,” continued Danglars; “he has opened an account
with my house for his son.”

“May I ask how much he allows the young man?”

“Five thousand francs per month.”

“Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing
that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon
5,000 francs a month?”

“But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands
more——”

“Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know
these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom
were they recommended to you?”

“Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.”

“I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold
to the terms of the agreement.”

“Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?”

“I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only
speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning
just now.”

“And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him
for anything more than a mere major.”

“And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no
manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old
lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the
Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not
glittering in Oriental splendor.”

“The young man is better,” said Danglars.

“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared
tolerable. I was uneasy about him.”

“Why?”

“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the
world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe
tutor, and had never been to Paris before.”

“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked
Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.”

“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing
like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son
to France to choose a wife.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?”

“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and
others that he did not possess a farthing.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal
impression.”

“Well, and it is that——”

“My opinion is, that all these old _podestàs_, these ancient
_condottieri_,—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed
provinces,—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions
in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their
eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and
the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the
florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have
become reflected in them.”

“Certainly,” said Danglars, “and this is further supported by the fact
of their not possessing an inch of land.”

“Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses,
excepting his palace in Lucca.”

“Ah, he has a palace?” said Danglars, laughing; “come, that is
something.”

“Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while
he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old
fellow is very close.”

“Come, you do not flatter him.”

“I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life;
all I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was
telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant
in Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in
France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that
though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for
this.”

“Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a
fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of
it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is
merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do
they give them any fortune?”

“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as
a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons
married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they
married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month.
Should Andrea marry according to his father’s views, he will, perhaps,
give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were
the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the
father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the
major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would
be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling
cards or rattling the dice.”

“Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will
want a crown, an El Dorado, and Potosí.”

“No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry
into plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do
you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so
many questions?”

“_Ma foi_,” said Danglars, “it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy,
and you know I am a speculator.”

“You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not
like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?”

“Albert,” repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders; “ah, well; he
would care very little about it, I think.”

“But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?”

“Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame
de Morcerf and Albert——”

“You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?”

“Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de
Morcerf.”

“Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if
the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.”

“Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me——”

“What?”

“Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner?”

“I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being
obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.”

“Yes, yes,” said Danglars, laughing, “it would do her a great deal of
good.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.”

Monte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark.

“But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,” said
the count, “you must allow that he has a fine name?”

“So he has; but I like mine as well.”

“Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have
adorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according
to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which
dates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon
twenty years.”

“And for this very reason,” said Danglars with a smile, which he tried
to make sardonic, “I prefer M. Andrea Cavalcanti to M. Albert de
Morcerf.”

“Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti?”

“The Morcerfs!—Stay, my dear count,” said Danglars; “you are a man of
the world, are you not?”

“I think so.”

“And you understand heraldry?”

“A little.”

“Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf’s.”

“Why so?”

“Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least,
Danglars.”

“Well, what then?”

“While his name is not Morcerf.”

“How?—not Morcerf?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Go on.”

“I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a
count, so that he is not one at all.”

“Impossible!”

“Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my
acquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the
most of my arms, though I never forgot my origin.”

“A proof of great humility or great pride,” said Monte Cristo.

“Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman.”

“And then he was called——”

“Fernand.”

“Only Fernand?”

“Fernand Mondego.”

“You are sure?”

“_Pardieu!_ I have bought enough fish of him to know his name.”

“Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him?”

“Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become
noble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have
been certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing!”

“Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of
Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece.”

“In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha?”

“Exactly so.”

“This is the mystery,” said Danglars. “I acknowledge I would have given
anything to find it out.”

“It would be very easy if you much wished it?”

“How so?”

“Probably you have some correspondent in Greece?”

“I should think so.”

“At Yanina?”

“Everywhere.”

“Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was
played by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali
Tepelini.”

“You are right,” exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly, “I will write
today.”

“Do so.”

“I will.”

30259m



“And if you should hear of anything very scandalous——”

“I will communicate it to you.”

“You will oblige me.”

Danglars rushed out of the room, and made but one leap into his
_coupé_.



 Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney

Let us leave the banker driving his horses at their fullest speed, and
follow Madame Danglars in her morning excursion. We have said that at
half-past twelve o’clock Madame Danglars had ordered her horses, and
had left home in the carriage. She directed her course towards the
Faubourg Saint Germain, went down the Rue Mazarine, and stopped at the
Passage du Pont-Neuf. She descended, and went through the passage. She
was very plainly dressed, as would be the case with a woman of taste
walking in the morning. At the Rue Guénégaud she called a cab, and
directed the driver to go to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as she was
seated in the vehicle, she drew from her pocket a very thick black
veil, which she tied on to her straw bonnet. She then replaced the
bonnet, and saw with pleasure, in a little pocket-mirror, that her
white complexion and brilliant eyes were alone visible. The cab crossed
the Pont-Neuf and entered the Rue de Harlay by the Place Dauphine; the
driver was paid as the door opened, and stepping lightly up the stairs
Madame Danglars soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus.

There was a great deal going on that morning, and many business-like
persons at the Palais; business-like persons pay very little attention
to women, and Madame Danglars crossed the hall without exciting any
more attention than any other woman calling upon her lawyer.

There was a great press of people in M. de Villefort’s antechamber, but
Madame Danglars had no occasion even to pronounce her name. The instant
she appeared the door-keeper rose, came to her, and asked her whether
she was not the person with whom the procureur had made an appointment;
and on her affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a
private passage to M. de Villefort’s office.

The magistrate was seated in an armchair, writing, with his back
towards the door; he did not move as he heard it open, and the
door-keeper pronounce the words, “Walk in, madame,” and then reclose
it; but no sooner had the man’s footsteps ceased, than he started up,
drew the bolts, closed the curtains, and examined every corner of the
room. Then, when he had assured himself that he could neither be seen
nor heard, and was consequently relieved of doubts, he said:

“Thanks, madame,—thanks for your punctuality;” and he offered a chair
to Madame Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently
that she felt nearly suffocated.

30261m



“It is a long time, madame,” said the procureur, describing a
half-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite to
Madame Danglars,—“it is a long time since I had the pleasure of
speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to
enter upon a painful conversation.”

“Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although
certainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for
you.” Villefort smiled bitterly.

“It is true, then,” he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud than
addressing his companion,—“it is true, then, that all our actions leave
their traces—some sad, others bright—on our paths; it is true that
every step in our lives is like the course of an insect on the
sands;—it leaves its track! Alas, to many the path is traced by tears.”

“Sir,” said Madame Danglars, “you can feel for my emotion, can you not?
Spare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room,—whence so many
guilty creatures have departed, trembling and ashamed, when I look at
that chair before which I now sit trembling and ashamed,—oh, it
requires all my reason to convince me that I am not a very guilty woman
and you a menacing judge.”

Villefort dropped his head and sighed.

“And I,” he said, “I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but
on the prisoner’s bench.”

30263m



“You?” said Madame Danglars.

“Yes, I.”

“I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation,” said Madame Danglars,
whose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. “The paths of which you
were just speaking have been traced by all young men of ardent
imaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse from the
indulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you men to fear
from all this? the world excuses, and notoriety ennobles you.”

“Madame,” replied Villefort, “you know that I am no hypocrite, or, at
least, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be severe, it
is because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart be petrified,
it is that it might sustain the blows it has received. I was not so in
my youth, I was not so on the night of the betrothal, when we were all
seated around a table in the Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since then
everything has changed in and about me; I am accustomed to brave
difficulties, and, in the conflict to crush those who, by their own
free will, or by chance, voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with
me in my career. It is generally the case that what we most ardently
desire is as ardently withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it,
or from whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a
man’s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of
necessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of
excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided
and escaped it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness
could not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say, ‘Why did I not do
this, instead of that?’ Women, on the contrary, are rarely tormented
with remorse; for the decision does not come from you,—your misfortunes
are generally imposed upon you, and your faults the results of others’
crimes.”

“In any case, sir, you will allow,” replied Madame Danglars, “that,
even if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a severe
punishment for it.”

“Poor thing,” said Villefort, pressing her hand, “it was too severe for
your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet——”

“Well?”

“Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have not yet
heard all.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Madame Danglars, alarmed, “what is there more to hear?”

“You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough. Well,
picture to yourself a future more gloomy still—certainly frightful,
perhaps sanguinary!”

The baroness knew how calm Villefort naturally was, and his present
excitement frightened her so much that she opened her mouth to scream,
but the sound died in her throat.

“How has this terrible past been recalled?” cried Villefort; “how is it
that it has escaped from the depths of the tomb and the recesses of our
hearts, where it was buried, to visit us now, like a phantom, whitening
our cheeks and flushing our brows with shame?”

“Alas,” said Hermine, “doubtless it is chance.”

“Chance?” replied Villefort; “No, no, madame, there is no such thing as
chance.”

“Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not by
chance the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? Was it not by
chance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance that the
unfortunate child was disinterred under the trees?—that poor innocent
offspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for whom I wept many,
many tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when he mentioned the dear
spoil found beneath the flowers.”

“Well, no, madame,—this is the terrible news I have to tell you,” said
Villefort in a hollow voice—“no, nothing was found beneath the flowers;
there was no child disinterred—no. You must not weep, no, you must not
groan, you must tremble!”

“What can you mean?” asked Madame Danglars, shuddering.

“I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees, found
neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!”

“Neither of them there?” repeated Madame Danglars, her staring,
wide-open eyes expressing her alarm. “Neither of them there!” she again
said, as though striving to impress herself with the meaning of the
words which escaped her.

“No,” said Villefort, burying his face in his hands, “no, a hundred
times no!”

“Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive
me? Where did you place it? tell me—where?”

“There! But listen to me—listen—and you will pity me who has for twenty
years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal,
without casting the least portion upon you.”

“Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen.”

“You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on that bed
in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you,
awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me—motionless,
breathless, voiceless; we thought it dead.”

Madame Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her
chair, but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore
her attention.

“We thought it dead,” he repeated; “I placed it in the chest, which was
to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole,
and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with earth,
when the arm of the Corsican was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow
rise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to
cry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I
fell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I forget your
sublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness, I dragged
myself to the foot of the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came
to meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful
catastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by
your nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely
expected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken
to Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I
seemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men carried
me from Paris to Châlons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de
Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Châlons I was put
upon the Saône, thence I passed on to the Rhône, whence I descended,
merely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again placed on my
litter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six
months. I never heard you mentioned, and I did not dare inquire for
you. When I returned to Paris, I learned that you, the widow of M. de
Nargonne, had married M. Danglars.

“What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness
returned to me? Always the same—always the child’s corpse, coming every
night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave
with menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on my return to
Paris; the house had not been inhabited since we left it, but it had
just been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I pretended that I
disliked the idea that a house belonging to my wife’s father and mother
should pass into the hands of strangers. I offered to pay them for
cancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I would have given
10,000—I would have given 20,000. I had the money with me; I made the
tenant sign the deed of resilition, and when I had obtained what I so
much wanted, I galloped to Auteuil. No one had entered the house since
I had left it.

“It was five o’clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room,
and waited for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me
during my year of constant agony came back with double force. The
Corsican, who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me
from Nîmes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck
me, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child,—he might
become acquainted with your person,—nay, he might even then have known
it. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this terrible secret?
Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when he found that I had not
died from the blow of his dagger? It was therefore necessary, before
everything else, and at all risks, that I should cause all traces of
the past to disappear—that I should destroy every material vestige; too
much reality would always remain in my recollection. It was for this I
had annulled the lease—it was for this I had come—it was for this I was
waiting.

“Night arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a
light in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I
continually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I seemed
everywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I dared not
turn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my wound would
open. At length, one by one, all the noises in the neighborhood ceased.
I understood that I had nothing to fear, that I should neither be seen
nor heard, so I decided upon descending to the garden.

“Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but when I
drew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I had found
in my coat—that little key we both used to cherish so much, which you
wished to have fastened to a golden ring—when I opened the door, and
saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral
staircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly
shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I
descended the staircase step by step; the only thing I could not
conquer was a strange trembling in my knees. I grasped the railings; if
I had relaxed my hold for a moment, I should have fallen. I reached the
lower door. Outside this door a spade was placed against the wall; I
took it, and advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a
dark lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I
continued my path.

“It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had
disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long
bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet. My
terror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the thicket, that I
took a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I fancied continually
that I saw the figure of the Corsican between the branches. I examined
the thicket with my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked carefully
around; I was indeed alone,—no noise disturbed the silence but the owl,
whose piercing cry seemed to be calling up the phantoms of the night. I
tied my lantern to a forked branch I had noticed a year before at the
precise spot where I stopped to dig the hole.

“The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and when
autumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one place where
the grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently was there I had
turned up the ground. I went to work. The hour, then, for which I had
been waiting during the last year had at length arrived. How I worked,
how I hoped, how I struck every piece of turf, thinking to find some
resistance to my spade! But no, I found nothing, though I had made a
hole twice as large as the first. I thought I had been deceived—had
mistaken the spot. I turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to
recall the details which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind
whistled through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my
forehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling the
ground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against a
laburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve as a
resting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling, my hand,
relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of the stone. On
my right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood in the same
attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again began digging and
enlarging the hole; still I found nothing, nothing—the chest was no
longer there!”

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“The chest no longer there?” murmured Madame Danglars, choking with
fear.

“Think not I contented myself with this one effort,” continued
Villefort. “No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the assassin,
having discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a treasure, had
intended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error, had dug another
hole, and deposited it there; but I could find nothing. Then the idea
struck me that he had not taken these precautions, and had simply
thrown it in a corner. In the last case I must wait for daylight to
renew my search. I remained in the room and waited.”

“Oh, Heaven!”

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When daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to the
thicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in the
darkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than twenty
feet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not have done in
a day what occupied me an hour. But I could find nothing—absolutely
nothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing it had been thrown aside,
it would probably be on the path which led to the little gate; but this
examination was as useless as the first, and with a bursting heart I
returned to the thicket, which now contained no hope for me.”

“Oh,” cried Madame Danglars, “it was enough to drive you mad!”

“I hoped for a moment that it might,” said Villefort; “but that
happiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my ideas,
‘Why,’ said I, ‘should that man have carried away the corpse?’”

“But you said,” replied Madame Danglars, “he would require it as a
proof.”

“Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a year;
they are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken. Now, nothing
of the kind has happened.”

“What then?” asked Hermine, trembling violently.

“Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us—the child
was, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it!”

Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, and, seizing Villefort’s hands,
exclaimed, “My child was alive?” said she; “you buried my child alive?
You were not certain my child was dead, and you buried it? Ah——”

Madame Danglars had risen, and stood before the procureur, whose hands
she wrung in her feeble grasp.

“I know not; I merely suppose so, as I might suppose anything else,”
replied Villefort with a look so fixed, it indicated that his powerful
mind was on the verge of despair and madness.

“Ah, my child, my poor child!” cried the baroness, falling on her
chair, and stifling her sobs in her handkerchief. Villefort, becoming
somewhat reassured, perceived that to avert the maternal storm
gathering over his head, he must inspire Madame Danglars with the
terror he felt.

“You understand, then, that if it were so,” said he, rising in his
turn, and approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone,
“we are lost. This child lives, and someone knows it lives—someone is
in possession of our secret; and since Monte Cristo speaks before us of
a child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it is he who
is in possession of our secret.”

“Just God, avenging God!” murmured Madame Danglars.

Villefort’s only answer was a stifled groan.

“But the child—the child, sir?” repeated the agitated mother.

“How I have searched for him,” replied Villefort, wringing his hands;
“how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I have longed
for royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from a million of
men, and to find mine among them! At last, one day, when for the
hundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself again and again what
the Corsican could have done with the child. A child encumbers a
fugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still alive, he had thrown it
into the river.”

“Impossible!” cried Madame Danglars: “a man may murder another out of
revenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child.”

“Perhaps,” continued Villefort, “he had put it in the foundling
hospital.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” cried the baroness; “my child is there!”

“I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night—the night of
the 20th of September—a child had been brought there, wrapped in part
of a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half. This portion of the
napkin was marked with half a baron’s crown, and the letter H.”

“Truly, truly,” said Madame Danglars, “all my linen is marked thus;
Monsieur de Nargonne was a baron, and my name is Hermine. Thank God, my
child was not then dead!”

“No, it was not dead.”

“And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy? Where is
the child?”

Villefort shrugged his shoulders.

“Do I know?” said he; “and do you believe that if I knew I would relate
to you all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a
novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months after,
came to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This woman gave all
the requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to her.”

“But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have traced
her.”

“And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and
employed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in search of
her. They traced her to Châlons, and there they lost her.”

“They lost her?”

“Yes, forever.”

Madame Danglars had listened to this recital with a sigh, a tear, or a
shriek for every detail. “And this is all?” said she; “and you stopped
there?”

“Oh, no,” said Villefort; “I never ceased to search and to inquire.
However, the last two or three years I had allowed myself some respite.
But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since
fear urges me, not my conscience.”

“But,” replied Madame Danglars, “the Count of Monte Cristo can know
nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does.”

“Oh, the wickedness of man is very great,” said Villefort, “since it
surpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man’s eyes while he
was speaking to us?”

“No.”

“But have you ever watched him carefully?”

“Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone struck
me,—of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he touched
nothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us.”

“And you see you would have been deceived.”

“Yes, doubtless.”

“But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I wished
to see you, to speak to you, to warn you against everyone, but
especially against him. Tell me,” cried Villefort, fixing his eyes more
steadfastly on her than he had ever done before, “did you ever reveal
to anyone our connection?”

“Never, to anyone.”

“You understand me,” replied Villefort, affectionately; “when I say
anyone,—pardon my urgency,—to anyone living I mean?”

“Yes, yes, I understand very well,” ejaculated the baroness; “never, I
swear to you.”

“Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had
transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?”

“No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself.”

“Do you talk in your sleep?”

30275m



“I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?”

The color mounted to the baroness’s face, and Villefort turned awfully
pale.

“It is true,” said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be heard.

“Well?” said the baroness.

“Well, I understand what I now have to do,” replied Villefort. “In less
than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte
Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our
presence of children that have been disinterred in a garden.”

Villefort pronounced these words with an accent which would have made
the count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed the hand the
baroness reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the
door. Madame Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the
other side of which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping
peacefully on his box while waiting for her.



 Chapter 68. A Summer Ball

The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the
procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed
through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the
door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son’s
arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his
toilet, drove to the Champs-Élysées, to the house of Monte Cristo.

The count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing
that no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man’s favor. Those
who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an
impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was
chilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply
held out his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his
invariable practice.

“Here I am, dear count.”

“Welcome home again.”

“I arrived an hour since.”

“From Dieppe?”

“No, from Tréport.”

“Indeed?”

“And I have come at once to see you.”

“That is extremely kind of you,” said Monte Cristo with a tone of
perfect indifference.

“And what is the news?”

“You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news.”

“I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for
me?”

“Had you commissioned me?” said Monte Cristo, feigning uneasiness.

“Come, come,” said Albert, “do not assume so much indifference. It is
said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Tréport, I felt the
electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.”

“Possibly,” said Monte Cristo, “I have indeed thought of you, but the
magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.”

30277m



“Indeed! Pray tell me how it happened.”

“Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.”

“I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.”

“But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.”

“Your Italian prince?”

“Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.”

“Calls himself, do you say?”

“Yes, calls himself.”

“Is he not a count?”

“What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him
the same title, and everyone else does likewise.”

“What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined
here?”

“Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars,
M. and Madame de Villefort,—charming people,—M. Debray, Maximilian
Morrel, and M. de Château-Renaud.”

“Did they speak of me?”

“Not a word.”

“So much the worse.”

“Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?”

“If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am
in despair.”

“How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among
the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of
you at home.”

“I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in
which I think of her.”

“Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?” said the count.

“Listen,” said Morcerf—“if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take
pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with
all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to
agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a
charming mistress—but a wife—_diable!_”

“And this,” said Monte Cristo, “is your opinion of your intended
spouse?”

“Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this
dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my
lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and
music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens
me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife,—good heavens! There she
must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.”

“You are difficult to please, viscount.”

“Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.”

“What is that?”

“To find such a wife as my father found.”

Monte Cristo turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some
magnificent pistols.

“Your father was fortunate, then?” said he.

“You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her,—still beautiful,
witty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with
his mother for four days at Tréport, it would have been a condescension
or a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful—shall I
say more poetic!—than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my
companion.”

30279m



“That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make everyone vow
to live a single life.”

“Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars.
Have you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we
obtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at
Marlé’s or Fossin’s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but
if we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and
still must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we
have to endure?”

“Worldling,” murmured the count.

“Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eugénie perceives I am but a
pitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has
millions.” Monte Cristo smiled. “One plan occurred to me,” continued
Albert; “Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in
love with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written
in the most alluring style, he invariably answered: ‘My eccentricity
may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.’”

“That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one
whom you would not marry yourself.” Albert smiled.

“Apropos,” continued he, “Franz is coming soon, but it will not
interest you; you dislike him, I think?”

“I?” said Monte Cristo; “my dear viscount, how have you discovered that
I did not like M. Franz! I like everyone.”

“And you include me in the expression everyone—many thanks!”

“Let us not mistake,” said Monte Cristo; “I love everyone as God
commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate
but a few. Let us return to M. Franz d’Épinay. Did you say he was
coming?”

“Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get
Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle
Eugénie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a
grown-up daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one’s
pulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done.”

“But M. d’Épinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently.”

“Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie,
and speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and
Madame de Villefort.”

“Which they deserve, do they not?”

“I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but
a just man.”

“There is, then, one,” said Monte Cristo, “whom you do not condemn like
poor Danglars?”

“Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,” replied
Albert, laughing.

“Indeed, my dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “you are revoltingly
foppish.”

“I foppish? how do you mean?”

“Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle
to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course;
perhaps you may not have to retract.”

“Bah!” said Albert, staring.

“Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and
seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?”

“I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.”

“Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum
to attain the same end.”

“Am I, indeed, so happy?” said Albert, who still could not prevent an
almost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow. “But, my dear
count, has M. Danglars any reason?”

“Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the
self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is
attacked with a needle.”

“But yet, M. Danglars appeared——”

“Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is
still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for
yourself.”

“Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my
father intends giving a ball.”

“A ball at this season?”

“Summer balls are fashionable.”

“If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would
become so.”

“You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in
Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our
invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?”

“When will it take place?”

“On Saturday.”

“M. Cavalcanti’s father will be gone.”

“But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti?”

“I do not know him, viscount.”

“You do not know him?”

“No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for
him.”

“But you receive him at your house?”

“That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abbé, who
may be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to
present him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you
would accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me,—besides, I
may not be there myself.”

“Where?”

“At your ball.”

“Why should you not be there?”

“Because you have not yet invited me.”

“But I come expressly for that purpose.”

“You are very kind, but I may be prevented.”

“If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all
impediments.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“My mother begs you to come.”

“The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said Monte Cristo, starting.

“Ah, count,” said Albert, “I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely
to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I
spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them,
for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.”

“You have talked of me?”

“Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!”

“Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too
reasonable to be led by imagination.”

“A problem, my dear count, for everyone—for my mother as well as
others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do
not fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long
unsolved. I believe, while the Countess G—— takes you for Lord Ruthven,
my mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The
first opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy
for you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the
other.”

“I thank you for the warning,” said the count; “I shall endeavor to be
prepared for all suppositions.”

“You will, then, come on Saturday?”

“Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me.”

“You are very kind.”

“Will M. Danglars be there?”

“He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the
great d’Aguesseau,11 M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope
of seeing him.”

“‘Never despair of anything,’ says the proverb.”

“Do you dance, count?”

“I dance?”

“Yes, you; it would not be astonishing.”

“That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I
like to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?”

“Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation.”

“Indeed?”

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“Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have
heard her speak with interest.” Albert rose and took his hat; the count
conducted him to the door.

“I have one thing to reproach myself with,” said he, stopping Albert on
the steps. “What is it?”

“I have spoken to you indiscreetly about Danglars.”

“On the contrary, speak to me always in the same strain about him.”

“I am glad to be reassured on that point. Apropos, when do you aspect
M. d’Épinay?”

“Five or six days hence at the latest.”

“And when is he to be married?”

“Immediately on the arrival of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran.”

“Bring him to see me. Although you say I do not like him, I assure you
I shall be happy to see him.”

“I will obey your orders, my lord.”

“Good-bye.”

“Until Saturday, when I may expect you, may I not?”

“Yes, I promised you.” The Count watched Albert, waving his hand to
him. When he had mounted his phaeton, Monte Cristo turned, and seeing
Bertuccio, “What news?” said he.

“She went to the Palais,” replied the steward.

“Did she stay long there?”

“An hour and a half.”

“Did she return home?”

“Directly.”

“Well, my dear Bertuccio,” said the count, “I now advise you to go in
quest of the little estate I spoke to you of in Normandy.”

Bertuccio bowed, and as his wishes were in perfect harmony with the
order he had received, he started the same evening.



 Chapter 69. The Inquiry

M. de Villefort kept the promise he had made to Madame Danglars, to
endeavor to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo had discovered the
history of the house at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for the required
information to M. de Boville, who, from having been an inspector of
prisons, was promoted to a high office in the police; and the latter
begged for two days time to ascertain exactly who would be most likely
to give him full particulars. At the end of the second day M. de
Villefort received the following note:

“The person called the Count of Monte Cristo is an intimate
acquaintance of Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is sometimes seen
in Paris and who is there at this moment; he is also known to the Abbé
Busoni, a Sicilian priest, of high repute in the East, where he has
done much good.”

M. de Villefort replied by ordering the strictest inquiries to be made
respecting these two persons; his orders were executed, and the
following evening he received these details:

“The abbé, who was in Paris only for a month, inhabited a small
two-storied house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were two rooms on each
floor and he was the only tenant. The two lower rooms consisted of a
dining-room, with a table, chairs, and side-board of walnut, and a
wainscoted parlor, without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece. It was
evident that the abbé limited himself to objects of strict necessity.
He preferred to use the sitting-room upstairs, which was more library
than parlor, and was furnished with theological books and parchments,
in which he delighted to bury himself for months at a time, according
to his valet de chambre. His valet looked at the visitors through a
sort of wicket; and if their faces were unknown to him or displeased
him, he replied that the abbé was not in Paris, an answer which
satisfied most persons, because the abbé was known to be a great
traveller. Besides, whether at home or not, whether in Paris or Cairo,
the abbé always left something to give away, which the valet
distributed through this wicket in his master’s name. The other room
near the library was a bedroom. A bed without curtains, four armchairs,
and a couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a
_prie-Dieu_, all its furniture.

“Lord Wilmore resided in Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of
those English tourists who consume a large fortune in travelling. He
hired the apartment in which he lived furnished, passed only a few
hours in the day there, and rarely slept there. One of his
peculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however
wrote with great facility.”

The day after this important information had been given to the king’s
attorney, a man alighted from a carriage at the corner of the Rue
Férou, and rapping at an olive-green door, asked if the Abbé Busoni
were within.

“No, he went out early this morning,” replied the valet.

“I might not always be content with that answer,” replied the visitor,
“for I come from one to whom everyone must be at home. But have the
kindness to give the Abbé Busoni——”

“I told you he was not at home,” repeated the valet.

“Then on his return give him that card and this sealed paper. Will he
be at home at eight o’clock this evening?”

“Doubtless, unless he is at work, which is the same as if he were out.”

“I will come again at that time,” replied the visitor, who then
retired.

At the appointed hour the same man returned in the same carriage,
which, instead of stopping this time at the end of the Rue Férou, drove
up to the green door. He knocked, and it opened immediately to admit
him. From the signs of respect the valet paid him, he saw that his note
had produced a good effect.

“Is the abbé at home?” asked he.

“Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,” replied
the valet. The stranger ascended a rough staircase, and before a table,
illumined by a lamp whose light was concentrated by a large shade while
the rest of the apartment was in partial darkness, he perceived the
abbé in a monk’s dress, with a cowl on his head such as was used by
learned men of the Middle Ages.

“Have I the honor of addressing the Abbé Busoni?” asked the visitor.

“Yes, sir,” replied the abbé; “and you are the person whom M. de
Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect
of police?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris?”

“Yes, sir” replied the stranger with a slight hesitation, and blushing.

The abbé replaced the large spectacles, which covered not only his eyes
but his temples, and sitting down motioned to his visitor to do the
same. “I am at your service, sir,” said the abbé, with a marked Italian
accent.

“The mission with which I am charged, sir,” replied the visitor,
speaking with hesitation, “is a confidential one on the part of him who
fulfils it, and him by whom he is employed.” The abbé bowed. “Your
probity,” replied the stranger, “is so well known to the prefect that
he wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars
connected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to
see you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration
will induce you to conceal the truth.”

“Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my
scruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of
confession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not
between me and human justice.”

“Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your
conscience.”

At this moment the abbé pressed down his side of the shade and so
raised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger’s face,
while his own remained obscured.

“Excuse me, abbé,” said the envoy of the prefect of the police, “but
the light tries my eyes very much.” The abbé lowered the shade.

“Now, sir, I am listening—go on.”

“I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte
Cristo?”

“You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?”

“Zaccone?—is not his name Monte Cristo?”

“Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not
a family name.”

“Well, be it so—let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte
Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same——”

“Absolutely the same.”

“Let us speak of M. Zaccone.”

“Agreed.”

“I asked you if you knew him?”

“Extremely well.”

“Who is he?”

“The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta.”

“I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not
content itself with vague reports.”

“However,” replied the abbé, with an affable smile, “when that report
is in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police
as well as all the rest.”

“Are you sure of what you assert?”

“What do you mean by that question?”

“Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if
you are certain of it?”

“I knew his father, M. Zaccone.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards.”

“But whence does he derive the title of count?”

“You are aware that may be bought.”

“In Italy?”

“Everywhere.”

“And his immense riches, whence does he procure them?”

“They may not be so very great.”

“How much do you suppose he possesses?”

“From one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres per annum.”

“That is reasonable,” said the visitor; “I have heard he had three or
four millions.”

“Two hundred thousand per annum would make four millions of capital.”

“But I was told he had four millions per annum.”

“That is not probable.”

“Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo?”

“Certainly, everyone who has come from Palermo, Naples, or Rome to
France by sea must know it, since he has passed close to it and must
have seen it.”

“I am told it is a delightful place?”

“It is a rock.”

“And why has the count bought a rock?”

“For the sake of being a count. In Italy one must have territorial
possessions to be a count.”

“You have, doubtless, heard the adventures of M. Zaccone’s youth?”

“The father’s?”

“No, the son’s.”

“I know nothing certain; at that period of his life, I lost sight of my
young comrade.”

“Was he in the wars?”

“I think he entered the service.”

“In what branch?”

“In the navy.”

“Are you not his confessor?”

“No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran.”

“A Lutheran?”

“I say, I believe such is the case, I do not affirm it; besides,
liberty of conscience is established in France.”

“Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring into his creed, but his
actions; in the name of the prefect of police, I ask you what you know
of him.

“He passes for a very charitable man. Our holy father, the pope, has
made him a knight of Jesus Christ for the services he rendered to the
Christians in the East; he has five or six rings as testimonials from
Eastern monarchs of his services.”

“Does he wear them?”

“No, but he is proud of them; he is better pleased with rewards given
to the benefactors of man than to his destroyers.”

“He is a Quaker then?”

“Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the exception of the peculiar dress.”

“Has he any friends?”

“Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.”

“But has he any enemies?”

“One only.”

“What is his name?”

“Lord Wilmore.”

“Where is he?”

“He is in Paris just now.”

“Can he give me any particulars?”

“Important ones; he was in India with Zaccone.”

“Do you know his abode?”

“It’s somewhere in the Chaussée d’Antin; but I know neither the street
nor the number.”

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“Are you at variance with the Englishman?”

“I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we are consequently not friends.”

“Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo had ever been in France before
he made this visit to Paris?”

“To that question I can answer positively; no, sir, he had not, because
he applied to me six months ago for the particulars he required, and as
I did not know when I might again come to Paris, I recommended M.
Cavalcanti to him.”

“Andrea?”

“No, Bartolomeo, his father.”

“Now, sir, I have but one question more to ask, and I charge you, in
the name of honor, of humanity, and of religion, to answer me
candidly.”

“What is it, sir?”

“Do you know with what design M. de Monte Cristo purchased a house at
Auteuil?”

“Certainly, for he told me.”

“What is it, sir?”

“To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar to that founded by the Count
of Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about that institution?”

“I have heard of it.”

“It is a magnificent charity.” Having said this, the abbé bowed to
imply he wished to pursue his studies.

The visitor either understood the abbé’s meaning, or had no more
questions to ask; he arose, and the abbé accompanied him to the door.

“You are a great almsgiver,” said the visitor, “and although you are
said to be rich, I will venture to offer you something for your poor
people; will you accept my offering?”

“I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in one thing, and that is that the
relief I give should be entirely from my own resources.”

“However——”

“My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, but you have only to search for
yourself and you will find, alas, but too many objects upon whom to
exercise your benevolence.”

The abbé once more bowed as he opened the door, the stranger bowed and
took his leave, and the carriage conveyed him straight to the house of
M. de Villefort. An hour afterwards the carriage was again ordered, and
this time it went to the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges, and stopped at No.
5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore,
requesting an interview, which the latter had fixed for ten o’clock. As
the envoy of the prefect of police arrived ten minutes before ten, he
was told that Lord Wilmore, who was precision and punctuality
personified, was not yet come in, but that he would be sure to return
as the clock struck.

The visitor was introduced into the drawing-room, which was like all
other furnished drawing-rooms. A mantle-piece, with two modern Sèvres
vases, a timepiece representing Cupid with his bent bow, a mirror with
an engraving on each side—one representing Homer carrying his guide,
the other, Belisarius begging—a grayish paper; red and black
tapestry—such was the appearance of Lord Wilmore’s drawing-room.

It was illuminated by lamps with ground-glass shades which gave only a
feeble light, as if out of consideration for the envoy’s weak sight.
After ten minutes’ expectation the clock struck ten; at the fifth
stroke the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared. He was rather above
the middle height, with thin reddish whiskers, light complexion and
light hair, turning rather gray. He was dressed with all the English
peculiarity, namely, in a blue coat, with gilt buttons and high collar,
in the fashion of 1811, a white kerseymere waistcoat, and nankeen
pantaloons, three inches too short, but which were prevented by straps
from slipping up to the knee. His first remark on entering was:

“You know, sir, I do not speak French?”

“I know you do not like to converse in our language,” replied the
envoy.

“But you may use it,” replied Lord Wilmore; “I understand it.”

“And I,” replied the visitor, changing his idiom, “know enough of
English to keep up the conversation. Do not put yourself to the
slightest inconvenience.”

“Aw?” said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives
of Great Britain.

The envoy presented his letter of introduction, which the latter read
with English coolness, and having finished:

“I understand,” said he, “perfectly.”

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Then began the questions, which were similar to those which had been
addressed to the Abbé Busoni. But as Lord Wilmore, in the character of
the count’s enemy, was less restrained in his answers, they were more
numerous; he described the youth of Monte Cristo, who he said, at ten
years of age, entered the service of one of the petty sovereigns of
India who make war on the English. It was there Wilmore had first met
him and fought against him; and in that war Zaccone had been taken
prisoner, sent to England, and consigned to the hulks, whence he had
escaped by swimming. Then began his travels, his duels, his caprices;
then the insurrection in Greece broke out, and he had served in the
Grecian ranks. While in that service he had discovered a silver mine in
the mountains of Thessaly, but he had been careful to conceal it from
everyone. After the battle of Navarino, when the Greek government was
consolidated, he asked of King Otho a mining grant for that district,
which was given him. Hence that immense fortune, which, in Lord
Wilmore’s opinion, possibly amounted to one or two millions per
annum,—a precarious fortune, which might be momentarily lost by the
failure of the mine.

“But,” asked the visitor, “do you know why he came to France?”

“He is speculating in railways,” said Lord Wilmore, “and as he is an
expert chemist and physicist, he has invented a new system of
telegraphy, which he is seeking to bring to perfection.”

“How much does he spend yearly?” asked the prefect.

“Not more than five or six hundred thousand francs,” said Lord Wilmore;
“he is a miser.” Hatred evidently inspired the Englishman, who, knowing
no other reproach to bring on the count, accused him of avarice.

“Do you know his house at Auteuil?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you know respecting it?”

“Do you wish to know why he bought it?”

“Yes.”

“The count is a speculator, who will certainly ruin himself in
experiments. He supposes there is in the neighborhood of the house he
has bought a mineral spring equal to those at Bagnères, Luchon, and
Cauterets. He is going to turn his house into a _Badhaus_, as the
Germans term it. He has already dug up all the garden two or three
times to find the famous spring, and, being unsuccessful, he will soon
purchase all the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike him, and hope his
railway, his electric telegraph, or his search for baths, will ruin
him, I am watching for his discomfiture, which must soon take place.”

“What was the cause of your quarrel?”

“When he was in England he seduced the wife of one of my friends.”

“Why do you not seek revenge?”

“I have already fought three duels with him,” said the Englishman, “the
first with the pistol, the second with the sword, and the third with
the sabre.”

“And what was the result of those duels?”

“The first time, he broke my arm; the second, he wounded me in the
breast; and the third time, made this large wound.” The Englishman
turned down his shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose redness proved
it to be a recent one. “So that, you see, there is a deadly feud
between us.”

“But,” said the envoy, “you do not go about it in the right way to kill
him, if I understand you correctly.”

“Aw?” said the Englishman, “I practice shooting every day, and every
other day Grisier comes to my house.”

This was all the visitor wished to ascertain, or, rather, all the
Englishman appeared to know. The agent arose, and having bowed to Lord
Wilmore, who returned his salutation with the stiff politeness of the
English, he retired. Lord Wilmore, having heard the door close after
him, returned to his bedroom, where with one hand he pulled off his
light hair, his red whiskers, his false jaw, and his wound, to resume
the black hair, dark complexion, and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte
Cristo.

It was M. de Villefort, and not the prefect, who returned to the house
of M. de Villefort. The procureur felt more at ease, although he had
learned nothing really satisfactory, and, for the first time since the
dinner-party at Auteuil, he slept soundly.



 Chapter 70. The Ball

It was in the warmest days of July, when in due course of time the
Saturday arrived upon which the ball was to take place at M. de
Morcerf’s. It was ten o’clock at night; the branches of the great trees
in the garden of the count’s house stood out boldly against the azure
canopy of heaven, which was studded with golden stars, but where the
last fleeting clouds of a vanishing storm yet lingered.

From the apartments on the ground floor might be heard the sound of
music, with the whirl of the waltz and galop, while brilliant streams
of light shone through the openings of the Venetian blinds. At this
moment the garden was only occupied by about ten servants, who had just
received orders from their mistress to prepare the supper, the serenity
of the weather continuing to increase. Until now, it had been undecided
whether the supper should take place in the dining-room, or under a
long tent erected on the lawn, but the beautiful blue sky, studded with
stars, had settled the question in favor of the lawn.

The gardens were illuminated with colored lanterns, according to the
Italian custom, and, as is usual in countries where the luxuries of the
table—the rarest of all luxuries in their complete form—are well
understood, the supper-table was loaded with wax-lights and flowers.

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At the time the Countess of Morcerf returned to the rooms, after giving
her orders, many guests were arriving, more attracted by the charming
hospitality of the countess than by the distinguished position of the
count; for, owing to the good taste of Mercédès, one was sure of
finding some devices at her entertainment worthy of describing, or even
copying in case of need.

Madame Danglars, in whom the events we have related had caused deep
anxiety, had hesitated about going to Madame de Morcerf’s, when during
the morning her carriage happened to meet that of Villefort. The latter
made a sign, and when the carriages had drawn close together, said:

“You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, are you not?”

“No,” replied Madame Danglars, “I am too ill.”

“You are wrong,” replied Villefort, significantly; “it is important
that you should be seen there.”

“Do you think so?” asked the baroness.

“I do.”

“In that case I will go.”

And the two carriages passed on towards their different destinations.
Madame Danglars therefore came, not only beautiful in person, but
radiant with splendor; she entered by one door at the time when
Mercédès appeared at the door. The countess took Albert to meet Madame
Danglars. He approached, paid her some well merited compliments on her
toilet, and offered his arm to conduct her to a seat. Albert looked
around him.

“You are looking for my daughter?” said the baroness, smiling.

“I confess it,” replied Albert. “Could you have been so cruel as not to
bring her?”

“Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has taken
her arm; see, they are following us, both in white dresses, one with a
bouquet of camellias, the other with one of myosotis. But tell me——”

“Well, what do you wish to know?”

“Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be here tonight?”

“Seventeen!” replied Albert.

“What do you mean?”

“I only mean that the count seems the rage,” replied the viscount,
smiling, “and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the
same question. The count is in fashion; I congratulate him upon it.”

“And have you replied to everyone as you have to me?”

“Ah, to be sure, I have not answered you; be satisfied, we shall have
this ‘lion’; we are among the privileged ones.”

“Were you at the Opera yesterday?”

“No.”

“He was there.”

“Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric person commit any new originality?”

“Can he be seen without doing so? Elssler was dancing in _Le Diable
boiteux_; the Greek princess was in ecstasies. After the cachucha he
placed a magnificent ring on the stem of a bouquet, and threw it to the
charming danseuse, who, in the third act, to do honor to the gift,
reappeared with it on her finger. And the Greek princess,—will she be
here?”

“No, you will be deprived of that pleasure; her position in the count’s
establishment is not sufficiently understood.”

“Wait; leave me here, and go and speak to Madame de Villefort, who is
trying to attract your attention.”

Albert bowed to Madame Danglars, and advanced towards Madame de
Villefort, whose lips opened as he approached.

“I wager anything,” said Albert, interrupting her, “that I know what
you were about to say.”

“Well, what is it?”

“If I guess rightly, will you confess it?”

“Yes.”

“On your honor?”

“On my honor.”

“You were going to ask me if the Count of Monte Cristo had arrived, or
was expected.”

“Not at all. It is not of him that I am now thinking. I was going to
ask you if you had received any news of Monsieur Franz.”

“Yes,—yesterday.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That he was leaving at the same time as his letter.”

“Well, now then, the count?”

“The count will come, of that you may be satisfied.”

“You know that he has another name besides Monte Cristo?”

“No, I did not know it.”

“Monte Cristo is the name of an island, and he has a family name.”

“I never heard it.”

“Well, then, I am better informed than you; his name is Zaccone.”

“It is possible.”

“He is a Maltese.”

“That is also possible.

“The son of a shipowner.”

“Really, you should relate all this aloud, you would have the greatest
success.”

“He served in India, discovered a mine in Thessaly, and comes to Paris
to establish a mineral water-cure at Auteuil.”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Morcerf, “this is indeed news! Am I allowed to
repeat it?”

“Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at a time, and do not say I told
you.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is a secret just discovered.”

“By whom?”

“The police.”

“Then the news originated——”

“At the prefect’s last night. Paris, you can understand, is astonished
at the sight of such unusual splendor, and the police have made
inquiries.”

“Well, well! Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a
vagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich.”

“Indeed, that doubtless would have happened if his credentials had not
been so favorable.”

“Poor count! And is he aware of the danger he has been in?”

“I think not.”

“Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will
not fail to do so.”

Just then, a handsome young man, with bright eyes, black hair, and
glossy moustache, respectfully bowed to Madame de Villefort. Albert
extended his hand.

“Madame,” said Albert, “allow me to present to you M. Maximilian
Morrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our
bravest officers.”

“I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil,
at the house of the Count of Monte Cristo,” replied Madame de
Villefort, turning away with marked coldness of manner.

This answer, and especially the tone in which it was uttered, chilled
the heart of poor Morrel. But a recompense was in store for him;
turning around, he saw near the door a beautiful fair face, whose large
blue eyes were, without any marked expression, fixed upon him, while
the bouquet of myosotis was gently raised to her lips.

The salutation was so well understood that Morrel, with the same
expression in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his mouth; and these
two living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their marble
aspect, separated from each other by the whole length of the room,
forgot themselves for a moment, or rather forgot the world in their
mutual contemplation. They might have remained much longer lost in one
another, without anyone noticing their abstraction. The Count of Monte
Cristo had just entered.

We have already said that there was something in the count which
attracted universal attention wherever he appeared. It was not the
coat, unexceptional in its cut, though simple and unornamented; it was
not the plain white waistcoat; it was not the trousers, that displayed
the foot so perfectly formed—it was none of these things that attracted
the attention,—it was his pale complexion, his waving black hair, his
calm and serene expression, his dark and melancholy eye, his mouth,
chiselled with such marvellous delicacy, which so easily expressed such
high disdain,—these were what fixed the attention of all upon him.

Many men might have been handsomer, but certainly there could be none
whose appearance was more _significant_, if the expression may be used.
Everything about the count seemed to have its meaning, for the constant
habit of thought which he had acquired had given an ease and vigor to
the expression of his face, and even to the most trifling gesture,
scarcely to be understood. Yet the Parisian world is so strange, that
even all this might not have won attention had there not been connected
with it a mysterious story gilded by an immense fortune.

30301m



Meanwhile he advanced through the assemblage of guests under a battery
of curious glances towards Madame de Morcerf, who, standing before a
mantle-piece ornamented with flowers, had seen his entrance in a
looking-glass placed opposite the door, and was prepared to receive
him. She turned towards him with a serene smile just at the moment he
was bowing to her. No doubt she fancied the count would speak to her,
while on his side the count thought she was about to address him; but
both remained silent, and after a mere bow, Monte Cristo directed his
steps to Albert, who received him cordially.

“Have you seen my mother?” asked Albert.

“I have just had the pleasure,” replied the count; “but I have not seen
your father.”

“See, he is down there, talking politics with that little group of
great geniuses.”

“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo; “and so those gentlemen down there are men
of great talent. I should not have guessed it. And for what kind of
talent are they celebrated? You know there are different sorts.”

“That tall, harsh-looking man is very learned, he discovered, in the
neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard with a vertebra more than
lizards usually have, and he immediately laid his discovery before the
Institute. The thing was discussed for a long time, but finally decided
in his favor. I can assure you the vertebra made a great noise in the
learned world, and the gentleman, who was only a knight of the Legion
of Honor, was made an officer.”

“Come,” said Monte Cristo, “this cross seems to me to be wisely
awarded. I suppose, had he found another additional vertebra, they
would have made him a commander.”

“Very likely,” said Albert.

“And who can that person be who has taken it into his head to wrap
himself up in a blue coat embroidered with green?”

“Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it is the Republic’s, which deputed
David12 to devise a uniform for the Academicians.”

“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo; “so this gentleman is an Academician?”

“Within the last week he has been made one of the learned assembly.”

“And what is his especial talent?”

“His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he
makes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with
whalebone.”

“And he is made a member of the Academy of Sciences for this?”

“No; of the French Academy.”

“But what has the French Academy to do with all this?”

“I was going to tell you. It seems——”

“That his experiments have very considerably advanced the cause of
science, doubtless?”

“No; that his style of writing is very good.”

“This must be very flattering to the feelings of the rabbits into whose
heads he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose bones he has dyed red, and
to the dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched out?”

Albert laughed.

“And the other one?” demanded the count.

“That one?”

“Yes, the third.”

“The one in the dark blue coat?”

“Yes.”

“He is a colleague of the count, and one of the most active opponents
to the idea of providing the Chamber of Peers with a uniform. He was
very successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal
papers, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now
getting him into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an
ambassador.”

30303m



“And what are his claims to the peerage?”

“He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five
articles in the _Siècle_, and voted five or six years on the
ministerial side.”

“Bravo, viscount,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “you are a delightful
_cicerone_. And now you will do me a favor, will you not?”

“What is it?”

“Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish
it, you will warn me.” Just then the count felt his arm pressed. He
turned round; it was Danglars.

“Ah! is it you, baron?” said he.

“Why do you call me baron?” said Danglars; “you know that I care
nothing for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title,
do you not?”

“Certainly,” replied Albert, “seeing that without my title I should be
nothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the
millionaire.”

“Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July,” replied
Danglars.

“Unfortunately,” said Monte Cristo, “one’s title to a millionaire does
not last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or academician;
for example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have
just become bankrupts.”

“Indeed?” said Danglars, becoming pale.

“Yes; I received the news this evening by a courier. I had about a
million in their hands, but, warned in time, I withdrew it a month
ago.”

“Ah, _mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Danglars, “they have drawn on me for
200,000 francs!”

“Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per
cent.”

“Yes, but it is too late,” said Danglars, “I have honored their bills.”

“Then,” said Monte Cristo, “here are 200,000 francs gone after——”

“Hush, do not mention these things,” said Danglars; then, approaching
Monte Cristo, he added, “especially before young M. Cavalcanti;” after
which he smiled, and turned towards the young man in question.

Albert had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse
with young Cavalcanti; Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. Meanwhile
the heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms
with waiters loaded with ices. Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration from
his forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he
took no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte
Cristo; she saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of
refusal.

“Albert,” she asked, “did you notice that?”

“What, mother?”

“That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the
roof of M. de Morcerf.”

“Yes; but then he breakfasted with me—indeed, he made his first
appearance in the world on that occasion.”

“But your house is not M. de Morcerf’s,” murmured Mercédès; “and since
he has been here I have watched him.”

“Well?”

“Well, he has taken nothing yet.”

“The count is very temperate.”

Mercédès smiled sadly.

“Approach him,” said she, “and when the next waiter passes, insist upon
his taking something.”

“But why, mother?”

“Just to please me, Albert,” said Mercédès. Albert kissed his mother’s
hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the
preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he
obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.

“Well,” said she, “you see he refuses?”

“Yes; but why need this annoy you?”

“You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have
seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he
cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might
prefer something else.”

“Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does
not feel inclined this evening.”

“And besides,” said the countess, “accustomed as he is to burning
climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do.”

“I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost
suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well
as the windows.”

“In a word,” said Mercédès, “it was a way of assuring me that his
abstinence was intended.”

And she left the room.

A minute afterwards the blinds were thrown open, and through the
jessamine and clematis that overhung the window one could see the
garden ornamented with lanterns, and the supper laid under the tent.
Dancers, players, talkers, all uttered an exclamation of joy—everyone
inhaled with delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time
Mercédès reappeared, paler than before, but with that imperturbable
expression of countenance which she sometimes wore. She went straight
to the group of which her husband formed the centre.

“Do not detain those gentlemen here, count,” she said; “they would
prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden rather than suffocate
here, since they are not playing.”

“Ah,” said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung _Partant pour
la Syrie_,—“we will not go alone to the garden.”

“Then,” said Mercédès, “I will lead the way.”

Turning towards Monte Cristo, she added, “count, will you oblige me
with your arm?”

The count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his
eyes on Mercédès. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the
countess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that
one look. He offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather
just touched it with her little hand, and they together descended the
steps, lined with rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another
outlet, a group of about twenty persons rushed into the garden with
loud exclamations of delight.



 Chapter 71. Bread and Salt

Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It
led through a grove of lindens to a conservatory.

“It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?” she asked.

“Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors
and the blinds.” As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of
Mercédès tremble. “But you,” he said, “with that light dress, and
without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel
cold?”

“Do you know where I am leading you?” said the countess, without
replying to the question.

“No, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but you see I make no resistance.”

“We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the
grove.”

The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she
continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They
reached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen
at the beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the
place of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess
left the arm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.

“See, count,” she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one
could almost detect the tears on her eyelids—“see, our French grapes
are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but
you will make allowance for our northern sun.” The count bowed, but
stepped back.

“Do you refuse?” said Mercédès, in a tremulous voice.

“Pray excuse me, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “but I never eat
Muscatel grapes.”

Mercédès let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging
against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat.
Mercédès drew near, and plucked the fruit.

“Take this peach, then,” she said. The count again refused. “What,
again?” she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed to
stifle a sob; “really, you pain me.”

A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the
ground.

“Count,” added Mercédès with a supplicating glance, “there is a
beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have
together eaten bread and salt under the same roof.”

“I know it, madame,” replied the count; “but we are in France, and not
in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom
of dividing bread and salt with one another.”

“But,” said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte
Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, “we are
friends, are we not?”

The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then
again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of
a man suddenly dazzled.

“Certainly, we are friends,” he replied; “why should we not be?”

The answer was so little like the one Mercédès desired, that she turned
away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan. “Thank
you,” she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length of
the garden without uttering a word.

“Sir,” suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued
ten minutes in silence, “is it true that you have seen so much,
travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?”

“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered Monte Cristo.

“But now you are happy?”

“Doubtless,” replied the count, “since no one hears me complain.”

“And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?”

“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the count.

“Are you not married?” asked the countess.

“I, married?” exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering; “who could have told
you so?”

“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the
Opera with a young and lovely woman.”

“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter
of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to
love in the world.”

“You live alone, then?”

“I do.”

“You have no sister—no son—no father?”

“I have no one.”

“How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?”

“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the
point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she
loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my
memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most
men who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker
than the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have
done in my place; that is all.”

The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. “Yes,” she
said, “and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can
only love once—and did you ever see her again?”

30309m



“Never.”

“Never?”

“I never returned to the country where she lived.”

“To Malta?”

“Yes; Malta.”

“She is, then, now at Malta?”

“I think so.”

“And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?”

“Her,—yes.”

“But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?”

“I hate them? Not at all; why should I?” The countess placed herself
before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the
perfumed grapes.

“Take some,” she said.

“Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,” replied Monte Cristo, as if the
subject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapes
into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair.

“Inflexible man!” she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as if
the reproach had not been addressed to him.

Albert at this moment ran in. “Oh, mother,” he exclaimed, “such a
misfortune has happened!”

“What? What has happened?” asked the countess, as though awakening from
a sleep to the realities of life; “did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I
should expect misfortunes.”

“M. de Villefort is here.”

“Well?”

“He comes to fetch his wife and daughter.”

“Why so?”

“Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the
news of M. de Saint-Méran’s death, which took place on the first stage
after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good
spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but
Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,
notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her
like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless.”

“And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?”
said the count.

“He was her grandfather on the mother’s side. He was coming here to
hasten her marriage with Franz.”

“Ah, indeed!”

“So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather to
Mademoiselle Danglars?”

“Albert, Albert,” said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof,
“what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him
that he has spoken amiss.”

And she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with
an air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that she
turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that of
her son, and joined them together.

“We are friends; are we not?” she asked.

“Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all
times I am your most respectful servant.” The countess left with an
indescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps the
count saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Do not my mother and you agree?” asked Albert, astonished.

“On the contrary,” replied the count, “did you not hear her declare
that we were friends?”

They re-entered the drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de
Villefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel
departed almost at the same time.



 Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran

A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de Villefort.
After the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all the entreaties
of Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him to accompany them,
the procureur had shut himself up in his study, according to his
custom, with a heap of papers calculated to alarm anyone else, but
which generally scarcely satisfied his inordinate desires.

But this time the papers were a mere matter of form. Villefort had
secluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and with the door
locked and orders given that he should not be disturbed excepting for
important business, he sat down in his armchair and began to ponder
over the events, the remembrance of which had during the last eight
days filled his mind with so many gloomy thoughts and bitter
recollections.

Then, instead of plunging into the mass of documents piled before him,
he opened the drawer of his desk, touched a spring, and drew out a
parcel of cherished memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged,
in characters only known to himself, the names of all those who, either
in his political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in his
mysterious love affairs, had become his enemies.

Their number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and yet
these names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to smile
with the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller who from
the summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy eminences, the
almost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms, through which he has
so perilously climbed. When he had run over all these names in his
memory, again read and studied them, commenting meanwhile upon his
lists, he shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, “none of my enemies would have waited so patiently
and laboriously for so long a space of time, that they might now come
and crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet says:

‘Foul deeds will rise,

Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes;’


but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The story has
been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn has repeated
it. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to enlighten himself——

“But why should he wish to enlighten himself upon the subject?” asked
Villefort, after a moment’s reflection, “what interest can this M. de
Monte Cristo or M. Zaccone,—son of a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of
a mine in Thessaly, now visiting Paris for the first time,—what
interest, I say, can he take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and
useless fact like this? However, among all the incoherent details given
to me by the Abbé Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that
enemy, one thing appears certain and clear in my opinion—that in no
period, in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any
contact between him and me.”

But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not believe. He
dreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply to or deny its
truth;—he cared little for that _mene, mene, tekel upharsin_, which
appeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the wall;—but what he was
really anxious for was to discover whose hand had traced them. While he
was endeavoring to calm his fears,—and instead of dwelling upon the
political future that had so often been the subject of his ambitious
dreams, was imagining a future limited to the enjoyments of home, in
fear of awakening the enemy that had so long slept,—the noise of a
carriage sounded in the yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person
ascending the stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as
servants always give vent to when they wish to appear interested in
their master’s grief.

He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an old lady
entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and her bonnet in
her hand. The white hair was thrown back from her yellow forehead, and
her eyes, already sunken by the furrows of age, now almost disappeared
beneath the eyelids swollen with grief.

“Oh, sir,” she said; “oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it;
oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!”

And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst into a
paroxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not daring to
approach nearer, were looking at Noirtier’s old servant, who had heard
the noise from his master’s room, and run there also, remaining behind
the others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law, for it
was she.

“Why, what can have happened?” he exclaimed, “what has thus disturbed
you? Is M. de Saint-Méran with you?”

“M. de Saint-Méran is dead,” answered the old marchioness, without
preface and without expression; she appeared to be stupefied. Villefort
drew back, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed:

“Dead!—so suddenly?”

“A week ago,” continued Madame de Saint-Méran, “we went out together in
the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Méran had been unwell for some
days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired him
with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At six
leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he is
accustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared to
me unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that
his face was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed more
violently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longer
see, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a
person suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back
violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M.
de Saint-Méran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and I
arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse.”

Villefort stood with his mouth half open, quite stupefied.

“Of course you sent for a doctor?”

“Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.”

“Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had
died.”

“Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic
stroke.”

“And what did you do then?”

“M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his death
happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought
to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am
preceding him by a few days.”

“Oh! my poor mother!” said Villefort, “to have such duties to perform
at your age after such a blow!”

“God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would
certainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is
true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot
cry; at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that
when one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is
Valentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see
Valentine.”

30315m



Villefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at a
ball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, and
that she should be fetched. “This instant, sir—this instant, I beseech
you!” said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de
Saint-Méran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment.

“Rest yourself, mother,” he said.

The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the man who
so forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who still lived
for her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of mother, and
bursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an armchair, where
she buried her venerable head. Villefort left her to the care of the
women, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to his master; for nothing
frightens old people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over
them for a moment in order to strike some other old person. Then, while
Madame de Saint-Méran remained on her knees, praying fervently,
Villefort sent for a cab, and went himself to fetch his wife and
daughter from Madame de Morcerf’s. He was so pale when he appeared at
the door of the ball-room, that Valentine ran to him, saying:

“Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!”

“Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,” said M. de Villefort.

“And grandpapa?” inquired the young girl, trembling with apprehension.
M. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to his daughter. It
was just in time, for Valentine’s head swam, and she staggered; Madame
de Villefort instantly hastened to her assistance, and aided her
husband in dragging her to the carriage, saying:

“What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is
indeed strange!”

And the wretched family departed, leaving a cloud of sadness hanging
over the rest of the evening. At the foot of the stairs, Valentine
found Barrois awaiting her.

“M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight, he said, in an undertone.

“Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,” she replied,
feeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she could be of
the most service just then was Madame de Saint-Méran.

Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrung
sobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sad
interview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband’s arm,
maintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poor
widow. She soon whispered to her husband:

“I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, for
the sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.” Madame de
Saint-Méran heard her.

“Yes, yes,” she said softly to Valentine, “let her leave; but do you
stay.”

Madame de Villefort left, and Valentine remained alone beside the bed,
for the procureur, overcome with astonishment at the unexpected death,
had followed his wife. Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first
time to old Noirtier, who having heard the noise in the house, had, as
we have said, sent his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return,
his quick intelligent eye interrogated the messenger.

“Alas, sir,” exclaimed Barrois, “a great misfortune has happened.
Madame de Saint-Méran has arrived, and her husband is dead!”

M. de Saint-Méran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms of
friendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably affects
another. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest, apparently
overwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in token of
inquiry.

Barrois asked, “Mademoiselle Valentine?”

Noirtier nodded his head.

“She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to you
in full dress.” Noirtier again closed his left eye.

“Do you wish to see her?” Noirtier again made an affirmative sign.

“Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf’s;
I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what you
wish for?”

“Yes,” replied the invalid.

Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and
informed her of her grandfather’s wish. Consequently, Valentine came up
to Noirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-Méran, who in the midst of her
grief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a feverish sleep.
Within reach of her hand they placed a small table upon which stood a
bottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a glass. Then, as we have
said, the young girl left the bedside to see M. Noirtier.

Valentine kissed the old man, who looked at her with such tenderness
that her eyes again filled with tears, whose sources he thought must be
exhausted. The old gentleman continued to dwell upon her with the same
expression.

“Yes, yes,” said Valentine, “you mean that I have yet a kind
grandfather left, do you not.” The old man intimated that such was his
meaning. “Ah, yes, happily I have,” replied Valentine. “Without that,
what would become of me?”

It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bed
himself, observed that after such sad events everyone stood in need of
rest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed was to see
his child, but wished her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made
her appear quite ill.

The next morning she found her grandmother in bed; the fever had not
abated, on the contrary her eyes glistened and she appeared to be
suffering from violent nervous irritability.

“Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?” exclaimed Valentine, perceiving
all these signs of agitation.

“No, my child, no,” said Madame de Saint-Méran; “but I was impatiently
waiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father.”

“My father?” inquired Valentine, uneasily.

“Yes, I wish to speak to him.”

Valentine durst not oppose her grandmother’s wish, the cause of which
she did not know, and an instant afterwards Villefort entered.

“Sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, without using any circumlocution,
and as if fearing she had no time to lose, “you wrote to me concerning
the marriage of this child?”

“Yes, madame,” replied Villefort, “it is not only projected but
arranged.”

“Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d’Épinay?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Is he not the son of General d’Épinay who was on our side, and who was
assassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island of
Elba?”

“The same.”

“Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a
Jacobin?”

“Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,” said
Villefort; “M. d’Épinay was quite a child when his father died, he
knows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with
pleasure, at least with indifference.”

“Is it a suitable match?”

“In every respect.”

“And the young man?”

“Is regarded with universal esteem.”

“You approve of him?”

“He is one of the most well-bred young men I know.”

During the whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent.

“Well, sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, after a few minutes’
reflection, “I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to
live.”

“You, madame?” “You, dear mamma?” exclaimed M. de Villefort and
Valentine at the same time.

“I know what I am saying,” continued the marchioness; “I must hurry
you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother
to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my
poor Renée, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir.”

“Ah, madame,” said Villefort, “you forget that I was obliged to give a
mother to my child.”

“A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the
purpose,—our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead in
peace.”

All this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was
something in the conversation that seemed like the beginning of
delirium.

“It shall be as you wish, madame,” said Villefort; “more especially
since your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d’Épinay
arrives in Paris——”

30319m



“My dear grandmother,” interrupted Valentine, “consider decorum—the
recent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices?”

“My child,” exclaimed the old lady sharply, “let us hear none of the
conventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for the
future. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainly
I have not been less happy on that account.”

“Still that idea of death, madame,” said Villefort.

“Still?—Always! I tell you I am going to die—do you understand? Well,
before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make
my child happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey
me;—in fact, I will know him—I will!” continued the old lady, with a
fearful expression, “that I may rise from the depths of my grave to
find him, if he should not fulfil his duty!”

“Madame,” said Villefort, “you must lay aside these exalted ideas,
which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in
their graves, rise no more.”

“And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had a
fearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over
my body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and
what will appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes
shut, in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that corner
where there is a door leading into Madame Villefort’s dressing-room—I
saw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure.”

Valentine screamed.

“It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,” said Villefort.

30321m



“Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white
figure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only one
of my senses, I heard my glass removed—the same which is there now on
the table.”

“Oh, dear mother, it was a dream.”

“So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell;
but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with a
light.”

“But she saw no one?”

“Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was the
soul of my husband!—Well, if my husband’s soul can come to me, why
should not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is even
more direct, it seems to me.”

“Oh, madame,” said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of himself, “do
not yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy,
loved, and honored, and we will make you forget——”

“Never, never, never,” said the marchioness. “When does M. d’Épinay
return?”

“We expect him every moment.”

“It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious.
And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all
our property returns to Valentine.”

“Ah, grandmamma,” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning
brow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not
send for a notary, but for a doctor!”

“A doctor?” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I am
thirsty—that is all.”

30323m



“What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?”

“The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it to
me, Valentine.” Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it
to her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same
glass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre.

The marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turned
on her pillow, repeating,

“The notary, the notary!”

M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at the
bedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to require
the doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A bright spot
burned in either cheek, her respiration was short and difficult, and
her pulse beat with feverish excitement. She was thinking of the
despair of Maximilian, when he should be informed that Madame de
Saint-Méran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as his
enemy.

More than once she thought of revealing all to her grandmother, and she
would not have hesitated a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been named
Albert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel was of
plebeian extraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de
Saint-Méran despised all who were not noble. Her secret had each time
been repressed when she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction
that it would be useless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her
father and mother, all would be lost.

Two hours passed thus; Madame de Saint-Méran was in a feverish sleep,
and the notary had arrived. Though his coming was announced in a very
low tone, Madame de Saint-Méran arose from her pillow.

“The notary!” she exclaimed, “let him come in.”

The notary, who was at the door, immediately entered. “Go, Valentine,”
said Madame de Saint-Méran, “and leave me with this gentleman.”

“But, grandmamma——”

“Leave me—go!”

The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left with her handkerchief
to her eyes; at the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her
that the doctor was waiting in the dining-room. Valentine instantly ran
down. The doctor was a friend of the family, and at the same time one
of the cleverest men of the day, and very fond of Valentine, whose
birth he had witnessed. He had himself a daughter about her age, but
whose life was one continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her
mother having been consumptive.

“Oh,” said Valentine, “we have been waiting for you with such
impatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and
Antoinette?”

Madeleine was the daughter of M. d’Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece.
M. d’Avrigny smiled sadly.

“Antoinette is very well,” he said, “and Madeleine tolerably so. But
you sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de
Villefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our
patients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to
recommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.”

Valentine colored. M. d’Avrigny carried the science of divination
almost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who
always work upon the body through the mind.

30325m



“No,” she replied, “it is for my poor grandmother. You know the
calamity that has happened to us, do you not?”

“I know nothing.” said M. d’Avrigny.

“Alas,” said Valentine, restraining her tears, “my grandfather is
dead.”

“M. de Saint-Méran?”

“Yes.”

“Suddenly?”

“From an apoplectic stroke.”

“An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor.

“Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never
left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M.
d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!”

“Where is she?”

“In her room with the notary.”

“And M. Noirtier?”

“Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of
moving or speaking.”

“And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?”

“Yes,” said Valentine, “he was very fond of me.”

“Who does not love you?” Valentine smiled sadly. “What are your
grandmother’s symptoms?”

“An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; she
fancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above her
body, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium;
she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and even
heard the noise it made on touching her glass.”

“It is singular,” said the doctor; “I was not aware that Madame de
Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.”

“It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,” said
Valentine; “and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her
mad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself
appeared deeply impressed.”

“We will go and see,” said the doctor; “what you tell me seems very
strange.” The notary here descended, and Valentine was informed that
her grandmother was alone.

“Go upstairs,” she said to the doctor.

“And you?”

“Oh, I dare not—she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I am
myself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn
in the garden to recover myself.”

The doctor pressed Valentine’s hand, and while he visited her
grandmother, she descended the steps. We need not say which portion of
the garden was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time in
the parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in
her waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the
bench; then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual, Valentine
strolled for a short time among her flowers, but without gathering
them. The mourning in her heart forbade her assuming this simple
ornament, though she had not yet had time to put on the outward
semblance of woe.

30327m



She then turned towards the avenue. As she advanced she fancied she
heard a voice speaking her name. She stopped astonished, then the voice
reached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be that of
Maximilian.



 Chapter 73. The Promise

It was indeed Maximilian Morrel, who had passed a wretched existence
since the previous day. With the instinct peculiar to lovers he had
anticipated after the return of Madame de Saint-Méran and the death of
the marquis, that something would occur at M. de Villefort’s in
connection with his attachment for Valentine. His presentiments were
realized, as we shall see, and his uneasy forebodings had goaded him
pale and trembling to the gate under the chestnut-trees.

Valentine was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow and anxiety, and as
it was not his accustomed hour for visiting her, she had gone to the
spot simply by accident or perhaps through sympathy. Morrel called her,
and she ran to the gate.

“You here at this hour?” said she.

“Yes, my poor girl,” replied Morrel; “I come to bring and to hear bad
tidings.”

“This is, indeed, a house of mourning,” said Valentine; “speak,
Maximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full.”

“Dear Valentine,” said Morrel, endeavoring to conceal his own emotion,
“listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very serious. When
are you to be married?”

“I will tell you all,” said Valentine; “from you I have nothing to
conceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear
grandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only declared
herself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that they only await
the arrival of M. d’Épinay, and the following day the contract will be
signed.”

A deep sigh escaped the young man, who gazed long and mournfully at her
he loved.

“Alas,” replied he, “it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from
your own lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be
executed; it must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But,
since you say nothing remains but for M. d’Épinay to arrive that the
contract may be signed, and the following day you will be his, tomorrow
you will be engaged to M. d’Épinay, for he came this morning to Paris.”
Valentine uttered a cry.

“I was at the house of Monte Cristo an hour since,” said Morrel; “we
were speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced, and I of
your grief, when a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Never, till
then, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but now I cannot
help believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that carriage I
shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as
much as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan. The door at last
opened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and I began to hope my fears
were vain, when, after him, another young man advanced, and the count
exclaimed: ‘Ah, here is the Baron Franz d’Épinay!’ I summoned all my
strength and courage to my support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled,
but certainly I smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having
heard one word that had passed.”

“Poor Maximilian!” murmured Valentine.

“Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And remember
my life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?” Valentine
held down her head; she was overwhelmed.

“Listen,” said Morrel; “it is not the first time you have contemplated
our present position, which is a serious and urgent one; I do not think
it is a moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that for those who
like to suffer at their leisure and indulge their grief in secret.
There are such in the world, and God will doubtless reward them in
heaven for their resignation on earth, but those who mean to contend
must not lose one precious moment, but must return immediately the blow
which fortune strikes. Do you intend to struggle against our
ill-fortune? Tell me, Valentine for it is that I came to know.”

Valentine trembled, and looked at him with amazement. The idea of
resisting her father, her grandmother, and all the family, had never
occurred to her.

“What do you say, Maximilian?” asked Valentine. “What do you mean by a
struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. What? I resist my father’s
order, and my dying grandmother’s wish? Impossible!”

Morrel started.

“You are too noble not to understand me, and you understand me so well
that you already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my
strength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as you
say. But to grieve my father—to disturb my grandmother’s last
moments—never!”

“You are right,” said Morrel, calmly.

“In what a tone you speak!” cried Valentine.

“I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle,” cried Valentine; “mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man! he
sees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me!”

“You mistake—I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose M.
Villefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and tomorrow you
will sign the contract which will bind you to your husband.”

“But, _mon Dieu!_ tell me, how can I do otherwise?”

“Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in such a
case; my selfishness will blind me,” replied Morrel, whose low voice
and clenched hands announced his growing desperation.

“What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me willing to
accede?”

“It is not for me to say.”

“You are wrong; you must advise me what to do.”

“Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine?”

“Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow it; you
know my devotion to you.”

“Valentine,” said Morrel pushing aside a loose plank, “give me your
hand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are confused, and
during the last hour the most extravagant thoughts have passed through
my brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice——”

“What do you advise?” said Valentine, raising her eyes to heaven and
sighing.

“I am free,” replied Maximilian, “and rich enough to support you. I
swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have
approached your forehead.”

“You make me tremble!” said the young girl.

“Follow me,” said Morrel; “I will take you to my sister, who is worthy
also to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England, for America,
or, if you prefer it, retire to the country and only return to Paris
when our friends have reconciled your family.”

Valentine shook her head.

“I feared it, Maximilian,” said she; “it is the counsel of a madman,
and I should be more mad than you, did I not stop you at once with the
word ‘Impossible, Morrel, impossible!’”

“You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even
attempting to contend with it?” said Morrel sorrowfully.

“Yes,—if I die!”

“Well, Valentine,” resumed Maximilian, “I can only say again that you
are right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me that passion
blinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm reasoning. It is
then understood that tomorrow you will be irrevocably promised to M.
Franz d’Épinay, not only by that theatrical formality invented to
heighten the effect of a comedy called the signature of the contract,
but your own will?”

“Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “again you
plunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do, tell me, if your
sister listened to such a proposition?”

“Mademoiselle,” replied Morrel with a bitter smile, “I am selfish—you
have already said so—and as a selfish man I think not of what others
would do in my situation, but of what I intend doing myself. I think
only that I have known you not a whole year. From the day I first saw
you, all my hopes of happiness have been in securing your affection.
One day you acknowledged that you loved me, and since that day my hope
of future happiness has rested on obtaining you, for to gain you would
be life to me. Now, I think no more; I say only that fortune has turned
against me—I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is
an every-day occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he
possesses but also what he has not.”

Morrel pronounced these words with perfect calmness; Valentine looked
at him a moment with her large, scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to
let Morrel discover the grief which struggled in her heart.

“But, in a word, what are you going to do?” asked she.

“I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you, mademoiselle,
solemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so calm, so happy,
and so fully occupied, that there may be no place for me even in your
memory.”

“Oh!” murmured Valentine.

“Adieu, Valentine, adieu!” said Morrel, bowing.

“Where are you going?” cried the young girl, extending her hand through
the opening, and seizing Maximilian by his coat, for she understood
from her own agitated feelings that her lover’s calmness could not be
real; “where are you going?”

“I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your family: and
to set an example which every honest and devoted man, situated as I am,
may follow.”

“Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilian.”
The young man smiled sorrowfully.

“Speak, speak!” said Valentine; “I entreat you.”

“Has your resolution changed, Valentine?”

“It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!” cried the young
girl.

“Then adieu, Valentine!”

Valentine shook the gate with a strength of which she could not have
been supposed to be possessed, as Morrel was going away, and passing
both her hands through the opening, she clasped and wrung them. “I must
know what you mean to do!” said she. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, fear not,” said Maximilian, stopping at a short distance, “I do
not intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous fate
reserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to provoke
him, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What has M. Franz
to do with it? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has
already forgotten he has seen me. He did not even know I existed when
it was arranged by your two families that you should be united. I have
no enmity against M. Franz, and promise you the punishment shall not
fall on him.”

“On whom, then!—on me?”

“On you? Valentine! Oh, Heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the woman one
loves is holy.”

“On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself?”

“I am the only guilty person, am I not?” said Maximilian.

“Maximilian!” said Valentine, “Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!”

He drew near with his sweet smile, and but for his paleness one might
have thought him in his usual happy mood.

“Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine,” said he in his melodious and
grave tone; “those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we
need blush before the world, such may read each other’s hearts. I never
was romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither Manfred nor
Anthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my life has
entwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are right in doing
so,—I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you, I lose my life. The
moment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is
happily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is, a man
whom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no one then longer
needs my useless life. This is what I shall do; I will wait until the
very moment you are married, for I will not lose the shadow of one of
those unexpected chances which are sometimes reserved for us, since M.
Franz may, after all, die before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even
on the altar as you approach it,—nothing appears impossible to one
condemned to die, and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape
from death is concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and
when my misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a
confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of
police, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of some
wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I will put
an end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest
man who ever lived in France.”

30333m



Valentine trembled convulsively; she loosened her hold of the gate, her
arms fell by her side, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. The
young man stood before her, sorrowful and resolute.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said she, “you will live, will you not?”

“No, on my honor,” said Maximilian; “but that will not affect you. You
have done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest.”

Valentine fell on her knees, and pressed her almost bursting heart.
“Maximilian,” said she, “Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my
true husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live in suffering;
perhaps we may one day be united.”

“Adieu, Valentine,” repeated Morrel.

“My God,” said Valentine, raising both her hands to heaven with a
sublime expression, “I have done my utmost to remain a submissive
daughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded neither
my prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done,” cried she, wiping
away her tears, and resuming her firmness, “I am resolved not to die of
remorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours.
Say when shall it be? Speak, command, I will obey.”

Morrel, who had already gone some few steps away, again returned, and
pale with joy extended both hands towards Valentine through the
opening.

“Valentine,” said he, “dear Valentine, you must not speak thus—rather
let me die. Why should I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual?
Is it from mere humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die.”

“Truly,” murmured Valentine, “who on this earth cares for me, if he
does not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my hopes
rest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him, always on
him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave
the paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am,”
cried Valentine, sobbing, “I will give up all, even my dear old
grandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten.”

“No,” said Maximilian, “you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has
evinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you leave,
tell him all; his consent would be your justification in God’s sight.
As soon as we are married, he shall come and live with us, instead of
one child, he shall have two. You have told me how you talk to him and
how he answers you; I shall very soon learn that language by signs,
Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, that instead of despair, it is
happiness that awaits us.”

“Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost make
me believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my father
will curse me—he is inflexible—he will never pardon me. Now listen to
me, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by accident—in short, if
by any means I can delay this marriage, will you wait?”

“Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that this
horrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are dragged
before a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse.”

“I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world, namely,
by my mother.”

“We will wait, then,” said Morrel.

“Yes, we will wait,” replied Valentine, who revived at these words;
“there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such as we
are.”

“I rely on you, Valentine,” said Morrel; “all you do will be well done;
only if they disregard your prayers, if your father and Madame de
Saint-Méran insist that M. d’Épinay should be called tomorrow to sign
the contract——”

“Then you have my promise, Maximilian.”

“Instead of signing——”

“I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until then,
let us not tempt Providence, let us not see each other. It is a
miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If we
were surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should have no
further resource.”

“You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain?”

“From the notary, M. Deschamps.”

“I know him.”

“And for myself—I will write to you, depend on me. I dread this
marriage, Maximilian, as much as you.”

“Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When once I
know the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily get over this
fence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at the gate, in
which you will accompany me to my sister’s; there living, retired or
mingling in society, as you wish, we shall be enabled to use our power
to resist oppression, and not suffer ourselves to be put to death like
sheep, which only defend themselves by sighs.”

“Yes,” said Valentine, “I will now acknowledge you are right,
Maximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?” said the
young girl sorrowfully.

“My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my
satisfaction.”

Valentine had approached, or rather, had placed her lips so near the
fence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel, which were pressed
against the other side of the cold and inexorable barrier.

“Adieu, then, till we meet again,” said Valentine, tearing herself
away. “I shall hear from you?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!”

The sound of a kiss was heard, and Valentine fled through the avenue.
Morrel listened to catch the last sound of her dress brushing the
branches, and of her footstep on the gravel, then raised his eyes with
an ineffable smile of thankfulness to heaven for being permitted to be
thus loved, and then also disappeared.

The young man returned home and waited all the evening and all the next
day without getting any message. It was only on the following day, at
about ten o’clock in the morning, as he was starting to call on M.
Deschamps, the notary, that he received from the postman a small
billet, which he knew to be from Valentine, although he had not before
seen her writing. It was to this effect:

“Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday, for
two hours, I was at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, and for two
hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as man, and the
signature of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o’clock. I
have but one promise and but one heart to give; that promise is pledged
to you, that heart is also yours. This evening, then, at a quarter to
nine at the gate.

“Your betrothed,

“Valentine de Villefort.”

“P.S.—My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her fever
amounted to delirium; today her delirium is almost madness. You will be
very kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me forget my sorrow in
leaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret from grandpapa Noirtier,
that the contract is to be signed this evening.”

Morrel went also to the notary, who confirmed the news that the
contract was to be signed that evening. Then he went to call on Monte
Cristo and heard still more. Franz had been to announce the ceremony,
and Madame de Villefort had also written to beg the count to excuse her
not inviting him; the death of M. de Saint-Méran and the dangerous
illness of his widow would cast a gloom over the meeting which she
would regret should be shared by the count whom she wished every
happiness.

The day before Franz had been presented to Madame de Saint-Méran, who
had left her bed to receive him, but had been obliged to return to it
immediately after.

It is easy to suppose that Morrel’s agitation would not escape the
count’s penetrating eye. Monte Cristo was more affectionate than
ever,—indeed, his manner was so kind that several times Morrel was on
the point of telling him all. But he recalled the promise he had made
to Valentine, and kept his secret.

The young man read Valentine’s letter twenty times in the course of the
day. It was her first, and on what an occasion! Each time he read it he
renewed his vow to make her happy. How great is the power of a woman
who has made so courageous a resolution! What devotion does she deserve
from him for whom she has sacrificed everything! How ought she really
to be supremely loved! She becomes at once a queen and a wife, and it
is impossible to thank and love her sufficiently.

Morrel longed intensely for the moment when he should hear Valentine
say, “Here I am, Maximilian; come and help me.” He had arranged
everything for her escape; two ladders were hidden in the clover-field;
a cabriolet was ordered for Maximilian alone, without a servant,
without lights; at the turning of the first street they would light the
lamps, as it would be foolish to attract the notice of the police by
too many precautions. Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of the
moment when, from the top of that wall, he should protect the descent
of his dear Valentine, pressing in his arms for the first time her of
whom he had yet only kissed the delicate hand.

When the afternoon arrived and he felt that the hour was drawing near,
he wished for solitude, his agitation was extreme; a simple question
from a friend would have irritated him. He shut himself in his room,
and tried to read, but his eye glanced over the page without
understanding a word, and he threw away the book, and for the second
time sat down to sketch his plan, the ladders and the fence.

At length the hour drew near. Never did a man deeply in love allow the
clocks to go on peacefully. Morrel tormented his so effectually that
they struck eight at half-past six. He then said, “It is time to start;
the signature was indeed fixed to take place at nine o’clock, but
perhaps Valentine will not wait for that.” Consequently, Morrel, having
left the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by his timepiece, entered the
clover-field while the clock of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule was striking
eight. The horse and cabriolet were concealed behind a small ruin,
where Morrel had often waited.

The night gradually drew on, and the foliage in the garden assumed a
deeper hue. Then Morrel came out from his hiding-place with a beating
heart, and looked through the small opening in the gate; there was yet
no one to be seen.

The clock struck half-past eight, and still another half-hour was
passed in waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro, and gazed more and
more frequently through the opening. The garden became darker still,
but in the darkness he looked in vain for the white dress, and in the
silence he vainly listened for the sound of footsteps. The house, which
was discernible through the trees, remained in darkness, and gave no
indication that so important an event as the signature of a
marriage-contract was going on. Morrel looked at his watch, which
wanted a quarter to ten; but soon the same clock he had already heard
strike two or three times rectified the error by striking half-past
nine.

This was already half an hour past the time Valentine had fixed. It was
a terrible moment for the young man. The slightest rustling of the
foliage, the least whistling of the wind, attracted his attention, and
drew the perspiration to his brow; then he tremblingly fixed his
ladder, and, not to lose a moment, placed his foot on the first step.
Amidst all these alternations of hope and fear, the clock struck ten.
“It is impossible,” said Maximilian, “that the signing of a contract
should occupy so long a time without unexpected interruptions. I have
weighed all the chances, calculated the time required for all the
forms; something must have happened.”

And then he walked rapidly to and fro, and pressed his burning forehead
against the fence. Had Valentine fainted? or had she been discovered
and stopped in her flight? These were the only obstacles which appeared
possible to the young man.

The idea that her strength had failed her in attempting to escape, and
that she had fainted in one of the paths, was the one that most
impressed itself upon his mind. “In that case,” said he, “I should lose
her, and by my own fault.” He dwelt on this idea for a moment, then it
appeared reality. He even thought he could perceive something on the
ground at a distance; he ventured to call, and it seemed to him that
the wind wafted back an almost inarticulate sigh.

At last the half-hour struck. It was impossible to wait longer, his
temples throbbed violently, his eyes were growing dim; he passed one
leg over the wall, and in a moment leaped down on the other side. He
was on Villefort’s premises—had arrived there by scaling the wall. What
might be the consequences? However, he had not ventured thus far to
draw back. He followed a short distance close under the wall, then
crossed a path, hid entered a clump of trees. In a moment he had passed
through them, and could see the house distinctly.

30341m



Then Morrel saw that he had been right in believing that the house was
not illuminated. Instead of lights at every window, as is customary on
days of ceremony, he saw only a gray mass, which was veiled also by a
cloud, which at that moment obscured the moon’s feeble light. A light
moved rapidly from time to time past three windows of the second floor.
These three windows were in Madame de Saint-Méran’s room. Another
remained motionless behind some red curtains which were in Madame de
Villefort’s bedroom. Morrel guessed all this. So many times, in order
to follow Valentine in thought at every hour in the day, had he made
her describe the whole house, that without having seen it he knew it
all.

This darkness and silence alarmed Morrel still more than Valentine’s
absence had done. Almost mad with grief, and determined to venture
everything in order to see Valentine once more, and be certain of the
misfortune he feared, Morrel gained the edge of the clump of trees, and
was going to pass as quickly as possible through the flower-garden,
when the sound of a voice, still at some distance, but which was borne
upon the wind, reached him. At this sound, as he was already partially
exposed to view, he stepped back and concealed himself completely,
remaining perfectly motionless.

He had formed his resolution. If it was Valentine alone, he would speak
as she passed; if she was accompanied, and he could not speak, still he
should see her, and know that she was safe; if they were strangers, he
would listen to their conversation, and might understand something of
this hitherto incomprehensible mystery.

The moon had just then escaped from behind the cloud which had
concealed it, and Morrel saw Villefort come out upon the steps,
followed by a gentleman in black. They descended, and advanced towards
the clump of trees, and Morrel soon recognized the other gentleman as
Doctor d’Avrigny.

30339m



The young man, seeing them approach, drew back mechanically, until he
found himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in the centre of the clump;
there he was compelled to remain. Soon the two gentlemen stopped also.

“Ah, my dear doctor,” said the procureur, “Heaven declares itself
against my house! What a dreadful death—what a blow! Seek not to
console me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow—the wound is
too deep and too fresh! Dead, dead!”

The cold sweat sprang to the young man’s brow, and his teeth chattered.
Who could be dead in that house, which Villefort himself had called
accursed?

“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with a tone which
redoubled the terror of the young man, “I have not led you here to
console you; on the contrary——”

“What can you mean?” asked the procureur, alarmed.

“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you,
there is another, perhaps, still greater.”

“Can it be possible?” murmured Villefort, clasping his hands. “What are
you going to tell me?”

“Are we quite alone, my friend?”

“Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?”

“Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,” said the
doctor. “Let us sit down.”

Villefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before
him, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported
his head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its
beatings should be heard. “Dead, dead!” repeated he within himself; and
he felt as if he were also dying.

“Speak, doctor—I am listening,” said Villefort; “strike—I am prepared
for everything!”

“Madame de Saint-Méran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she
enjoyed excellent health.” Morrel began again to breathe freely, which
he had not done during the last ten minutes.

“Grief has consumed her,” said Villefort—“yes, grief, doctor! After
living forty years with the marquis——”

“It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor; “grief may kill,
although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in
ten minutes.” Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head,
which had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with
amazement.

“Were you present during the last struggle?” asked M. d’Avrigny.

“I was,” replied the procureur; “you begged me not to leave.”

“Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de
Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?”

“I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at
intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When
you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath
some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous
attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and
her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then
I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had
thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could
not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit
came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than
the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth
contracted and turned purple.”

“And at the third she expired.”

“At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you
confirmed my opinion.”

“Yes, before others,” replied the doctor; “but now we are alone——”

“What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!”

“That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are
the same.”

M. de Villefort started from his seat, then in a moment fell down
again, silent and motionless. Morrel knew not if he were dreaming or
awake.

“Listen,” said the doctor; “I know the full importance of the statement
I have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made
it.”

“Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?” asked Villefort.

“As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in
the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so
great, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I
should hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a
magistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say, ‘During the
three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the
convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly
convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could
also specify the poison.’”

“Can it be possible?”

“The symptoms are marked, do you see?—sleep broken by nervous spasms,
excitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de
Saint-Méran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine,
which by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her.”

Villefort seized the doctor’s hand.

“Oh, it is impossible,” said he, “I must be dreaming! It is frightful
to hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my
dear doctor, that you may be deceived.”

“Doubtless I may, but——”

“But?”

30345m



“But I do not think so.”

“Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me
lately that I am on the verge of madness.”

“Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?”

“No.”

“Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?”

“Nothing.”

“Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Would her death affect anyone’s interest?”

“It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone.
Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to
punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.”

“Indeed, my dear friend,” said M. d’Avrigny, “I would not accuse
anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand,—of a mistake,—but
whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience
and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.”

“Of whom?—how?—of what?”

“May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given
Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?”

“For my father?”

“Yes.”

“But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de
Saint-Méran?”

“Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain
diseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every
other remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved
to try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him
brucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six
grains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the
paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed
to it, would be sufficient to kill another person.”

“My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier’s
apartment and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never entered
my mother-in-law’s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the
most conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost
reliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this
axiom, _errare humanum est_.”

“Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with
myself?”

“Why do you ask me that?—what do you wish?”

“Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult
together, and examine the body.”

“And you will find traces of poison?”

“No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of
the body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall
say, ‘Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence,
watch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies.’”

“What do you propose to me, d’Avrigny?” said Villefort in despair; “so
soon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become
necessary; and an inquest in my house—impossible! Still,” continued the
procureur, looking at the doctor with uneasiness, “if you wish it—if
you demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me
already so grieved—how can I introduce into my house so much scandal,
after so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I,
doctor—you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy—one has not
been king’s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a
tolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be
talked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice,
and cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were
you a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and
you know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said
nothing, have you?”

“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, “my first duty is to
humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if science could
have done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us
bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am
willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject
should be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always—watch
carefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have
found the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you, ‘You are a
magistrate, do as you will!’”

“I thank you, doctor,” said Villefort with indescribable joy; “I never
had a better friend than you.” And, as if he feared Doctor d’Avrigny
would recall his promise, he hurried him towards the house.

When they were gone, Morrel ventured out from under the trees, and the
moon shone upon his face, which was so pale it might have been taken
for that of a ghost.

“I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible
manner,” said he; “but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much
sorrow?”

As he thought thus, he looked alternately at the window with red
curtains and the three windows with white curtains. The light had
almost disappeared from the former; doubtless Madame de Villefort had
just put out her lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected its dull light
on the window. At the extremity of the building, on the contrary, he
saw one of the three windows open. A wax-light placed on the
mantle-piece threw some of its pale rays without, and a shadow was seen
for one moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered; he thought he heard a
sob.

It cannot be wondered at that his mind, generally so courageous, but
now disturbed by the two strongest human passions, love and fear, was
weakened even to the indulgence of superstitious thoughts. Although it
was impossible that Valentine should see him, hidden as he was, he
thought he heard the shadow at the window call him; his disturbed mind
told him so. This double error became an irresistible reality, and by
one of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his
hiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the
risk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by some
exclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the
flower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white
lake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in
front of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the
door, which opened without offering any resistance.

Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were
watching a silvery cloud gliding over the azure, its form that of a
shadow mounting towards heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it
as the soul of her grandmother.

Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase,
which, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had
regained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort
even would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such
encounter. He would at once approach Valentine’s father and acknowledge
all, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two
fond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad.

Happily he did not meet anyone. Now, especially, did he find the
description Valentine had given of the interior of the house useful to
him; he arrived safely at the top of the staircase, and while he was
feeling his way, a sob indicated the direction he was to take. He
turned back, a door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to
hear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the door open and entered.
At the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered it, lay
the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so
unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees, and with her head
buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and
sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had
turned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents
that would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid,
incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of grief almost
stopped her utterance.

The moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn
paler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not
resist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily
impressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before
him, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a
name, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of
the chair—a head like that of a Magdalen by Correggio—was raised and
turned towards him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least
surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to
minor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only
apology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet,
and began to sob again.

Neither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to
break the silence which death seemed to impose; at length Valentine
ventured.

“My friend,” said she, “how came you here? Alas, I would say you are
welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house.”

“Valentine,” said Morrel with a trembling voice, “I had waited since
half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the
wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the
fatal event——”

“What voices?” asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the
conversation of the doctor and M. de Villefort, and he thought he could
see through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the
purple lips.

“Your servants,” said he, “who were repeating the whole of the
sorrowful story; from them I learned it all.”

“But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love.”

“Forgive me,” replied Morrel; “I will go away.”

“No,” said Valentine, “you might meet someone; stay.”

“But if anyone should come here——”

The young girl shook her head. “No one will come,” said she; “do not
fear, there is our safeguard,” pointing to the bed.

“But what has become of M. d’Épinay?” replied Morrel.

30349m



“M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was
dying.”

“Alas,” said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this
death would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely.

“But what redoubles my sorrow,” continued the young girl, as if this
feeling was to receive its immediate punishment, “is that the poor old
lady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as
soon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against
me.”

“Hark!” said Morrel. They both listened; steps were distinctly heard in
the corridor and on the stairs.

“It is my father, who has just left his study.”

“To accompany the doctor to the door,” added Morrel.

“How do you know it is the doctor?” asked Valentine, astonished.

“I imagined it must be,” said Morrel.

Valentine looked at the young man; they heard the street door close,
then M. de Villefort locked the garden door, and returned upstairs. He
stopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether to turn to
his own apartment or into Madame de Saint-Méran’s; Morrel concealed
himself behind a door; Valentine remained motionless, grief seeming to
deprive her of all fear. M. de Villefort passed on to his own room.

“Now,” said Valentine, “you can neither go out by the front door nor by
the garden.”

Morrel looked at her with astonishment.

“There is but one way left you that is safe,” said she; “it is through
my grandfather’s room.” She rose. “Come,” she added.

“Where?” asked Maximilian.

“To my grandfather’s room.”

“I in M. Noirtier’s apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Can you mean it, Valentine?”

“I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need
his help,—come.”

“Be careful, Valentine,” said Morrel, hesitating to comply with the
young girl’s wishes; “I now see my error—I acted like a madman in
coming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable?”

“Yes,” said Valentine; “and I have but one scruple,—that of leaving my
dear grandmother’s remains, which I had undertaken to watch.”

“Valentine,” said Morrel, “death is in itself sacred.”

“Yes,” said Valentine; “besides, it will not be for long.”

She then crossed the corridor, and led the way down a narrow staircase
to M. Noirtier’s room; Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the door they
found the old servant.

“Barrois,” said Valentine, “shut the door, and let no one come in.”

She passed first.

Noirtier, seated in his chair, and listening to every sound, was
watching the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye brightened. There was
something grave and solemn in the approach of the young girl which
struck the old man, and immediately his bright eye began to
interrogate.

“Dear grandfather.” said she hurriedly, “you know poor grandmamma died
an hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you.”

His expressive eyes evinced the greatest tenderness.

“To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes?”

The paralytic motioned “Yes.”

Valentine took Maximilian’s hand.

“Look attentively, then, at this gentleman.”

The old man fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight astonishment on
Morrel.

“It is M. Maximilian Morrel,” said she; “the son of that good merchant
of Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect.”

“Yes,” said the old man.

“He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render
glorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of
the Legion of Honor.”

The old man signified that he recollected him.

“Well, grandpapa,” said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to
Maximilian, “I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to
marry another, I would destroy myself.”

The eyes of the paralytic expressed a multitude of tumultuous thoughts.

“You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa?” asked
Valentine.

“Yes.”

“And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my
father?”

Noirtier cast an intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to say, “perhaps I
may.”

Maximilian understood him.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your
deceased grandmother’s room, will you allow me the honor of a few
minutes’ conversation with M. Noirtier?”

“That is it,” said the old man’s eye. Then he looked anxiously at
Valentine.

“Do you fear he will not understand?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, we have so often spoken of you, that he knows exactly how I talk
to you.” Then turning to Maximilian, with an adorable smile; although
shaded by sorrow,—“He knows everything I know,” said she.

Valentine arose, placed a chair for Morrel, requested Barrois not to
admit anyone, and having tenderly embraced her grandfather, and
sorrowfully taken leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove to Noirtier
that he was in Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets,
Morrel took the dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and placed them all
on a table where there was a light.

“But first,” said Morrel, “allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how
much I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting
her.”

Noirtier made a sign that he would listen.

It was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere
useless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of
the lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong. His remarkably
noble and austere expression struck Morrel, who began his story with
trembling. He related the manner in which he had become acquainted with
Valentine, and how he had loved her, and that Valentine, in her
solitude and her misfortune, had accepted the offer of his devotion. He
told him his birth, his position, his fortune, and more than once, when
he consulted the look of the paralytic, that look answered, “That is
good, proceed.”

“And now,” said Morrel, when he had finished the first part of his
recital, “now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you
of my intentions?”

“Yes,” signified the old man.

“This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in
which I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister’s house, to marry
her, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort’s pardon.”

“No,” said Noirtier.

“We must not do so?”

“No.”

“You do not sanction our project?”

“No.”

“There is another way,” said Morrel. The old man’s interrogative eye
said, “Which?”

“I will go,” continued Maximilian, “I will seek M. Franz d’Épinay—I am
happy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort’s
absence—and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to
challenge me.” Noirtier’s look continued to interrogate.

“You wish to know what I will do?”

“Yes.”

“I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me
to Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by
renouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure
my friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through
interest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would
be forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no
other, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall
kill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry
Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him.”

Noirtier watched, with indescribable pleasure, this noble and sincere
countenance, on which every sentiment his tongue uttered was depicted,
adding by the expression of his fine features all that coloring adds to
a sound and faithful drawing.

Still, when Morrel had finished, he shut his eyes several times, which
was his manner of saying “No.”

“No?” said Morrel; “you disapprove of this second project, as you did
of the first?”

“I do,” signified the old man.

“But what then must be done?” asked Morrel. “Madame de Saint-Méran’s
last request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let
things take their course?” Noirtier did not move. “I understand,” said
Morrel; “I am to wait.”

“Yes.”

“But delay may ruin our plan, sir,” replied the young man. “Alone,
Valentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here
almost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity
to occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have
proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do
you authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to intrust herself to my honor?”

“No.”

“Do you prefer I should seek M. d’Épinay?”

“No.”

“Whence then will come the help we need—from chance?” resumed Morrel.

“No.”

“From you?”

“Yes.”

“You thoroughly understand me, sir? Pardon my eagerness, for my life
depends on your answer. Will our help come from you?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure of it?”

“Yes.” There was so much firmness in the look which gave this answer,
no one could, at any rate, doubt his will, if they did his power.

“Oh, thank you a thousand times! But how, unless a miracle should
restore your speech, your gesture, your movement, how can you, chained
to that armchair, dumb and motionless, oppose this marriage?” A smile
lit up the old man’s face, a strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed
face.

“Then I must wait?” asked the young man.

“Yes.”

“But the contract?” The same smile returned. “Will you assure me it
shall not be signed?”

“Yes,” said Noirtier.

“The contract shall not be signed!” cried Morrel. “Oh, pardon me, sir;
I can scarcely realize so great a happiness. Will they not sign it?”

“No,” said the paralytic. Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel still
hesitated. This promise of an impotent old man was so strange that,
instead of being the result of the power of his will, it might emanate
from enfeebled organs. Is it not natural that the madman, ignorant of
his folly, should attempt things beyond his power? The weak man talks
of burdens he can raise, the timid of giants he can confront, the poor
of treasures he spends, the most humble peasant, in the height of his
pride, calls himself Jupiter. Whether Noirtier understood the young
man’s indecision, or whether he had not full confidence in his
docility, he looked uneasily at him.

“What do you wish, sir?” asked Morrel; “that I should renew my promise
of remaining tranquil?” Noirtier’s eye remained fixed and firm, as if
to imply that a promise did not suffice; then it passed from his face
to his hands.

“Shall I swear to you, sir?” asked Maximilian.

“Yes,” said the paralytic with the same solemnity. Morrel understood
that the old man attached great importance to an oath. He extended his
hand.

“I swear to you, on my honor,” said he, “to await your decision
respecting the course I am to pursue with M. d’Épinay.”

“That is right,” said the old man.

“Now,” said Morrel, “do you wish me to retire?”

“Yes.”

“Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?”

“Yes.”

Morrel made a sign that he was ready to obey. “But,” said he, “first
allow me to embrace you as your daughter did just now.” Noirtier’s
expression could not be understood. The young man pressed his lips on
the same spot, on the old man’s forehead, where Valentine’s had been.
Then he bowed a second time and retired.

He found outside the door the old servant, to whom Valentine had given
directions. Morrel was conducted along a dark passage, which led to a
little door opening on the garden, soon found the spot where he had
entered, with the assistance of the shrubs gained the top of the wall,
and by his ladder was in an instant in the clover-field where his
cabriolet was still waiting for him. He got in it, and thoroughly
wearied by so many emotions, arrived about midnight in the Rue Meslay,
threw himself on his bed and slept soundly.



VOLUME FOUR

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 Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault

Two days after, a considerable crowd was assembled, towards ten o’clock
in the morning, around the door of M. de Villefort’s house, and a long
file of mourning-coaches and private carriages extended along the
Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Rue de la Pépinière. Among them was one
of a very singular form, which appeared to have come from a distance.
It was a kind of covered wagon, painted black, and was one of the first
to arrive. Inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that, by a strange
coincidence, this carriage contained the corpse of the Marquis de
Saint-Méran, and that those who had come thinking to attend one funeral
would follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de Saint-Méran,
one of the most zealous and faithful dignitaries of Louis XVIII. and
King Charles X., had preserved a great number of friends, and these,
added to the personages whom the usages of society gave Villefort a
claim on, formed a considerable body.

Due information was given to the authorities, and permission obtained
that the two funerals should take place at the same time. A second
hearse, decked with the same funereal pomp, was brought to M. de
Villefort’s door, and the coffin removed into it from the post-wagon.
The two bodies were to be interred in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise,
where M. de Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the
reception of his family. The remains of poor Renée were already
deposited there, and now, after ten years of separation, her father and
mother were to be reunited with her.

The Parisians, always curious, always affected by funereal display,
looked on with religious silence while the splendid procession
accompanied to their last abode two of the number of the old
aristocracy—the greatest protectors of commerce and sincere devotees to
their principles.

In one of the mourning-coaches Beauchamp, Debray, and Château-Renaud
were talking of the very sudden death of the marchioness.

“I saw Madame de Saint-Méran only last year at Marseilles, when I was
coming back from Algiers,” said Château-Renaud; “she looked like a
woman destined to live to be a hundred years old, from her apparent
sound health and great activity of mind and body. How old was she?”

“Franz assured me,” replied Albert, “that she was sixty-six years old.
But she has not died of old age, but of grief; it appears that since
the death of the marquis, which affected her very deeply, she has not
completely recovered her reason.”

“But of what disease, then, did she die?” asked Debray.

“It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or apoplexy, which
is the same thing, is it not?”

“Nearly.”

“It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy,” said Beauchamp.
“Madame de Saint-Méran, whom I once saw, was short, of slender form,
and of a much more nervous than sanguine temperament; grief could
hardly produce apoplexy in such a constitution as that of Madame de
Saint-Méran.”

“At any rate,” said Albert, “whatever disease or doctor may have killed
her, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle Valentine,—or, still
rather, our friend Franz, inherits a magnificent fortune, amounting, I
believe, to 80,000 livres per annum.”

“And this fortune will be doubled at the death of the old Jacobin,
Noirtier.”

“That is a tenacious old grandfather,” said Beauchamp. “_Tenacem
propositi virum_. I think he must have made an agreement with death to
outlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed. He resembles
the old Conventionalist of ’93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814, ‘You
bend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid growth.
Take the Republic for a tutor; let us return with renewed strength to
the battle-field, and I promise you 500,000 soldiers, another Marengo,
and a second Austerlitz. Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they
slumber sometimes, but only revive the stronger before they sleep
entirely.’”

“Ideas and men appeared the same to him,” said Albert. “One thing only
puzzles me, namely, how Franz d’Épinay will like a grandfather who
cannot be separated from his wife. But where is Franz?”

“In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers him already
as one of the family.”

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Such was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these two sudden
deaths, so quickly following each other, astonished everyone, but no
one suspected the terrible secret which M. d’Avrigny had communicated,
in his nocturnal walk to M. de Villefort. They arrived in about an hour
at the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony with
the funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked towards the family
vault, Château-Renaud recognized Morrel, who had come alone in a
cabriolet, and walked silently along the path bordered with yew-trees.

“You here?” said Château-Renaud, passing his arms through the young
captain’s; “are you a friend of Villefort’s? How is it that I have
never met you at his house?”

“I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort’s,” answered Morrel, “but I
was of Madame de Saint-Méran.” Albert came up to them at this moment
with Franz.

“The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction.” said
Albert; “but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present
to you M. Franz d’Épinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom
I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an
excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you
will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit,
or amiability.”

Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to
accost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but
his oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory;
he struggled to conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz.

“Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?” said Debray
to Franz.

“Extremely,” replied he; “she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely
knew her.”

These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had
seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer
required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took
the arm of Château-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the
attendants had already placed the two coffins.

“This is a magnificent habitation,” said Beauchamp, looking towards the
mausoleum; “a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my
dear d’Épinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I,
as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down
there under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body.
In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron:
‘_Eo rus_, and all will be over.’ But come, Franz, take courage, your
wife is an heiress.”

“Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at
everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But
when you have the honor of associating with ordinary men, and the
pleasure of leaving politics for a moment, try to find your
affectionate heart, which you leave with your stick when you go to the
Chamber.”

“But tell me,” said Beauchamp, “what is life? Is it not a halt in
Death’s anteroom?”

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“I am prejudiced against Beauchamp,” said Albert, drawing Franz away,
and leaving the former to finish his philosophical dissertation with
Debray.

The Villefort vault formed a square of white stones, about twenty feet
high; an interior partition separated the two families, and each
apartment had its entrance door. Here were not, as in other tombs,
ignoble drawers, one above another, where thrift bestows its dead and
labels them like specimens in a museum; all that was visible within the
bronze gates was a gloomy-looking room, separated by a wall from the
vault itself. The two doors before mentioned were in the middle of this
wall, and enclosed the Villefort and Saint-Méran coffins. There grief
might freely expend itself without being disturbed by the trifling
loungers who came from a picnic party to visit Père-Lachaise, or by
lovers who make it their rendezvous.

The two coffins were placed on trestles previously prepared for their
reception in the right-hand crypt belonging to the Saint-Méran family.
Villefort, Franz, and a few near relatives alone entered the sanctuary.

As the religious ceremonies had all been performed at the door, and
there was no address given, the party all separated; Château-Renaud,
Albert, and Morrel, went one way, and Debray and Beauchamp the other.
Franz remained with M. de Villefort; at the gate of the cemetery Morrel
made an excuse to wait; he saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into the
same mourning-coach, and thought this meeting forboded evil. He then
returned to Paris, and although in the same carriage with
Château-Renaud and Albert, he did not hear one word of their
conversation.

As Franz was about to take leave of M. de Villefort, “When shall I see
you again?” said the latter.

“At what time you please, sir,” replied Franz.

“As soon as possible.”

“I am at your command, sir; shall we return together?”

“If not unpleasant to you.”

“On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure.”

Thus, the future father and son-in-law stepped into the same carriage,
and Morrel, seeing them pass, became uneasy. Villefort and Franz
returned to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The procureur, without going to
see either his wife or his daughter, went at once to his study, and,
offering the young man a chair:

“M. d’Épinay,” said he, “allow me to remind you at this moment,—which
is perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first sight may appear, for
obedience to the wishes of the departed is the first offering which
should be made at their tomb,—allow me then to remind you of the wish
expressed by Madame de Saint-Méran on her death-bed, that Valentine’s
wedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the deceased are
in perfect order, and her will bequeaths to Valentine the entire
property of the Saint-Méran family; the notary showed me the documents
yesterday, which will enable us to draw up the contract immediately.
You may call on the notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg
Saint-Honoré, and you have my authority to inspect those deeds.”

“Sir,” replied M. d’Épinay, “it is not, perhaps, the moment for
Mademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to think of a husband;
indeed, I fear——”

40028m



“Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of fulfilling her
grandmother’s last injunctions; there will be no obstacle from that
quarter, I assure you.”

“In that case,” replied Franz, “as I shall raise none, you may make
arrangements when you please; I have pledged my word, and shall feel
pleasure and happiness in adhering to it.”

“Then,” said Villefort, “nothing further is required. The contract was
to have been signed three days since; we shall find it all ready, and
can sign it today.”

“But the mourning?” said Franz, hesitating.

“Don’t be uneasy on that score,” replied Villefort; “no ceremony will
be neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de Villefort may retire during
the prescribed three months to her estate of Saint-Méran; I say hers,
for she inherits it today. There, after a few days, if you like, the
civil marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony. Madame de
Saint-Méran wished her daughter should be married there. When that is
over, you, sir, can return to Paris, while your wife passes the time of
her mourning with her mother-in-law.”

“As you please, sir,” said Franz.

“Then,” replied M. de Villefort, “have the kindness to wait half an
hour; Valentine shall come down into the drawing-room. I will send for
M. Deschamps; we will read and sign the contract before we separate,
and this evening Madame de Villefort shall accompany Valentine to her
estate, where we will rejoin them in a week.”

“Sir,” said Franz, “I have one request to make.”

“What is it?”

“I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de Château-Renaud to be present at
this signature; you know they are my witnesses.”

“Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for them
yourself, or shall you send?”

“I prefer going, sir.”

“I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and Valentine will
be ready.”

Franz bowed and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when M. de
Villefort sent to tell Valentine to be ready in the drawing-room in
half an hour, as he expected the notary and M. d’Épinay and his
witnesses. The news caused a great sensation throughout the house;
Madame de Villefort would not believe it, and Valentine was
thunderstruck. She looked around for help, and would have gone down to
her grandfather’s room, but on the stairs she met M. de Villefort, who
took her arm and led her into the drawing-room. In the anteroom,
Valentine met Barrois, and looked despairingly at the old servant. A
moment later, Madame de Villefort entered the drawing-room with her
little Edward. It was evident that she had shared the grief of the
family, for she was pale and looked fatigued. She sat down, took Edward
on her knees, and from time to time pressed this child, on whom her
affections appeared centred, almost convulsively to her bosom.

Two carriages were soon heard to enter the courtyard. One was the
notary’s; the other, that of Franz and his friends. In a moment the
whole party was assembled. Valentine was so pale one might trace the
blue veins from her temples, round her eyes and down her cheeks. Franz
was deeply affected. Château-Renaud and Albert looked at each other
with amazement; the ceremony which was just concluded had not appeared
more sorrowful than did that which was about to begin. Madame de
Villefort had placed herself in the shadow behind a velvet curtain, and
as she constantly bent over her child, it was difficult to read the
expression of her face. M. de Villefort was, as usual, unmoved.

The notary, after having, according to the customary method, arranged
the papers on the table, taken his place in an armchair, and raised his
spectacles, turned towards Franz:

“Are you M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d’Épinay?” asked he, although he
knew it perfectly.

“Yes, sir,” replied Franz. The notary bowed.

“I have, then, to inform you, sir, at the request of M. de Villefort,
that your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has changed
the feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild, and that he
disinherits her entirely of the fortune he would have left her. Let me
hasten to add,” continued he, “that the testator, having only the right
to alienate a part of his fortune, and having alienated it all, the
will will not bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void.”

“Yes.” said Villefort; “but I warn M. d’Épinay, that during my
life-time my father’s will shall never be questioned, my position
forbidding any doubt to be entertained.”

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“Sir,” said Franz, “I regret much that such a question has been raised
in the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I have never inquired the
amount of her fortune, which, however limited it may be, exceeds mine.
My family has sought consideration in this alliance with M. de
Villefort; all I seek is happiness.”

Valentine imperceptibly thanked him, while two silent tears rolled down
her cheeks.

“Besides, sir,” said Villefort, addressing himself to his future
son-in-law, “excepting the loss of a portion of your hopes, this
unexpected will need not personally wound you; M. Noirtier’s weakness
of mind sufficiently explains it. It is not because Mademoiselle
Valentine is going to marry you that he is angry, but because she will
marry, a union with any other would have caused him the same sorrow.
Old age is selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a
faithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when she becomes
the Baroness d’Épinay. My father’s melancholy state prevents our
speaking to him on any subjects, which the weakness of his mind would
incapacitate him from understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that
at the present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is going
to be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name of his intended
grandson.” M. de Villefort had scarcely said this, when the door
opened, and Barrois appeared.

“Gentlemen,” said he, in a tone strangely firm for a servant speaking
to his masters under such solemn circumstances,—“gentlemen, M. Noirtier
de Villefort wishes to speak immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron
d’Épinay.” He, as well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in
the person, gave all his titles to the bridegroom elect.

Villefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from her knees,
Valentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert and Château-Renaud
exchanged a second look, more full of amazement than the first. The
notary looked at Villefort.

“It is impossible,” said the procureur. “M. d’Épinay cannot leave the
drawing-room at present.”

“It is at this moment,” replied Barrois with the same firmness, “that
M. Noirtier, my master, wishes to speak on important subjects to M.
Franz d’Épinay.”

“Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then,” said Edward, with his
habitual quickness. However, his remark did not make Madame de
Villefort even smile, so much was every mind engaged, and so solemn was
the situation.

“Tell M. Nortier,” resumed Villefort, “that what he demands is
impossible.”

“Then, M. Nortier gives notice to these gentlemen,” replied Barrois,
“that he will give orders to be carried to the drawing-room.”

Astonishment was at its height. Something like a smile was perceptible
on Madame de Villefort’s countenance. Valentine instinctively raised
her eyes, as if to thank heaven.

“Pray go, Valentine,” said; M. de Villefort, “and see what this new
fancy of your grandfather’s is.” Valentine rose quickly, and was
hastening joyfully towards the door, when M. de Villefort altered his
intention.

“Stop,” said he; “I will go with you.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Franz, “since M. Noirtier sent for me, I am
ready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be happy to pay my
respects to him, not having yet had the honor of doing so.”

“Pray, sir,” said Villefort with marked uneasiness, “do not disturb
yourself.”

40032m



“Forgive me, sir,” said Franz in a resolute tone. “I would not lose
this opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how wrong it would be of him
to encourage feelings of dislike to me, which I am determined to
conquer, whatever they may be, by my devotion.”

And without listening to Villefort he arose, and followed Valentine,
who was running downstairs with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who
finds a rock to cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Château-Renaud
and Morcerf exchanged a third look of still increasing wonder.



 Chapter 75. A Signed Statement

Noirtier was prepared to receive them, dressed in black, and installed
in his armchair. When the three persons he expected had entered, he
looked at the door, which his valet immediately closed.

“Listen,” whispered Villefort to Valentine, who could not conceal her
joy; “if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate anything which would delay
your marriage, I forbid you to understand him.”

Valentine blushed, but did not answer. Villefort, approached Noirtier.

“Here is M. Franz d’Épinay,” said he; “you requested to see him. We
have all wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you
how ill-formed are your objections to Valentine’s marriage.”

Noirtier answered only by a look which made Villefort’s blood run cold.
He motioned to Valentine to approach. In a moment, thanks to her habit
of conversing with her grandfather, she understood that he asked for a
key. Then his eye was fixed on the drawer of a small chest between the
windows. She opened the drawer, and found a key; and, understanding
that was what he wanted, again watched his eyes, which turned toward an
old secretaire which had been neglected for many years and was supposed
to contain nothing but useless documents.

“Shall I open the secretaire?” asked Valentine.

“Yes,” said the old man.

“And the drawers?”

“Yes.”

“Those at the side?”

“No.”

“The middle one?”

“Yes.”

Valentine opened it and drew out a bundle of papers. “Is that what you
wish for?” asked she.

“No.”

She took successively all the other papers out till the drawer was
empty. “But there are no more,” said she. Noirtier’s eye was fixed on
the dictionary.

“Yes, I understand, grandfather,” said the young girl.

40036m



She pointed to each letter of the alphabet. At the letter S the old man
stopped her. She opened, and found the word “secret.”

“Ah! is there a secret spring?” said Valentine.

“Yes,” said Noirtier.

“And who knows it?” Noirtier looked at the door where the servant had
gone out.

“Barrois?” said she.

“Yes.”

“Shall I call him?”

“Yes.”

Valentine went to the door, and called Barrois. Villefort’s impatience
during this scene made the perspiration roll from his forehead, and
Franz was stupefied. The old servant came.

“Barrois,” said Valentine, “my grandfather has told me to open that
drawer in the secretaire, but there is a secret spring in it, which you
know—will you open it?”

Barrois looked at the old man. “Obey,” said Noirtier’s intelligent eye.
Barrois touched a spring, the false bottom came out, and they saw a
bundle of papers tied with a black string.

“Is that what you wish for?” said Barrois.

“Yes.”

“Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort?”

“No.”

“To Mademoiselle Valentine?”

“No.”

“To M. Franz d’Épinay?”

“Yes.”

Franz, astonished, advanced a step. “To me, sir?” said he.

“Yes.”

Franz took them from Barrois and casting a glance at the cover, read:

“‘To be given, after my death, to General Durand, who shall bequeath
the packet to his son, with an injunction to preserve it as containing
an important document.’

“Well, sir,” asked Franz, “what do you wish me to do with this paper?”

“To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless,” said the procureur.

“No,” replied Noirtier eagerly.

“Do you wish him to read it?” said Valentine.

“Yes,” replied the old man.

“You understand, baron, my grandfather wishes you to read this paper,”
said Valentine.

“Then let us sit down,” said Villefort impatiently, “for it will take
some time.”

“Sit down,” said the old man. Villefort took a chair, but Valentine
remained standing by her father’s side, and Franz before him, holding
the mysterious paper in his hand. “Read,” said the old man. Franz
untied it, and in the midst of the most profound silence read:

40038m



“‘_Extract of the report of a meeting of the Bonapartist Club in the
Rue Saint-Jacques, held February 5th, 1815_.’”

Franz stopped. “February 5th, 1815!” said he; “it is the day my father
was murdered.” Valentine and Villefort were dumb; the eye of the old
man alone seemed to say clearly, “Go on.”

“But it was on leaving this club,” said he, “my father disappeared.”

Noirtier’s eye continued to say, “Read.” He resumed:—

“‘The undersigned Louis-Jacques Beaurepaire, lieutenant-colonel of
artillery, Étienne Duchampy, general of brigade, and Claude Lecharpal,
keeper of woods and forests, declare, that on the 4th of February, a
letter arrived from the Island of Elba, recommending to the kindness
and the confidence of the Bonapartist Club, General Flavien de Quesnel,
who having served the emperor from 1804 to 1814 was supposed to be
devoted to the interests of the Napoleon dynasty, notwithstanding the
title of baron which Louis XVIII. had just granted to him with his
estate of Épinay.

400340m



“‘A note was in consequence addressed to General de Quesnel, begging
him to be present at the meeting next day, the 5th. The note indicated
neither the street nor the number of the house where the meeting was to
be held; it bore no signature, but it announced to the general that
someone would call for him if he would be ready at nine o’clock. The
meetings were always held from that time till midnight. At nine o’clock
the president of the club presented himself; the general was ready, the
president informed him that one of the conditions of his introduction
was that he should be eternally ignorant of the place of meeting, and
that he would allow his eyes to be bandaged, swearing that he would not
endeavor to take off the bandage. General de Quesnel accepted the
condition, and promised on his honor not to seek to discover the road
they took. The general’s carriage was ready, but the president told him
it was impossible for him to use it, since it was useless to blindfold
the master if the coachman knew through what streets he went. “What
must be done then?” asked the general.—“I have my carriage here,” said
the president.

“‘“Have you, then, so much confidence in your servant that you can
intrust him with a secret you will not allow me to know?”

“‘“Our coachman is a member of the club,” said the president; “we shall
be driven by a State-Councillor.”

“‘“Then we run another risk,” said the general, laughing, “that of
being upset.” We insert this joke to prove that the general was not in
the least compelled to attend the meeting, but that he came willingly.
When they were seated in the carriage the president reminded the
general of his promise to allow his eyes to be bandaged, to which he
made no opposition. On the road the president thought he saw the
general make an attempt to remove the handkerchief, and reminded him of
his oath. “Sure enough,” said the general. The carriage stopped at an
alley leading out of the Rue Saint-Jacques. The general alighted,
leaning on the arm of the president, of whose dignity he was not aware,
considering him simply as a member of the club; they went through the
alley, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered the assembly-room.

“‘The deliberations had already begun. The members, apprised of the
sort of presentation which was to be made that evening, were all in
attendance. When in the middle of the room the general was invited to
remove his bandage, he did so immediately, and was surprised to see so
many well-known faces in a society of whose existence he had till then
been ignorant. They questioned him as to his sentiments, but he
contented himself with answering, that the letters from the Island of
Elba ought to have informed them——’”

Franz interrupted himself by saying, “My father was a royalist; they
need not have asked his sentiments, which were well known.”

“And hence,” said Villefort, “arose my affection for your father, my
dear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a ready bond of union.”

“Read again,” said the old man.

Franz continued:

“‘The president then sought to make him speak more explicitly, but M.
de Quesnel replied that he wished first to know what they wanted with
him. He was then informed of the contents of the letter from the Island
of Elba, in which he was recommended to the club as a man who would be
likely to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke of
the return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and further
details, on the arrival of the _Pharaon_ belonging to the shipbuilder
Morrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was entirely devoted to the
emperor. During all this time, the general, on whom they thought to
have relied as on a brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent
and repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained silent, with
knitted brows.

“‘“Well,” asked the president, “what do you say to this letter,
general?”

“‘“I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for Louis XVIII. to
break my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor.” This answer was too clear to
permit of any mistake as to his sentiments. “General,” said the
president, “we acknowledge no King Louis XVIII., or an ex-emperor, but
his majesty the emperor and king, driven from France, which is his
kingdom, by violence and treason.”

“‘“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the general; “you may not acknowledge
Louis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a baron and a field-marshal,
and I shall never forget that for these two titles I am indebted to his
happy return to France.”

“‘“Sir,” said the president, rising with gravity, “be careful what you
say; your words clearly show us that they are deceived concerning you
in the Island of Elba, and have deceived us! The communication has been
made to you in consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which
does you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion attach
you to the government we wish to overturn. We will not constrain you to
help us; we enroll no one against his conscience, but we will compel
you to act generously, even if you are not disposed to do so.”

“‘“You would call acting generously, knowing your conspiracy and not
informing against you, that is what I should call becoming your
accomplice. You see I am more candid than you.”’”

“Ah, my father!” said Franz, interrupting himself. “I understand now
why they murdered him.” Valentine could not help casting one glance
towards the young man, whose filial enthusiasm it was delightful to
behold. Villefort walked to and fro behind them. Noirtier watched the
expression of each one, and preserved his dignified and commanding
attitude. Franz returned to the manuscript, and continued:

“‘“Sir,” said the president, “you have been invited to join this
assembly—you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come
blindfolded—you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request
you well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or
we should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police.
It would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you
in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may ruin
those who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if you
declare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his
majesty the emperor.”

“‘“I am a royalist,” replied the general; “I have taken the oath of
allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it.” These words were
followed by a general murmur, and it was evident that several of the
members were discussing the propriety of making the general repent of
his rashness.

“‘The president again arose, and having imposed silence, said,—“Sir,
you are too serious and too sensible a man not to understand the
consequences of our present situation, and your candor has already
dictated to us the conditions which remain for us to offer you.” The
general, putting his hand on his sword, exclaimed,—“If you talk of
honor, do not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by
violence.”

“‘“And you, sir,” continued the president, with a calmness still more
terrible than the general’s anger, “I advise you not to touch your
sword.” The general looked around him with slight uneasiness; however
he did not yield, but calling up all his fortitude, said,—“I will not
swear.”

“‘“Then you must die,” replied the president calmly. M. d’Épinay became
very pale; he looked round him a second time, several members of the
club were whispering, and getting their arms from under their cloaks.
“General,” said the president, “do not alarm yourself; you are among
men of honor who will use every means to convince you before resorting
to the last extremity, but as you have said, you are among
conspirators, you are in possession of our secret, and you must restore
it to us.” A significant silence followed these words, and as the
general did not reply,—“Close the doors,” said the president to the
door-keeper.

40042m



“‘The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the general
advanced, and making a violent effort to control his feelings,—“I have
a son,” said he, “and I ought to think of him, finding myself among
assassins.”

“‘“General,” said the chief of the assembly, “one man may insult
fifty—it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his
privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.” The general,
again daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then
advancing to the president’s desk,—“What is the form, said he.

“‘“It is this:—‘I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have
seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten
o’clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever
violate this oath.’” The general appeared to be affected by a nervous
tremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then,
overcoming his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath,
but in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the
members, who insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which
he did.

“‘“Now am I at liberty to retire?” said the general. The president
rose, appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the
carriage with the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three
members was the coachman who had driven them there. The other members
silently dispersed. “Where do you wish to be taken?” asked the
president.—“Anywhere out of your presence,” replied M. d’Épinay.
“Beware, sir,” replied the president, “you are no longer in the
assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them
unless you wish to be held responsible.” But instead of listening, M.
d’Épinay went on,—“You are still as brave in your carriage as in your
assembly because you are still four against one.” The president stopped
the coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps
lead down to the river. “Why do you stop here?” asked d’Épinay.

“‘“Because, sir,” said the president, “you have insulted a man, and
that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable
reparation.”

“‘“Another method of assassination?” said the general, shrugging his
shoulders.

“‘“Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the
men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for
a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword
by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these
gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage.” The
general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. “At last,” said he, “I
shall know with whom I have to do.” They opened the door and the four
men alighted.’”

Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his
brow; there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in
trembling pallor these details of his father’s death, which had
hitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer.
Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of
contempt and pride.

Franz continued:

“‘It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury
had been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered
with ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the
side of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses
followed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river
was covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked
black and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge
near, and by its light they examined the weapons. The president’s
sword, which was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane,
was five inches shorter than the general’s, and had no guard. The
general proposed to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it
was he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it he had
supposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to
insist, but the president bade them be silent. The lantern was placed
on the ground, the two adversaries took their stations, and the duel
began. The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning;
as for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so
great.

40044m



“‘General d’Épinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army,
but he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and
fell. The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he
had not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The
circumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on
his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken.
He received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on
finding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge.
At the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and
the witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to
raise him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was
moistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived.
“Ah,” said he, “they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me.”
The president, without answering, approached the witness who held the
lantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received
in his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat,
displayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even
uttered a sigh. General d’Épinay died five minutes after.’”

Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly
audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to
dispel a cloud; but after a moment’s silence, he continued:

“‘The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his
cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely
arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water—it was the
general’s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river
after ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal
duel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of
this we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts,
lest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this
terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of
infringement of the laws of honor.

“‘Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.’”

When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a son;
when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when
Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to
lessen the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man,—

“Sir,” said d’Épinay to Noirtier, “since you are well acquainted with
all these details, which are attested by honorable signatures,—since
you appear to take some interest in me, although you have only
manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final
satisfaction—tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may
at least know who killed my father.”

Villefort mechanically felt for the handle of the door; Valentine, who
understood sooner than anyone her grandfather’s answer, and who had
often seen two scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps.

“Mademoiselle,” said Franz, turning towards Valentine, “unite your
efforts with mine to find out the name of the man who made me an orphan
at two years of age.” Valentine remained dumb and motionless.

“Hold, sir,” said Villefort, “do not prolong this dreadful scene. The
names have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know
who this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper
names are not in the dictionary.”

“Oh, misery,” cried Franz: “the only hope which sustained me and
enabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name
of him who killed my father! Sir, sir,” cried he, turning to Noirtier,
“do what you can—make me understand in some way!”

“Yes,” replied Noirtier.

“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” cried Franz, “your grandfather says
he can indicate the person. Help me,—lend me your assistance!”

Noirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous
trembling, and repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until
he came to M. At that letter the old man signified “Yes.”

“M,” repeated Franz. The young man’s finger, glided over the words, but
at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her
head between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF.

40046m



“Yes!”

“You!” cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; “you, M. Noirtier—you
killed my father?”

“Yes!” replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz
fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for
the idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in
the heart of this terrible old man.




 Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger

Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in
the army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table
of the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous
courtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his
journey as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had
maintained his assumed character of father.

M. Andrea at his departure inherited all the papers which proved that
he had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and
the Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that
Parisian society which gives such ready access to foreigners, and
treats them, not as they really are, but as they wish to be considered.
Besides, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its
language tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester,
and to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with a foreigner
than with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a fortnight, attained a
very fair position. He was called count, he was said to possess 50,000
livres per annum; and his father’s immense riches, buried in the
quarries of Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before
whom the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he had
seen the quarries in question, which gave great weight to assertions
hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed the garb of reality.

Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before
our readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening to pay M. Danglars a
visit. M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the
baroness, and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a
nervous shudder, since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which
followed it, that Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo’s name announced.
If he did not come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on
the contrary, he appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes,
his amiability, his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon
dispelled every impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the
baroness that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should
entertain evil designs against her; besides, the most corrupt minds
only suspect evil when it would answer some interested end—useless
injury is repugnant to every mind.

40048m



When Monte Cristo entered the boudoir, to which we have already once
introduced our readers, and where the baroness was examining some
drawings, which her daughter passed to her after having looked at them
with M. Cavalcanti, his presence soon produced its usual effect, and it
was with smiles that the baroness received the count, although she had
been a little disconcerted at the announcement of his name. The latter
took in the whole scene at a glance.

The baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eugénie sat near her,
and Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed in black, like one of
Goethe’s heroes, with varnished shoes and white silk open-worked
stockings, passed a white and tolerably nice-looking hand through his
light hair, and so displayed a sparkling diamond, that in spite of
Monte Cristo’s advice the vain young man had been unable to resist
putting on his little finger. This movement was accompanied by killing
glances at Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs launched in the same
direction.

Mademoiselle Danglars was still the same—cold, beautiful, and
satirical. Not one of these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her;
they might have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some
philosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of Sappho. Eugénie
bowed coldly to the count, and availed herself of the first moment when
the conversation became earnest to escape to her study, whence very
soon two cheerful and noisy voices being heard in connection with
occasional notes of the piano assured Monte Cristo that Mademoiselle
Danglars preferred to his society and to that of M. Cavalcanti the
company of Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, her singing teacher.

It was then, especially while conversing with Madame Danglars, and
apparently absorbed by the charm of the conversation, that the count
noticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti’s solicitude, his manner of listening to
the music at the door he dared not pass, and of manifesting his
admiration.

The banker soon returned. His first look was certainly directed towards
Monte Cristo, but the second was for Andrea. As for his wife, he bowed
to her, as some husbands do to their wives, but in a way that bachelors
will never comprehend, until a very extensive code is published on
conjugal life.

“Have not the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?” said
Danglars to Andrea.

“Alas, no, sir,” replied Andrea with a sigh, still more remarkable than
the former ones. Danglars immediately advanced towards the door and
opened it.

40050m



The two young ladies were seen seated on the same chair, at the piano,
accompanying themselves, each with one hand, a fancy to which they had
accustomed themselves, and performed admirably. Mademoiselle d’Armilly,
whom they then perceived through the open doorway, formed with Eugénie
one of the _tableaux vivants_ of which the Germans are so fond. She was
somewhat beautiful, and exquisitely formed—a little fairy-like figure,
with large curls falling on her neck, which was rather too long, as
Perugino sometimes makes his Virgins, and her eyes dull from fatigue.
She was said to have a weak chest, and like Antonia in the _Cremona
Violin_, she would die one day while singing.

Monte Cristo cast one rapid and curious glance round this sanctum; it
was the first time he had ever seen Mademoiselle d’Armilly, of whom he
had heard much.

“Well,” said the banker to his daughter, “are we then all to be
excluded?”

He then led the young man into the study, and either by chance or
manœuvre the door was partially closed after Andrea, so that from the
place where they sat neither the Count nor the baroness could see
anything; but as the banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame Danglars
appeared to take no notice of it.

The count soon heard Andrea’s voice, singing a Corsican song,
accompanied by the piano. While the count smiled at hearing this song,
which made him lose sight of Andrea in the recollection of Benedetto,
Madame Danglars was boasting to Monte Cristo of her husband’s strength
of mind, who that very morning had lost three or four hundred thousand
francs by a failure at Milan. The praise was well deserved, for had not
the count heard it from the baroness, or by one of those means by which
he knew everything, the baron’s countenance would not have led him to
suspect it.

“Hem,” thought Monte Cristo, “he begins to conceal his losses; a month
since he boasted of them.”

Then aloud,—“Oh, madame, M. Danglars is so skilful, he will soon regain
at the Bourse what he loses elsewhere.”

“I see that you participate in a prevalent error,” said Madame
Danglars.

“What is it?” said Monte Cristo.

“That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he never does.”

“Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray told me——apropos, what has become
of him? I have seen nothing of him the last three or four days.”

“Nor I,” said Madame Danglars; “but you began a sentence, sir, and did
not finish.”

“Which?”

“M. Debray had told you——”

“Ah, yes; he told me it was you who sacrificed to the demon of
speculation.”

“I was once very fond of it, but I do not indulge now.”

“Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is precarious; and if I were a
woman and fate had made me a banker’s wife, whatever might be my
confidence in my husband’s good fortune, still in speculation you know
there is great risk. Well, I would secure for myself a fortune
independent of him, even if I acquired it by placing my interests in
hands unknown to him.” Madame Danglars blushed, in spite of all her
efforts.

“Stay,” said Monte Cristo, as though he had not observed her confusion,
“I have heard of a lucky hit that was made yesterday on the Neapolitan
bonds.”

“I have none—nor have I ever possessed any; but really we have talked
long enough of money, count, we are like two stockbrokers; have you
heard how fate is persecuting the poor Villeforts?”

“What has happened?” said the count, simulating total ignorance.

“You know the Marquis of Saint-Méran died a few days after he had set
out on his journey to Paris, and the marchioness a few days after her
arrival?”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I have heard that; but, as Claudius said to
Hamlet, ‘it is a law of nature; their fathers died before them, and
they mourned their loss; they will die before their children, who will,
in their turn, grieve for them.’”

“But that is not all.”

“Not all!”

“No; they were going to marry their daughter——”

“To M. Franz d’Épinay. Is it broken off?”

“Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor.”

“Indeed? And is the reason known?”

“No.”

“How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it?”

“As usual. Like a philosopher.”

Danglars returned at this moment alone.

“Well,” said the baroness, “do you leave M. Cavalcanti with your
daughter?”

“And Mademoiselle d’Armilly,” said the banker; “do you consider her no
one?” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said, “Prince Cavalcanti is a
charming young man, is he not? But is he really a prince?”

“I will not answer for it,” said Monte Cristo. “His father was
introduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a count; but I do not
think he has much claim to that title.”

“Why?” said the banker. “If he is a prince, he is wrong not to maintain
his rank; I do not like anyone to deny his origin.”

“Oh, you are a thorough democrat,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.

“But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?” said the baroness.
“If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that
room, where he, the betrothed of Eugénie, has never been admitted.”

“You may well say, perchance,” replied the banker; “for he comes so
seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him.”

“But should he come and find that young man with your daughter, he
might be displeased.”

“He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor to be
jealous; he does not like Eugénie sufficiently. Besides, I care not for
his displeasure.”

“Still, situated as we are——”

“Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother’s ball he danced
once with Eugénie, and M. Cavalcanti three times, and he took no notice
of it.”

The valet announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose
hastily, and was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her.

“Let her alone,” said he.

She looked at him in amazement. Monte Cristo appeared to be unconscious
of what passed. Albert entered, looking very handsome and in high
spirits. He bowed politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and
affectionately to Monte Cristo. Then turning to the baroness: “May I
ask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?” said he.

“She is quite well,” replied Danglars quickly; “she is at the piano
with M. Cavalcanti.”

Albert retained his calm and indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps
annoyed, but he knew Monte Cristo’s eye was on him. “M. Cavalcanti has
a fine tenor voice,” said he, “and Mademoiselle Eugénie a splendid
soprano, and then she plays the piano like Thalberg. The concert must
be a delightful one.”

“They suit each other remarkably well,” said Danglars. Albert appeared
not to notice this remark, which was, however, so rude that Madame
Danglars blushed.

“I, too,” said the young man, “am a musician—at least, my masters used
to tell me so; but it is strange that my voice never would suit any
other, and a soprano less than any.”

Danglars smiled, and seemed to say, “It is of no consequence.” Then,
hoping doubtless to effect his purpose, he said,—“The prince and my
daughter were universally admired yesterday. You were not of the party,
M. de Morcerf?”

“What prince?” asked Albert.

“Prince Cavalcanti,” said Danglars, who persisted in giving the young
man that title.

“Pardon me,” said Albert, “I was not aware that he was a prince. And
Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugénie yesterday? It must
have been charming, indeed. I regret not having heard them. But I was
unable to accept your invitation, having promised to accompany my
mother to a German concert given by the Baroness of Château-Renaud.”

This was followed by rather an awkward silence.

“May I also be allowed,” said Morcerf, “to pay my respects to
Mademoiselle Danglars?”

“Wait a moment,” said the banker, stopping the young man; “do you hear
that delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is
charming, let them finish—one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!” The banker
was enthusiastic in his applause.

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“Indeed,” said Albert, “it is exquisite; it is impossible to understand
the music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti does. You said
prince, did you not? But he can easily become one, if he is not
already; it is no uncommon thing in Italy. But to return to the
charming musicians—you should give us a treat, Danglars, without
telling them there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is
so delightful to hear music in the distance, when the musicians are
unrestrained by observation.”

Danglars was quite annoyed by the young man’s indifference. He took
Monte Cristo aside.

“What do you think of our lover?” said he.

“He appears cool. But, then your word is given.”

“Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man who loves
her, but not to one who does not. See him there, cold as marble and
proud like his father. If he were rich, if he had Cavalcanti’s fortune,
that might be pardoned. _Ma foi_, I haven’t consulted my daughter; but
if she has good taste——”

“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “my fondness may blind me, but I assure you I
consider Morcerf a charming young man who will render your daughter
happy and will sooner or later attain a certain amount of distinction,
and his father’s position is good.”

“Hem,” said Danglars.

“Why do you doubt?”

“The past—that obscurity on the past.”

“But that does not affect the son.”

“Very true.”

“Now, I beg of you, don’t go off your head. It’s a month now that you
have been thinking of this marriage, and you must see that it throws
some responsibility on me, for it was at my house you met this young
Cavalcanti, whom I do not really know at all.”

“But I do.”

“Have you made inquiry?”

“Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak for him? And
he is very rich.”

“I am not so sure of that.”

“And yet you said he had money.”

“Fifty thousand livres—a mere trifle.”

“He is well educated.”

“Hem,” said Monte Cristo in his turn.

“He is a musician.”

“So are all Italians.”

“Come, count, you do not do that young man justice.”

“Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the
Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.” Danglars burst
out laughing.

“What a Puritan you are!” said he; “that happens every day.”

“But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on
this union.”

“Indeed.”

“Positively.”

“Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint,
you are so intimate with the family.”

“I?—where the devil did you find out that?”

“At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the
proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her
lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the
garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?”

“Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism
in a megalomaniac like you!”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to
Monte Cristo he said:

“But will you undertake to speak to the father?”

“Willingly, if you wish it.”

“But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my
daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us
either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more
delay.”

“Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.”

“I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await
it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.” And Danglars
sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before.

“Bravi! bravo! brava!” cried Morcerf, parodying the banker, as the
selection came to an end. Danglars began to look suspiciously at
Morcerf, when someone came and whispered a few words to him.

“I shall soon return,” said the banker to Monte Cristo; “wait for me. I
shall, perhaps, have something to say to you.” And he went out.

The baroness took advantage of her husband’s absence to push open the
door of her daughter’s study, and M. Andrea, who was sitting before the
piano with Mademoiselle Eugénie, started up like a jack-in-the-box.
Albert bowed with a smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear
in the least disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness.
Cavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who replied
with the most impertinent look possible. Then Albert launched out in
praise of Mademoiselle Danglars’ voice, and on his regret, after what
he had just heard, that he had been unable to be present the previous
evening.

Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to Monte Cristo.

“Come,” said Madame Danglars, “leave music and compliments, and let us
go and take tea.”

“Come, Louise,” said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend.

They passed into the next drawing-room, where tea was prepared. Just as
they were beginning, in the English fashion, to leave the spoons in
their cups, the door again opened and Danglars entered, visibly
agitated. Monte Cristo observed it particularly, and by a look asked
the banker for an explanation.

“I have just received my courier from Greece,” said Danglars.

“Ah, yes,” said the count; “that was the reason of your running away
from us.”

“Yes.”

“How is King Otho getting on?” asked Albert in the most sprightly tone.

Danglars cast another suspicious look towards him without answering,
and Monte Cristo turned away to conceal the expression of pity which
passed over his features, but which was gone in a moment.

“We shall go together, shall we not?” said Albert to the count.

“If you like,” replied the latter.

Albert could not understand the banker’s look, and turning to Monte
Cristo, who understood it perfectly,—“Did you see,” said he, “how he
looked at me?”

“Yes,” said the count; “but did you think there was anything particular
in his look?”

“Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece?”

“How can I tell you?”

“Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country.”

Monte Cristo smiled significantly.

“Stop,” said Albert, “here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle
Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you.”

“If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,” said
Monte Cristo.

“No, everyone would do that.”

“My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent.”

Albert advanced towards Eugénie, smiling.

Meanwhile, Danglars, stooping to Monte Cristo’s ear, “Your advice was
excellent,” said he; “there is a whole history connected with the names
Fernand and Yanina.”

“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo.

“Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure
his presence.”

“He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?”

“Immediately.”

“Very well.” The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed to the
ladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly indifferent to
Mademoiselle Danglars’ contempt, Monte Cristo reiterating his advice to
Madame Danglars on the prudence a banker’s wife should exercise in
providing for the future.

M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.



 Chapter 77. Haydée

Scarcely had the count’s horses cleared the angle of the boulevard,
when Albert, turning towards the count, burst into a loud fit of
laughter—much too loud in fact not to give the idea of its being rather
forced and unnatural.

“Well,” said he, “I will ask you the same question which Charles IX.
put to Catherine de’ Medici, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew:
‘How have I played my little part?’”

“To what do you allude?” asked Monte Cristo.

“To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars’.”

“What rival?”

“_Ma foi!_ what rival? Why, your protégé, M. Andrea Cavalcanti!”

“Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M.
Andrea—at least, not as concerns M. Danglars.”

“And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man
really needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can
dispense with it.”

“What, do you think he is paying his addresses?”

“I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when
addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He
aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie.”

“What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?”

“But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed
on all sides.”

“What!”

“It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugénie scarcely answers me, and
Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all.”

“But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,” said Monte
Cristo.

“He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart,
tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points
in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be
real and deadly.”

“Jealousy indicates affection.”

“True; but I am not jealous.”

“He is.”

“Of whom?—of Debray?”

“No, of you.”

“Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will
be closed against me.”

“You are mistaken, my dear viscount.”

“Prove it to me.”

“Do you wish me to do so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the
Comte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron.”

“By whom are you charged?”

“By the baron himself.”

“Oh,” said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was capable. “You
surely will not do that, my dear count?”

“Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it.”

“Well,” said Albert, with a sigh, “it seems you are determined to marry
me.”

“I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all
events,” said Monte Cristo. “But apropos of Debray, how is it that I
have not seen him lately at the baron’s house?”

“There has been a misunderstanding.”

“What, with the baroness?”

“No, with the baron.”

“Has he perceived anything?”

“Ah, that is a good joke!”

“Do you think he suspects?” said Monte Cristo with charming
artlessness.

“Where have you come from, my dear count?” said Albert.

“From Congo, if you will.”

“It must be farther off than even that.”

“But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?”

“Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an
individual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the
whole race.”

“But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and
Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,” said Monte
Cristo with renewed energy.

“Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in
which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of
the family, you can ask him that question.”

The carriage stopped.

“Here we are,” said Monte Cristo; “it is only half-past ten o’clock,
come in.”

“Certainly, I will.”

“My carriage shall take you back.”

“No, thank you; I gave orders for my _coupé_ to follow me.”

“There it is, then,” said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of the
carriage. They both went into the house; the drawing-room was lighted
up—they went in there. “You will make tea for us, Baptistin,” said the
count. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two
seconds reappeared, bringing on a tray, all that his master had
ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground,
like the repasts which we read of in fairy tales.

“Really, my dear count,” said Morcerf, “what I admire in you is, not so
much your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than
yourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have
possessed as much,—but it is your manner of being served, without any
questions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you
wanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping
everything you can possibly desire in constant readiness.”

“What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you
shall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time?”

“_Ma foi_, I should like to smoke.”

Monte Cristo took the gong and struck it once. In about the space of a
second a private door opened, and Ali appeared, bringing two chibouques
filled with excellent latakia.

“It is quite wonderful,” said Albert.

“Oh no, it is as simple as possible,” replied Monte Cristo. “Ali knows
I generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that
I ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when
I summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as
he comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested
through the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall
smoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of
one—and now the mystery is solved.”

“Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it
is not the less true that you——Ah, but what do I hear?” and Morcerf
inclined his head towards the door, through which sounds seemed to
issue resembling those of a guitar.

“_Ma foi_, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening;
you have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano, to be attacked
by Haydée’s guzla.”

“Haydée—what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear
the name of Haydée anywhere but in Byron’s poems?”

“Certainly there are. Haydée is a very uncommon name in France, but is
common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example,
Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,—it is a kind of baptismal name, as you
Parisians call it.”

“Oh, that is charming,” said Albert, “how I should like to hear my
countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence,
Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle
Danglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eugénie, had been named
Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect
that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!”

“Hush,” said the count, “do not joke in so loud a tone; Haydée may hear
you, perhaps.”

“And you think she would be angry?”

“No, certainly not,” said the count with a haughty expression.

“She is very amiable, then, is she not?” said Albert.

“It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not
dictate to a master.”

“Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had
who bear this beautiful name?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The
slave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a rank of itself in
France, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that
must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year.”

“A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much
more than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which
those recorded in the _Thousand and One Nights_ would seem but
poverty.”

“She must be a princess then.”

“You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too.”

“I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became
a slave?”

“How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The
fortune of war, my dear viscount,—the caprice of fortune; that is the
way in which these things are to be accounted for.”

“And is her name a secret?”

“As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear
viscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence
I feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it—may I not do
so?”

“Certainly; on my word of honor.”

“You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not?”

“Of Ali Tepelini?13 Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made
his fortune.”

“True, I had forgotten that.”

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“Well, what is Haydée to Ali Tepelini?”

“Merely his daughter.”

“What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?”

“Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki.”

“And your slave?”

“_Ma foi_, yes.”

“But how did she become so?”

“Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as
I was passing through the market at Constantinople.”

“Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic
influence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you,
existence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am
perhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but——”

“Say on.”

“But, since you go out with Haydée, and sometimes even take her to the
Opera——”

“Well?”

“I think I may venture to ask you this favor.”

“You may venture to ask me anything.”

“Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess.”

“I will do so; but on two conditions.”

“I accept them at once.”

“The first is, that you will never tell anyone that I have granted the
interview.”

“Very well,” said Albert, extending his hand; “I swear I will not.”

“The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served
hers.”

“I give you my oath that I will not.”

“Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But
I know you to be a man of honor.”

The count again struck the gong. Ali reappeared. “Tell Haydée,” said
he, “that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that
I desire permission to present one of my friends to her.”

Ali bowed and left the room.

“Now, understand me,” said the count, “no direct questions, my dear
Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her.”

“Agreed.”

Ali reappeared for the third time, and drew back the tapestried hanging
which concealed the door, to signify to his master and Albert that they
were at liberty to pass on.

“Let us go in,” said Monte Cristo.

Albert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his moustache,
then, having satisfied himself as to his personal appearance, followed
the count into the room, the latter having previously resumed his hat
and gloves. Ali was stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door
was kept by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho.

Haydée was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her apartments,
which was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were dilated with surprise
and expectation, for it was the first time that any man, except Monte
Cristo, had been accorded an entrance into her presence. She was
sitting on a sofa placed in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed
under her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself,
as it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks which enveloped
her. Near her was the instrument on which she had just been playing; it
was elegantly fashioned, and worthy of its mistress. On perceiving
Monte Cristo, she arose and welcomed him with a smile peculiar to
herself, expressive at once of the most implicit obedience and also of
the deepest love. Monte Cristo advanced towards her and extended his
hand, which she as usual raised to her lips.

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Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted
to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such
surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an
inhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea.

“Whom do you bring?” asked the young girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo;
“is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.”

“A friend,” said Monte Cristo in the same language.

“What is his name?”

“Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the
banditti at Rome.”

“In what language would you like me to converse with him?”

Monte Cristo turned to Albert. “Do you know modern Greek,” asked he.

“Alas! no,” said Albert; “nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never
had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.”

“Then,” said Haydée, proving by her remark that she had quite
understood Monte Cristo’s question and Albert’s answer, “then I will
speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.”

Monte Cristo reflected one instant. “You will speak in Italian,” said
he.

Then, turning towards Albert,—“It is a pity you do not understand
either ancient or modern Greek, both of which Haydée speaks so
fluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian,
which will give you but a very false idea of her powers of
conversation.”

The count made a sign to Haydée to address his visitor. “Sir,” she said
to Morcerf, “you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master.”
This was said in excellent Tuscan, and with that soft Roman accent
which makes the language of Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then,
turning to Ali, she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he
had left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress she
beckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte Cristo and Morcerf
drew their seats towards a small table, on which were arranged music,
drawings, and vases of flowers. Ali then entered bringing coffee and
chibouques; as to M. Baptistin, this portion of the building was
interdicted to him. Albert refused the pipe which the Nubian offered
him.

“Oh, take it—take it,” said the count; “Haydée is almost as civilized
as a Parisian; the smell of a Havana is disagreeable to her, but the
tobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know.”

Ali left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared, with the
addition of sugar, which had been brought for Albert. Monte Cristo and
Haydée took the beverage in the original Arabian manner, that is to
say, without sugar. Haydée took the porcelain cup in her little slender
fingers and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent artlessness
of a child when eating or drinking something which it likes. At this
moment two women entered, bringing salvers filled with ices and
sherbet, which they placed on two small tables appropriated to that
purpose.

“My dear host, and you, signora,” said Albert, in Italian, “excuse my
apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it
should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard
the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the
lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to
the East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have
painted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation,
added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening
of such delight as it would be impossible for me ever to forget.”

“I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir,”
said Haydée quietly; “and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my
best to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here.”

“On what subject shall I converse with her?” said Albert, in a low tone
to Monte Cristo.

“Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of her youthful
reminiscences, or if you like it better you can talk of Rome, Naples,
or Florence.”

“Oh,” said Albert, “it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if
one converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak
to her of the East.”

“Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the
most agreeable to her taste.”

Albert turned towards Haydée. “At what age did you leave Greece,
signora?” asked he.

“I left it when I was but five years old,” replied Haydée.

“And have you any recollection of your country?”

“When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind
can see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes; but the mind
always remembers.”

“And how far back into the past do your recollections extend?”

“I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which
means royal,” said the young girl, tossing her head proudly, “took me
by the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed,
we went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the
prisoners, saying, ‘He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’
Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without
saying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was
divided amongst the prisoners.”

“And how old were you at that time?”

“I was three years old,” said Haydée.

“Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when
you were three years old?” said Albert.

“Everything.”

“Count,” said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo, “do allow the
signora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my
mentioning my father’s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him
of her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea
how delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful
lips.”

Monte Cristo turned to Haydée, and with an expression of countenance
which commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he
said in Greek, “Πατρὸς μὲν ἄτην μήζε τὸ ὄνομα προδότου καὶ προδοσίαν
εἰπὲ ἡμῖν,”—that is, “Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the
name of the traitor nor the treason.” Haydée sighed deeply, and a shade
of sadness clouded her beautiful brow.

“What are you saying to her?” said Morcerf in an undertone.

“I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not
conceal anything from you.”

“Then,” said Albert, “this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners
was your first remembrance; what is the next?”

“Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the
shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters
of which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the
oldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my
father; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by
playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or
with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from
time to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which
I paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of
voice, either ‘Kill,’ or ‘Pardon.’”

“It is very strange,” said Albert, “to hear such words proceed from the
mouth of anyone but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly
to be saying to one’s self, ‘This is no fiction, it is all reality,’ in
order to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes,
accustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?”

“I think it is a fine country,” said Haydée, “but I see France as it
really is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my
own country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on
my childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which
is luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or
joyous.”

“So young,” said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count’s command
that he should ask no questions of the slave herself, “is it possible
that you can have known what suffering is except by name?”

Haydée turned her eyes towards Monte Cristo, who, making at the same
time some imperceptible sign, murmured:

“Εἰπέ—speak.”

“Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the memory of our
early childhood, and with the exception of the two scenes I have just
described to you, all my earliest reminiscences are fraught with
deepest sadness.”

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“Speak, speak, signora,” said Albert, “I am listening with the most
intense delight and interest to all you say.”

Haydée answered his remark with a melancholy smile. “You wish me, then,
to relate the history of my past sorrows?” said she.

“I beg you to do so,” replied Albert.

“Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened
by my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the
cushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers
filled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her
weeping I began to cry too. ‘Hush, child!’ said she. At other times in
spite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child’s caprice
been accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as
much as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation
of such extreme terror in my mother’s voice when she enjoined me to
silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She
bore me rapidly away.

“I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were
all my mother’s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels,
purses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest
distraction.

“Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long guns and
pistols, and dressed in the costume which the Greeks have assumed since
they have again become a nation. You may imagine there was something
startling and ominous,” said Haydée, shaking her head and turning pale
at the mere remembrance of the scene, “in this long file of slaves and
women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me,
who was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the
staircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the
flickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the
vaulted roof above.

“‘Quick!’ said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice made
everyone bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over
a field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield
obeisance. As for me, it made me tremble. This voice was that of my
father. He came last, clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his
hand the carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on
the shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all before him, as
a shepherd would his straggling flock. My father,” said Haydée, raising
her head, “was that illustrious man known in Europe under the name of
Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled.”

Albert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words pronounced
with such a haughty and dignified accent; it appeared to him as if
there was something supernaturally gloomy and terrible in the
expression which gleamed from the brilliant eyes of Haydée at this
moment; she appeared like a Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she
recalled to his mind the remembrance of the fearful death of this man,
to the news of which all Europe had listened with horror.

“Soon,” said Haydée, “we halted on our march, and found ourselves on
the borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and
at the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing
anxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water’s edge, and
below them was a boat floating on the tide.

40070m



“From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large
blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. This kiosk
appeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of
the darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more
than partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well
that the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I
leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with
the sashes of our Palikares.14 Besides the rowers, the boat contained
only the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had
remained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they
were kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner
intended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our
bark flew before the wind. ‘Why does the boat go so fast?’ asked I of
my mother.

“‘Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!’ I did not understand. Why
should my father fly?—he, the all-powerful—he, before whom others were
accustomed to fly—he, who had taken for his device,

‘They hate me; then they fear me!’


“It was, indeed, a flight which my father was trying to effect. I have
been told since that the garrison of the castle of Yanina, fatigued
with long service——”

Here Haydée cast a significant glance at Monte Cristo, whose eyes had
been riveted on her countenance during the whole course of her
narrative. The young girl then continued, speaking slowly, like a
person who is either inventing or suppressing some feature of the
history which he is relating.

“You were saying, signora,” said Albert, who was paying the most
implicit attention to the recital, “that the garrison of Yanina,
fatigued with long service——”

“Had treated with the Seraskier15 Kourchid, who had been sent by the
sultan to gain possession of the person of my father; it was then that
Ali Tepelini—after having sent to the sultan a French officer in whom
he reposed great confidence—resolved to retire to the asylum which he
had long before prepared for himself, and which he called
_kataphygion_, or the refuge.”

“And this officer,” asked Albert, “do you remember his name, signora?”

Monte Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the young girl, which was
quite unperceived by Albert.

“No,” said she, “I do not remember it just at this moment; but if it
should occur to me presently, I will tell you.”

Albert was on the point of pronouncing his father’s name, when Monte
Cristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach; the young man
recollected his promise, and was silent.

“It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A ground floor,
ornamented with arabesques, bathing its terraces in the water, and
another floor, looking on the lake, was all which was visible to the
eye. But beneath the ground floor, stretching out into the island, was
a large subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the women
were conducted. In this place were together 60,000 pouches and 200
barrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in gold, and the
barrels were filled with 30,000 pounds of gunpowder.

“Near the barrels stood Selim, my father’s favorite, whom I mentioned
to you just now. He stood watch day and night with a lance provided
with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up
everything—kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself—at the
first signal given by my father. I remember well that the slaves,
convinced of the precarious tenure on which they held their lives,
passed whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As for
me, I can never forget the pale complexion and black eyes of the young
soldier, and whenever the angel of death summons me to another world, I
am quite sure I shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we
remained in this state; at that period I did not even know what time
meant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and my mother
to the terrace of the palace; these were hours of recreation for me, as
I never saw anything in the dismal cavern but the gloomy countenances
of the slaves and Selim’s fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to
pierce with his eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon,
examining attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake,
while my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on his
shoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything I saw with that
unsophisticated innocence of childhood which throws a charm round
objects insignificant in themselves, but which in its eyes are invested
with the greatest importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us;
the castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters of the
lake, and the immense masses of black vegetation which, viewed in the
distance, gave the idea of lichens clinging to the rocks, were in
reality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles.

“One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been crying all the
night, and was very wretched; we found the pasha calm, but paler than
usual. ‘Take courage, Vasiliki,’ said he; ‘today arrives the firman of
the master, and my fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we
shall return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we must
fly this night.’—‘But supposing our enemy should not allow us to do
so?’ said my mother. ‘Oh, make yourself easy on that head,’ said Ali,
smiling; ‘Selim and his flaming lance will settle that matter. They
would be glad to see me dead, but they would not like themselves to die
with me.’

“My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she knew did
not come from my father’s heart. She prepared the iced water which he
was in the habit of constantly drinking,—for since his sojourn at the
kiosk he had been parched by the most violent fever,—after which she
anointed his white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque,
which he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly watching the
wreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds and gradually melted
away in the surrounding atmosphere. Presently he made such a sudden
movement that I was paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes
from the object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for
his telescope. My mother gave it him, and as she did so, looked whiter
than the marble against which she leaned. I saw my father’s hand
tremble. ‘A boat!—two!—three!’ murmured my, father;—‘four!’ He then
arose, seizing his arms and priming his pistols. ‘Vasiliki,’ said he to
my mother, trembling perceptibly, ‘the instant approaches which will
decide everything. In the space of half an hour we shall know the
emperor’s answer. Go into the cavern with Haydée.’—‘I will not quit
you,’ said Vasiliki; ‘if you die, my lord, I will die with you.’—‘Go to
Selim!’ cried my father. ‘Adieu, my lord,’ murmured my mother,
determining quietly to await the approach of death. ‘Take away
Vasiliki!’ said my father to his Palikares.

“As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I ran toward
Ali Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him, and he stooped down
and pressed my forehead with his lips. Oh, how distinctly I remember
that kiss!—it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were
still warm on my forehead. On descending, we saw through the
lattice-work several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct
to our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now they
looked like birds skimming the surface of the waves. During this time,
in the kiosk at my father’s feet, were seated twenty Palikares,
concealed from view by an angle of the wall and watching with eager
eyes the arrival of the boats. They were armed with their long guns
inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers
were lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his watch, and
paced up and down with a countenance expressive of the greatest
anguish. This was the scene which presented itself to my view as I
quitted my father after that last kiss.

“My mother and I traversed the gloomy passage leading to the cavern.
Selim was still at his post, and smiled sadly on us as we entered. We
fetched our cushions from the other end of the cavern, and sat down by
Selim. In great dangers the devoted ones cling to each other; and,
young as I was, I quite understood that some imminent danger was
hanging over our heads.”

Albert had often heard—not from his father, for he never spoke on the
subject, but from strangers—the description of the last moments of the
vizier of Yanina; he had read different accounts of his death, but the
story seemed to acquire fresh meaning from the voice and expression of
the young girl, and her sympathetic accent and the melancholy
expression of her countenance at once charmed and horrified him.

As to Haydée, these terrible reminiscences seemed to have overpowered
her for a moment, for she ceased speaking, her head leaning on her hand
like a beautiful flower bowing beneath the violence of the storm; and
her eyes gazing on vacancy indicated that she was mentally
contemplating the green summit of the Pindus and the blue waters of the
lake of Yanina, which, like a magic mirror, seemed to reflect the
sombre picture which she sketched. Monte Cristo looked at her with an
indescribable expression of interest and pity.

“Go on, my child,” said the count in the Romaic language.

40074m



Haydée looked up abruptly, as if the sonorous tones of Monte Cristo’s
voice had awakened her from a dream; and she resumed her narrative.

“It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and although the day was
brilliant out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the
cavern. One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared
like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim’s flaming lance.
My mother was a Christian, and she prayed. Selim repeated from time to
time the sacred words: ‘God is great!’ However, my mother had still
some hope. As she was coming down, she thought she recognized the
French officer who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my
father placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers of
the French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She advanced some
steps towards the staircase, and listened. ‘They are approaching,’ said
she; ‘perhaps they bring us peace and liberty!’

“‘What do you fear, Vasiliki?’ said Selim, in a voice at once so gentle
and yet so proud. ‘If they do not bring us peace, we will give them
war; if they do not bring life, we will give them death.’ And he
renewed the flame of his lance with a gesture which made one think of
Dionysus of old Crete.16 But I, being only a little child, was
terrified by this undaunted courage, which appeared to me both
ferocious and senseless, and I recoiled with horror from the idea of
the frightful death amidst fire and flames which probably awaited us.

“My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her tremble.
‘Mamma, mamma,’ said I, ‘are we really to be killed?’ And at the sound
of my voice the slaves redoubled their cries and prayers and
lamentations. ‘My child,’ said Vasiliki, ‘may God preserve you from
ever wishing for that death which today you so much dread!’ Then,
whispering to Selim, she asked what were her master’s orders. ‘If he
send me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor’s intentions are
not favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary,
he send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him,
and I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched.’—‘My
friend,’ said my mother, ‘when your master’s orders arrive, if it is
the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible
death which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with
this same poniard, will you not?’—‘Yes, Vasiliki,’ replied Selim
tranquilly.

“Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned that they were
cries of joy. The name of the French officer who had been sent to
Constantinople resounded on all sides amongst our Palikares; it was
evident that he brought the answer of the emperor, and that it was
favorable.”

“And do you not remember the Frenchman’s name?” said Morcerf, quite
ready to aid the memory of the narrator. Monte Cristo made a sign to
him to be silent.

“I do not recollect it,” said Haydée.

“The noise increased; steps were heard approaching nearer and nearer;
they were descending the steps leading to the cavern. Selim made ready
his lance. Soon a figure appeared in the gray twilight at the entrance
of the cave, formed by the reflection of the few rays of daylight which
had found their way into this gloomy retreat. ‘Who are you?’ cried
Selim. ‘But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance another
step.’—‘Long live the emperor!’ said the figure. ‘He grants a full
pardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him his life, but restores
to him his fortune and his possessions.’ My mother uttered a cry of
joy, and clasped me to her bosom. ‘Stop,’ said Selim, seeing that she
was about to go out; ‘you see I have not yet received the
ring,’—‘True,’ said my mother. And she fell on her knees, at the same
time holding me up towards heaven, as if she desired, while praying to
God in my behalf, to raise me actually to his presence.”

And for the second time Haydée stopped, overcome by such violent
emotion that the perspiration stood upon her pale brow, and her stifled
voice seemed hardly able to find utterance, so parched and dry were her
throat and lips.

40076m



Monte Cristo poured a little iced water into a glass, and presented it
to her, saying with a mildness in which was also a shade of
command,—“Courage.”

Haydée dried her eyes, and continued:

“By this time our eyes, habituated to the darkness, had recognized the
messenger of the pasha,—it was a friend. Selim had also recognized him,
but the brave young man only acknowledged one duty, which was to obey.
‘In whose name do you come?’ said he to him. ‘I come in the name of our
master, Ali Tepelini.’—‘If you come from Ali himself,’ said Selim, ‘you
know what you were charged to remit to me?’—‘Yes,’ said the messenger,
‘and I bring you his ring.’ At these words he raised his hand above his
head, to show the token; but it was too far off, and there was not
light enough to enable Selim, where he was standing, to distinguish and
recognize the object presented to his view. ‘I do not see what you have
in your hand,’ said Selim. ‘Approach then,’ said the messenger, ‘or I
will come nearer to you, if you prefer it.’—‘I will agree to neither
one nor the other,’ replied the young soldier; ‘place the object which
I desire to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire
while I examine it.’—‘Be it so,’ said the envoy; and he retired, after
having first deposited the token agreed on in the place pointed out to
him by Selim.

“Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to be a ring
which was placed there. But was it my father’s ring? that was the
question. Selim, still holding in his hand the lighted match, walked
towards the opening in the cavern, and, aided by the faint light which
streamed in through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token.

“‘It is well,’ said he, kissing it; ‘it is my master’s ring!’ And
throwing the match on the ground, he trampled on it and extinguished
it. The messenger uttered a cry of joy and clapped his hands. At this
signal four soldiers of the Seraskier Kourchid suddenly appeared, and
Selim fell, pierced by five blows. Each man had stabbed him separately,
and, intoxicated by their crime, though still pale with fear, they
sought all over the cavern to discover if there was any fear of fire,
after which they amused themselves by rolling on the bags of gold. At
this moment my mother seized me in her arms, and hurrying noiselessly
along numerous turnings and windings known only to ourselves, she
arrived at a private staircase of the kiosk, where was a scene of
frightful tumult and confusion. The lower rooms were entirely filled
with Kourchid’s troops; that is to say, with our enemies. Just as my
mother was on the point of pushing open a small door, we heard the
voice of the pasha sounding in a loud and threatening tone. My mother
applied her eye to the crack between the boards; I luckily found a
small opening which afforded me a view of the apartment and what was
passing within. ‘What do you want?’ said my father to some people who
were holding a paper inscribed with characters of gold. ‘What we want,’
replied one, ‘is to communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you
see this firman?’—‘I do,’ said my father. ‘Well, read it; he demands
your head.’

40078m



“My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than
even threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of
a pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men.
The Palikares, who were prostrated at my father’s feet, now sprang up
and fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the same
instant the firing began on the other side, and the balls penetrated
the boards all round us. Oh, how noble did the grand vizier my father
look at that moment, in the midst of the flying bullets, his scimitar
in his hand, and his face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and
how he terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him! ‘Selim,
Selim!’ cried he, ‘guardian of the fire, do your duty!’—‘Selim is
dead,’ replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the
earth, ‘and you are lost, Ali!’ At the same moment an explosion was
heard, and the flooring of the room in which my father was sitting was
suddenly torn up and shivered to atoms—the troops were firing from
underneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies literally
ploughed with wounds.

“My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes which the
balls had made, and tore up one of the planks entire. But immediately
through this opening twenty more shots were fired, and the flame,
rushing up like fire from the crater of a volcano, soon reached the
tapestry, which it quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful
tumult and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct,
followed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me with
terror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father, and it was he
who had given utterance to these frightful cries. However, he remained
standing, clinging to a window. My mother tried to force the door, that
she might go and die with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All
around him were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies,
while two or three who were only slightly wounded were trying to escape
by springing from the windows. At this crisis the whole flooring
suddenly gave way, my father fell on one knee, and at the same moment
twenty hands were thrust forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and
poniards—twenty blows were instantaneously directed against one man,
and my father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled by
these demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening beneath his
feet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my mother had fainted.”

Haydée’s arms fell by her side, and she uttered a deep groan, at the
same time looking towards the count as if to ask if he were satisfied
with her obedience to his commands.

Monte Cristo arose and approached her, took her hand, and said to her
in Romaic:

“Calm yourself, my dear child, and take courage in remembering that
there is a God who will punish traitors.”

“It is a frightful story, count,” said Albert, terrified at the
paleness of Haydée’s countenance, “and I reproach myself now for having
been so cruel and thoughtless in my request.”

“Oh, it is nothing,” said Monte Cristo. Then, patting the young girl on
the head, he continued, “Haydée is very courageous, and she sometimes
even finds consolation in the recital of her misfortunes.”

“Because, my lord,” said Haydée eagerly, “my miseries recall to me the
remembrance of your goodness.”

Albert looked at her with curiosity, for she had not yet related what
he most desired to know,—how she had become the slave of the count.
Haydée saw at a glance the same expression pervading the countenances
of her two auditors; she continued:

“When my mother recovered her senses we were before the seraskier.
‘Kill,’ said she, ‘but spare the honor of the widow of Ali.’—‘It is not
to me to whom you must address yourself,’ said Kourchid.

“‘To whom, then?’—‘To your new master.’

“‘Who and where is he?’—‘He is here.’

“And Kourchid pointed out one who had more than any contributed to the
death of my father,” said Haydée, in a tone of chastened anger.

“Then,” said Albert, “you became the property of this man?”

40080m



“No,” replied Haydée, “he did not dare to keep us, so we were sold to
some slave-merchants who were going to Constantinople. We traversed
Greece, and arrived half dead at the imperial gates. They were
surrounded by a crowd of people, who opened a way for us to pass, when
suddenly my mother, having looked closely at an object which was
attracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell to the
ground, pointing as she did so to a head which was placed over the
gates, and beneath which were inscribed these words:

‘_This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina._’

“I cried bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but she
was dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was purchased by a rich
Armenian. He caused me to be instructed, gave me masters, and when I
was thirteen years of age he sold me to the Sultan Mahmoud.”

“Of whom I bought her,” said Monte Cristo, “as I told you, Albert, with
the emerald which formed a match to the one I had made into a box for
the purpose of holding my hashish pills.”

“Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord!” said Haydée, kissing the
count’s hand, “and I am very fortunate in belonging to such a master!”

Albert remained quite bewildered with all that he had seen and heard.

“Come, finish your cup of coffee,” said Monte Cristo; “the history is
ended.”



 Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina

If Valentine could have seen the trembling step and agitated
countenance of Franz when he quitted the chamber of M. Noirtier, even
she would have been constrained to pity him. Villefort had only just
given utterance to a few incoherent sentences, and then retired to his
study, where he received about two hours afterwards the following
letter:

“After all the disclosures which were made this morning, M. Noirtier de
Villefort must see the utter impossibility of any alliance being formed
between his family and that of M. Franz d’Épinay. M. d’Épinay must say
that he is shocked and astonished that M. de Villefort, who appeared to
be aware of all the circumstances detailed this morning, should not
have anticipated him in this announcement.”


No one who had seen the magistrate at this moment, so thoroughly
unnerved by the recent inauspicious combination of circumstances, would
have supposed for an instant that he had anticipated the annoyance;
although it certainly never had occurred to him that his father would
carry candor, or rather rudeness, so far as to relate such a history.
And in justice to Villefort, it must be understood that M. Noirtier,
who never cared for the opinion of his son on any subject, had always
omitted to explain the affair to Villefort, so that he had all his life
entertained the belief that General de Quesnel, or the Baron d’Épinay,
as he was alternately styled, according as the speaker wished to
identify him by his own family name, or by the title which had been
conferred on him, fell the victim of assassination, and not that he was
killed fairly in a duel. This harsh letter, coming as it did from a man
generally so polite and respectful, struck a mortal blow at the pride
of Villefort.

Hardly had he read the letter, when his wife entered. The sudden
departure of Franz, after being summoned by M. Noirtier, had so much
astonished everyone, that the position of Madame de Villefort, left
alone with the notary and the witnesses, became every moment more
embarrassing. Determined to bear it no longer, she arose and left the
room; saying she would go and make some inquiries into the cause of his
sudden disappearance.

M. de Villefort’s communications on the subject were very limited and
concise; he told her, in fact, that an explanation had taken place
between M. Noirtier, M. d’Épinay, and himself, and that the marriage of
Valentine and Franz would consequently be broken off. This was an
awkward and unpleasant thing to have to report to those who were
waiting. She therefore contented herself with saying that M. Noirtier
having at the commencement of the discussion been attacked by a sort of
apoplectic fit, the affair would necessarily be deferred for some days
longer. This news, false as it was following so singularly in the train
of the two similar misfortunes which had so recently occurred,
evidently astonished the auditors, and they retired without a word.

During this time Valentine, at once terrified and happy, after having
embraced and thanked the feeble old man for thus breaking with a single
blow the chain which she had been accustomed to consider as
irrefragable, asked leave to retire to her own room, in order to
recover her composure. Noirtier looked the permission which she
solicited. But instead of going to her own room, Valentine, having once
gained her liberty, entered the gallery, and, opening a small door at
the end of it, found herself at once in the garden.

In the midst of all the strange events which had crowded one on the
other, an indefinable sentiment of dread had taken possession of
Valentine’s mind. She expected every moment that she should see Morrel
appear, pale and trembling, to forbid the signing of the contract, like
the Laird of Ravenswood in _The Bride of Lammermoor_.

It was high time for her to make her appearance at the gate, for
Maximilian had long awaited her coming. He had half guessed what was
going on when he saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de Villefort. He
followed M. d’Épinay, saw him enter, afterwards go out, and then
re-enter with Albert and Château-Renaud. He had no longer any doubts as
to the nature of the conference; he therefore quickly went to the gate
in the clover-patch, prepared to hear the result of the proceedings,
and very certain that Valentine would hasten to him the first moment
she should be set at liberty. He was not mistaken; peering through the
crevices of the wooden partition, he soon discovered the young girl,
who cast aside all her usual precautions and walked at once to the
barrier. The first glance which Maximilian directed towards her
entirely reassured him, and the first words she spoke made his heart
bound with delight.

“We are saved!” said Valentine.

“Saved?” repeated Morrel, not being able to conceive such intense
happiness; “by whom?”

“By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray love him for all his goodness to
us!”

Morrel swore to love him with all his soul; and at that moment he could
safely promise to do so, for he felt as though it were not enough to
love him merely as a friend or even as a father, he worshiped him as a
god.

“But tell me, Valentine, how has it all been effected? What strange
means has he used to compass this blessed end?”

Valentine was on the point of relating all that had passed, but she
suddenly remembered that in doing so she must reveal a terrible secret
which concerned others as well as her grandfather, and she said:

“At some future time I will tell you all about it.”

“But when will that be?”

“When I am your wife.”

The conversation had now turned upon a topic so pleasing to Morrel,
that he was ready to accede to anything that Valentine thought fit to
propose, and he likewise felt that a piece of intelligence such as he
just heard ought to be more than sufficient to content him for one day.
However, he would not leave without the promise of seeing Valentine
again the next night. Valentine promised all that Morrel required of
her, and certainly it was less difficult now for her to believe that
she should marry Maximilian than it was an hour ago to assure herself
that she should not marry Franz.

During the time occupied by the interview we have just detailed, Madame
de Villefort had gone to visit M. Noirtier. The old man looked at her
with that stern and forbidding expression with which he was accustomed
to receive her.

“Sir,” said she, “it is superfluous for me to tell you that Valentine’s
marriage is broken off, since it was here that the affair was
concluded.”

Noirtier’s countenance remained immovable.

“But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not think you are aware;
that is, that I have always been opposed to this marriage, and that the
contract was entered into entirely without my consent or approbation.”

Noirtier regarded his daughter-in-law with the look of a man desiring
an explanation.

“Now that this marriage, which I know you so much disliked, is done
away with, I come to you on an errand which neither M. de Villefort nor
Valentine could consistently undertake.”

Noirtier’s eyes demanded the nature of her mission.

“I come to entreat you, sir,” continued Madame de Villefort, “as the
only one who has the right of doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one
who will receive no personal benefit from the transaction,—I come to
entreat you to restore, not your love, for that she has always
possessed, but to restore your fortune to your granddaughter.”

There was a doubtful expression in Noirtier’s eyes; he was evidently
trying to discover the motive of this proceeding, and he could not
succeed in doing so.

“May I hope, sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “that your intentions
accord with my request?”

Noirtier made a sign that they did.

“In that case, sir,” rejoined Madame de Villefort, “I will leave you
overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt acquiescence to
my wishes.” She then bowed to M. Noirtier and retired.

The next day M. Noirtier sent for the notary; the first will was torn
up and a second made, in which he left the whole of his fortune to
Valentine, on condition that she should never be separated from him. It
was then generally reported that Mademoiselle de Villefort, the heiress
of the marquis and marchioness of Saint-Méran, had regained the good
graces of her grandfather, and that she would ultimately be in
possession of an income of 300,000 livres.

While all the proceedings relative to the dissolution of the
marriage-contract were being carried on at the house of M. de
Villefort, Monte Cristo had paid his visit to the Count of Morcerf,
who, in order to lose no time in responding to M. Danglars’ wishes, and
at the same time to pay all due deference to his position in society,
donned his uniform of lieutenant-general, which he ornamented with all
his crosses, and thus attired, ordered his finest horses and drove to
the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.

Danglars was balancing his monthly accounts, and it was perhaps not the
most favorable moment for finding him in his best humor. At the first
sight of his old friend, Danglars assumed his majestic air, and settled
himself in his easy-chair.

Morcerf, usually so stiff and formal, accosted the banker in an affable
and smiling manner, and, feeling sure that the overture he was about to
make would be well received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt
any manœuvres in order to gain his end, but went at once straight to
the point.

40086m



“Well, baron,” said he, “here I am at last; some time has elapsed since
our plans were formed, and they are not yet executed.”

Morcerf paused at these words, quietly waiting till the cloud should
have dispersed which had gathered on the brow of Danglars, and which he
attributed to his silence; but, on the contrary, to his great surprise,
it grew darker and darker.

“To what do you allude, monsieur?” said Danglars; as if he were trying
in vain to guess at the possible meaning of the general’s words.

“Ah,” said Morcerf, “I see you are a stickler for forms, my dear sir,
and you would remind me that the ceremonial rites should not be
omitted. _Ma foi_, I beg your pardon, but as I have but one son, and it
is the first time I have ever thought of marrying him, I am still
serving my apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform.”

And Morcerf with a forced smile arose, and, making a low bow to M.
Danglars, said:

“Baron, I have the honor of asking of you the hand of Mademoiselle
Eugénie Danglars for my son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.”

But Danglars, instead of receiving this address in the favorable manner
which Morcerf had expected, knit his brow, and without inviting the
count, who was still standing, to take a seat, he said:

“Monsieur, it will be necessary to reflect before I give you an
answer.”

“To reflect?” said Morcerf, more and more astonished; “have you not had
enough time for reflection during the eight years which have elapsed
since this marriage was first discussed between us?”

“Count,” said the banker, “things are constantly occurring in the world
to induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all
events to cause us to remodel them according to the change of
circumstances, which may have placed affairs in a totally different
light to that in which we at first viewed them.”

“I do not understand you, baron,” said Morcerf.

“What I mean to say is this, sir,—that during the last fortnight
unforeseen circumstances have occurred——”

“Excuse me,” said Morcerf, “but is it a play we are acting?”

“A play?”

“Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the point, and
endeavor thoroughly to understand each other.”

“That is quite my desire.”

“You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have you not?”

“I see him very often,” said Danglars, drawing himself up; “he is a
particular friend of mine.”

“Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said that I
appeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning this marriage, did
you not?”

“I did say so.”

“Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither the one nor
the other, by entreating you to keep your promise on that score.”

Danglars did not answer.

“Have you so soon changed your mind,” added Morcerf, “or have you only
provoked my request that you may have the pleasure of seeing me
humbled?”

Danglars, seeing that if he continued the conversation in the same tone
in which he had begun it, the whole thing might turn out to his own
disadvantage, turned to Morcerf, and said:

“Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my reserve, and I assure you
it costs me much to act in such a manner towards you; but, believe me
when I say that imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon
me.”

“These are all so many empty words, my dear sir,” said Morcerf: “they
might satisfy a new acquaintance, but the Comte de Morcerf does not
rank in that list; and when a man like him comes to another, recalls to
him his plighted word, and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has
at least a right to exact from him a good reason for so doing.”

Danglars was a coward, but did not wish to appear so; he was piqued at
the tone which Morcerf had just assumed.

“I am not without a good reason for my conduct,” replied the banker.

“What do you mean to say?”

“I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is difficult to
explain.”

“You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for me to
understand motives before they are explained to me; but one thing at
least is clear, which is, that you decline allying yourself with my
family.”

“No, sir,” said Danglars; “I merely suspend my decision, that is all.”

“And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to all your
caprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of again being received
into your good graces?”

“Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these projects as
if they had never been entertained.”

The count bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the
ebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper scarcely
allowed him to restrain; understanding, however, that in the present
state of things the laugh would decidedly be against him, he turned
from the door, towards which he had been directing his steps, and again
confronted the banker. A cloud settled on his brow, evincing decided
anxiety and uneasiness, instead of the expression of offended pride
which had lately reigned there.

“My dear Danglars,” said Morcerf, “we have been acquainted for many
years, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for each
other’s failings. You owe me an explanation, and really it is but fair
that I should know what circumstance has occurred to deprive my son of
your favor.”

“It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount, that is all I
can say, sir,” replied Danglars, who resumed his insolent manner as
soon as he perceived that Morcerf was a little softened and calmed
down.

“And towards whom do you bear this personal ill-feeling, then?” said
Morcerf, turning pale with anger. The expression of the count’s face
had not remained unperceived by the banker; he fixed on him a look of
greater assurance than before, and said:

“You may, perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther
into particulars.”

A tremor of suppressed rage shook the whole frame of the count, and
making a violent effort over himself, he said: “I have a right to
insist on your giving me an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf who
has displeased you? Is it my fortune which you find insufficient? Is it
because my opinions differ from yours?”

“Nothing of the kind, sir,” replied Danglars: “if such had been the
case, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as I was aware of all
these things when I made the engagement. No, do not seek any longer to
discover the reason. I really am quite ashamed to have been the cause
of your undergoing such severe self-examination; let us drop the
subject, and adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a
rupture nor an engagement. _Ma foi_, there is no hurry. My daughter is
only seventeen years old, and your son twenty-one. While we wait, time
will be progressing, events will succeed each other; things which in
the evening look dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light
of morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the lapse of a
single day, will reveal the most cruel calumnies.”

“Calumnies, did you say, sir?” cried Morcerf, turning livid with rage.
“Does anyone dare to slander me?”

“Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all
explanation.”

“Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal?”

“Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful for me to
give as it is for you to receive, for I had reckoned on the honor of
your alliance, and the breaking off of a marriage contract always
injures the lady more than the gentleman.”

“Enough, sir,” said Morcerf, “we will speak no more on the subject.”

And clutching his gloves in anger, he left the apartment. Danglars
observed that during the whole conversation Morcerf had never once
dared to ask if it was on his own account that Danglars recalled his
word.

That evening he had a long conference with several friends; and M.
Cavalcanti, who had remained in the drawing-room with the ladies, was
the last to leave the banker’s house.

The next morning, as soon as he awoke, Danglars asked for the
newspapers; they were brought to him; he laid aside three or four, and
at last fixed on _l’Impartial_, the paper of which Beauchamp was the
chief editor. He hastily tore off the cover, opened the journal with
nervous precipitation, passed contemptuously over the Paris jottings,
and arriving at the miscellaneous intelligence, stopped with a
malicious smile, at a paragraph headed

_We hear from Yanina._


“Very good,” observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph; “here
is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken,
would render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me
perfectly unnecessary.”

At the same moment, that is, at nine o’clock in the morning, Albert de
Morcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to his chin, might have
been seen walking with a quick and agitated step in the direction of
Monte Cristo’s house in the Champs-Élysées. When he presented himself
at the gate the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about
half an hour previously.

“Did he take Baptistin with him?”

“No, my lord.”

“Call him, then; I wish to speak to him.”

The concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him
in an instant.

“My good friend,” said Albert, “I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I
was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out
or not.”

“He is really out, sir,” replied Baptistin.

“Out, even to me?”

“I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,” said
Baptistin; “and I should therefore never think of including him in any
general order.”

“You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great
importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?”

“No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o’clock.”

“Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs-Élysées, and at ten
o’clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in,
will you beg him not to go out again without seeing me?”

“You may depend on my doing so, sir,” said Baptistin.

Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count’s door, intending
to take a turn on foot. As he was passing the Allée des Veuves, he
thought he saw the count’s horses standing at Gosset’s
shooting-gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman.

“Is the count shooting in the gallery?” said Morcerf.

“Yes, sir,” replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had
heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his
way met the waiter.

“Excuse me, my lord,” said the lad; “but will you have the kindness to
wait a moment?”

“What for, Philip?” asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there,
did not understand this opposition to his entrance.

“Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and
never practices in the presence of anyone.”

“Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?”

“His servant.”

“A Nubian?”

“A negro.”

“It is he, then.”

“Do you know this gentleman?”

“Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.”

“Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and
inform him of your arrival.”

And Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second
afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold.

“I ask your pardon, my dear count,” said Albert, “for following you
here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your
servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I
went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they
expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in
order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of
your carriage and horses.”

“What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend
breakfasting with me.”

40092m



“No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just
now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse
company.”

“What on earth are you talking of?”

“I am to fight today.”

“For what?”

“For the sake of fighting!”

“Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all
sorts of reasons, you know.”

“I fight in the cause of honor.”

“Ah, that is something serious.”

“So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service.”

“What is it?”

“To be my second.”

“That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us
speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water.”

The count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the little vestibule
where the gentlemen were accustomed to wash their hands after shooting.

“Come in, my lord,” said Philip in a low tone, “and I will show you
something droll.” Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he
saw some playing-cards fixed against the wall. At a distance Albert
thought it was a complete suit, for he counted from the ace to the ten.

“Ah, ha,” said Albert, “I see you were preparing for a game of cards.”

“No,” said the count, “I was making a suit.”

“How?” said Albert.

“Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned
them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.”

Albert approached. In fact, the bullets had actually pierced the cards
in the exact places which the painted signs would otherwise have
occupied, the lines and distances being as regularly kept as if they
had been ruled with pencil. In going up to the target Morcerf picked up
two or three swallows that had been rash enough to come within the
range of the count’s pistol.

“_Diable!_” said Morcerf.

“What would you have, my dear viscount?” said Monte Cristo, wiping his
hands on the towel which Ali had brought him; “I must occupy my leisure
moments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you.”

Both men entered Monte Cristo’s carriage, which in the course of a few
minutes deposited them safely at No. 30. Monte Cristo took Albert into
his study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself. “Now let
us talk the matter over quietly,” said the count.

“You see I am perfectly composed,” said Albert.

“With whom are you going to fight?”

“With Beauchamp.”

“One of your friends!”

“Of course; it is always with friends that one fights.”

“I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?”

“I have.”

40094m



“What has he done to you?”

“There appeared in his journal last night—but wait, and read for
yourself.” And Albert handed over the paper to the count, who read as
follows:

“A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we
had remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of
the town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand,
in whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest
confidence.”


“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “what do you see in that to annoy you?”

“What do I see in it?”

“Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up
by a French officer?”

“It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name
is Fernand!”

“Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?”

“Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and
hence arises the calumny.”

“Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!”

“I do not desire to do otherwise.”

“Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer
Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who
cares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or
1823?”

“That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all
this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events which have
been forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish
the lustre of our high position. I inherit my father’s name, and I do
not choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to
Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist
on his retracting the assertion before two witnesses.”

“Beauchamp will never retract.”

“Then we must fight.”

“No you will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps
there were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name.”

“We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father’s
character. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so
brilliant——”

“Oh, well, he will add, ‘We are warranted in believing that this
Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the
same Christian name.’”

“I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire
retractation.”

“And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do
you?”

“Yes.”

“You do wrong.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I asked of
you?”

“You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that
subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome.”

“Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an
occupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to
entertain.”

“Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric.
If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I
shall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp,
who has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with
Beauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he
will bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I
am expected to kill him for all that.”

“You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object
to my doing so?”

“I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a
serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection.”

“Did he reflect before he insulted my father?”

“If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be
satisfied.”

“Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent.”

“And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be
angry at what I am going to say——”

“Well.”

“Supposing the assertion to be really true?”

“A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father’s honor.”

“_Ma foi!_ we live in times when there is much to which we must
submit.”

“That is precisely the fault of the age.”

“And do you undertake to reform it?”

“Yes, as far as I am personally concerned.”

“Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow!”

“Yes, I own it.”

“Are you quite impervious to good advice?”

“Not when it comes from a friend.”

“And do you account me that title?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek
further information on the subject.”

“From whom?”

“From Haydée.”

“Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair?—what can
she do in it?”

“She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand
whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had,
indeed, the misfortune to——”

“I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit
of such a proposition.”

“You reject this means of information, then?”

“I do—most decidedly.”

“Then let me offer one more word of advice.”

“Do so, then, but let it be the last.”

“You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?”

“On the contrary, I request it.”

“Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him
alone.”

“That would be contrary to all custom.”

“Your case is not an ordinary one.”

“And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?”

“Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least
to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the
satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses
to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into
your secret.”

“They will not be strangers, they will be friends.”

“Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp,
for instance.”

“So you recommend——”

“I recommend you to be prudent.”

“Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?”

“I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession
from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing
to wound it.”

“I believe you are right.”

“I am glad of it.”

“Then I will go alone.”

“Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.”

“That is impossible.”

“Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you
proposed.”

“But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight,
will you not be my second?”

“My dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo gravely, “you must have seen
before today that at all times and in all places I have been at your
disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one
which it is out of my power to render you.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I
request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my
reasons.”

“Well, I will have Franz and Château-Renaud; they will be the very men
for it.”

“Do so, then.”

“But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or
two in shooting and fencing?”

“That, too, is impossible.”

“What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.”

“You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.”

“We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count.”

Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the
door, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to
find Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking
apartment, such as journalists’ offices have always been from time
immemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp
repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that
he had heard aright, and then gave orders for him to be admitted.
Albert entered.

Beauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap
over and trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed about
the room.

“This way, this way, my dear Albert!” said he, holding out his hand to
the young man. “Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to
take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that
geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there
are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.”

“Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal that I come to speak.”

“Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?”

“I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.”

“To what do you refer? But pray sit down.”

“Thank you,” said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.

“Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement
which has displeased you?”

“An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member
of my family.”

“What is it?” said Beauchamp, much surprised; “surely you must be
mistaken.”

“The story sent you from Yanina.”

“Yanina?”

“Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which
brings me here.”

“Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give
me yesterday’s paper,” cried Beauchamp.

“Here, I have brought mine with me,” replied Albert.

Beauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which Albert pointed
in an undertone.

“You see it is a serious annoyance,” said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had
finished the perusal of the paragraph.

“Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?” demanded the
journalist.

“Yes,” said Albert, blushing.

“Well, what do you wish me to do for you?” said Beauchamp mildly.

“My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.” Beauchamp
looked at Albert with a benevolent expression.

“Come,” said he, “this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a
retractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will
read it again.”

Albert resumed his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than
at first, the lines denounced by his friend.

“Well,” said Albert in a determined tone, “you see that your paper has
insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being
made.”

“You insist?”

“Yes, I insist.”

“Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear
viscount.”

“Nor do I wish to be there,” replied the young man, rising. “I repeat
that I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday
contradicted. You have known me long enough,” continued Albert, biting
his lips convulsively, for he saw that Beauchamp’s anger was beginning
to rise,—“you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate
with me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this
point.”

“If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking
would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a
moment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated
and vexed—tell me how this Fernand is related to you?”

“He is merely my father,” said Albert—“M. Fernand Mondego, Count of
Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose
honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.”

“Is it your father?” said Beauchamp; “that is quite another thing. Then
I can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at
it again;” and he read the paragraph for the third time, laying a
stress on each word as he proceeded. “But the paper nowhere identifies
this Fernand with your father.”

40100m



“No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will
have the article contradicted.”

At the words _I will_, Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to Albert’s
countenance, and then as gradually lowering them, he remained
thoughtful for a few moments.

“You will retract this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?” said Albert
with increased though stifled anger.

“Yes,” replied Beauchamp.

“Immediately?” said Albert.

“When I am convinced that the statement is false.”

“What?”

“The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate
the matter thoroughly.”

“But what is there to investigate, sir?” said Albert, enraged beyond
measure at Beauchamp’s last remark. “If you do not believe that it is
my father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it
to be him, state your reasons for doing so.”

Beauchamp looked at Albert with the smile which was so peculiar to him,
and which in its numerous modifications served to express every varied
emotion of his mind.

“Sir,” replied he, “if you came to me with the idea of demanding
satisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have
entertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been
patiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this
construction on your visit?”

“Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous calumny.”

“Wait a moment—no threats, if you please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte
de Morcerf; I never allow them from my enemies, and therefore shall not
put up with them from my friends. You insist on my contradicting the
article relating to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure
you on my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do?”

“Yes, I insist on it,” said Albert, whose mind was beginning to get
bewildered with the excitement of his feelings.

“And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?” said Beauchamp
in a calm tone.

“Yes,” replied Albert, raising his voice.

“Well,” said Beauchamp, “here is my answer, my dear sir. The article
was not inserted by me—I was not even aware of it; but you have, by the
step you have taken, called my attention to the paragraph in question,
and it will remain until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed
by someone who has a right to do so.”

“Sir,” said Albert, rising, “I will do myself the honor of sending my
seconds to you, and you will be kind enough to arrange with them the
place of meeting and the weapons.”

“Certainly, my dear sir.”

“And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we will
meet.”

“No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in my opinion
(and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries, as it is I who have
received the provocation)—in my opinion the time ought not to be yet. I
know you to be well skilled in the management of the sword, while I am
only moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman—there we
are about equal. I know that a duel between us two would be a serious
affair, because you are brave, and I am brave also. I do not therefore
wish either to kill you, or to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I
am going to put a question to you, and one very much to the purpose
too. Do you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do
not make it, although I have repeated more than once, and affirmed on
my honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with which you charge me,
and although I still declare that it is impossible for anyone but you
to recognize the Count of Morcerf under the name of Fernand?”

“I maintain my original resolution.”

“Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you. But I
require three weeks’ preparation; at the end of that time I shall come
and say to you, ‘The assertion is false, and I retract it,’ or ‘The
assertion is true,’ when I shall immediately draw the sword from its
sheath, or the pistols from the case, whichever you please.”

“Three weeks!” cried Albert; “they will pass as slowly as three
centuries when I am all the time suffering dishonor.”

“Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I should have
said, ‘Patience, my friend;’ but you have constituted yourself my
enemy, therefore I say, ‘What does that signify to me, sir?’”

“Well, let it be three weeks then,” said Morcerf; “but remember, at the
expiration of that time no delay or subterfuge will justify you in——”

“M. Albert de Morcerf,” said Beauchamp, rising in his turn, “I cannot
throw you out of window for three weeks—that is to say, for twenty-four
days to come—nor have you any right to split my skull open till that
time has elapsed. Today is the 29th of August; the 21st of September
will, therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till that
time arrives—and it is the advice of a gentleman which I am about to
give you—till then we will refrain from growling and barking like two
dogs chained within sight of each other.”

When he had concluded his speech, Beauchamp bowed coldly to Albert,
turned his back upon him, and went to the press-room. Albert vented his
anger on a pile of newspapers, which he sent flying all over the office
by switching them violently with his stick; after which ebullition he
departed—not, however, without walking several times to the door of the
press-room, as if he had half a mind to enter.

40104m



While Albert was lashing the front of his carriage in the same manner
that he had the newspapers which were the innocent agents of his
discomfiture, as he was crossing the barrier he perceived Morrel, who
was walking with a quick step and a bright eye. He was passing the
Chinese Baths, and appeared to have come from the direction of the
Porte Saint-Martin, and to be going towards the Madeleine.

“Ah,” said Morcerf, “there goes a happy man!” And it so happened Albert
was not mistaken in his opinion.



 Chapter 79. The Lemonade

Morrel was, in fact, very happy. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and
he was in such haste to know the reason of his doing so that he had not
stopped to take a cab, placing infinitely more dependence on his own
two legs than on the four legs of a cab-horse. He had therefore set off
at a furious rate from the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with rapid
strides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

Morrel advanced with a firm, manly tread, and poor Barrois followed him
as he best might. Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was sixty years
of age; Morrel was deeply in love, and Barrois was dying with heat and
exertion. These two men, thus opposed in age and interests, resembled
two parts of a triangle, presenting the extremes of separation, yet
nevertheless possessing their point of union. This point of union was
Noirtier, and it was he who had just sent for Morrel, with the request
that the latter would lose no time in coming to him—a command which
Morrel obeyed to the letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On
arriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love
lends wings to our desires; but Barrois, who had long forgotten what it
was to love, was sorely fatigued by the expedition he had been
constrained to use.

The old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance, closed the
door of the study, and soon the rustling of a dress announced the
arrival of Valentine. She looked marvellously beautiful in her deep
mourning dress, and Morrel experienced such intense delight in gazing
upon her that he felt as if he could almost have dispensed with the
conversation of her grandfather.

But the easy-chair of the old man was heard rolling along the floor,
and he soon made his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a
look of extreme kindness and benevolence the thanks which Morrel
lavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of Valentine and
himself—an intervention which had saved them from despair. Morrel then
cast on the invalid an interrogative look as to the new favor which he
designed to bestow on him. Valentine was sitting at a little distance
from them, timidly awaiting the moment when she should be obliged to
speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her.

“Am I to say what you told me?” asked Valentine. Noirtier made a sign
that she was to do so.

“Monsieur Morrel,” said Valentine to the young man, who was regarding
her with the most intense interest, “my grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a
thousand things to say, which he told me three days ago; and now, he
has sent for you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them,
then; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will be faithful
to the trust, and will not alter a word of his intentions.”

“Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience,” replied the young
man; “speak, I beg of you.”

Valentine cast down her eyes; this was a good omen for Morrel, for he
knew that nothing but happiness could have the power of thus overcoming
Valentine.

“My grandfather intends leaving this house,” said she, “and Barrois is
looking out for suitable apartments for him in another.”

“But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort,—you, who are necessary to M.
Noirtier’s happiness——”

“I?” interrupted Valentine; “I shall not leave my grandfather,—that is
an understood thing between us. My apartment will be close to his. Now,
M. de Villefort must either give his consent to this plan or his
refusal; in the first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second,
I shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten months. Then
I shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and”—

“And what?” demanded Morrel.

“And with my grandfather’s consent I shall fulfil the promise which I
have made you.”

Valentine pronounced these last few words in such a low tone, that
nothing but Morrel’s intense interest in what she was saying could have
enabled him to hear them.

“Have I not explained your wishes, grandpapa?” said Valentine,
addressing Noirtier.

“Yes,” looked the old man.

“Once under my grandfather’s roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the
presence of my good and worthy protector, if we still feel that the
union we contemplated will be likely to insure our future comfort and
happiness; in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me
at my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed
by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security; I trust we
shall never find it so in our experience!”

“Oh,” cried Morrel, almost tempted to throw himself on his knees before
Noirtier and Valentine, and to adore them as two superior beings, “what
have I ever done in my life to merit such unbounded happiness?”

“Until that time,” continued the young girl in a calm and
self-possessed tone of voice, “we will conform to circumstances, and be
guided by the wishes of our friends, so long as those wishes do not
tend finally to separate us; in a word, and I repeat it, because it
expresses all I wish to convey,—we will wait.”

“And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word imposes, sir,”
said Morrel, “not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness.”

“Therefore,” continued Valentine, looking playfully at Maximilian, “no
more inconsiderate actions—no more rash projects; for you surely would
not wish to compromise one who from this day regards herself as
destined, honorably and happily, to bear your name?”

Morrel looked obedience to her commands. Noirtier regarded the lovers
with a look of ineffable tenderness, while Barrois, who had remained in
the room in the character of a man privileged to know everything that
passed, smiled on the youthful couple as he wiped the perspiration from
his bald forehead.

“How hot you look, my good Barrois,” said Valentine.

“Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must do M.
Morrel the justice to say that he ran still faster.”

Noirtier directed their attention to a waiter, on which was placed a
decanter containing lemonade and a glass. The decanter was nearly full,
with the exception of a little, which had been already drunk by M.
Noirtier.

“Come, Barrois,” said the young girl, “take some of this lemonade; I
see you are coveting a good draught of it.”

“The fact is, mademoiselle,” said Barrois, “I am dying with thirst, and
since you are so kind as to offer it me, I cannot say I should at all
object to drinking your health in a glass of it.”

“Take some, then, and come back immediately.”

Barrois took away the waiter, and hardly was he outside the door, which
in his haste he forgot to shut, than they saw him throw back his head
and empty to the very dregs the glass which Valentine had filled.
Valentine and Morrel were exchanging their adieux in the presence of
Noirtier when a ring was heard at the door-bell. It was the signal of a
visit. Valentine looked at her watch.

“It is past noon,” said she, “and today is Saturday; I dare say it is
the doctor, grandpapa.”

Noirtier looked his conviction that she was right in her supposition.

“He will come in here, and M. Morrel had better go,—do you not think
so, grandpapa?”

“Yes,” signed the old man.

“Barrois,” cried Valentine, “Barrois!”

“I am coming, mademoiselle,” replied he.

“Barrois will open the door for you,” said Valentine, addressing
Morrel. “And now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my
grandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised step which
would be likely to compromise our happiness.”

40108m



“I promised him to wait,” replied Morrel; “and I will wait.”

At this moment Barrois entered. “Who rang?” asked Valentine.

“Doctor d’Avrigny,” said Barrois, staggering as if he would fall.

“What is the matter, Barrois?” said Valentine. The old man did not
answer, but looked at his master with wild staring eyes, while with his
cramped hand he grasped a piece of furniture to enable him to stand
upright.

“He is going to fall!” cried Morrel.

The rigors which had attacked Barrois gradually increased, the features
of the face became quite altered, and the convulsive movement of the
muscles appeared to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous
disorder. Noirtier, seeing Barrois in this pitiable condition, showed
by his looks all the various emotions of sorrow and sympathy which can
animate the heart of man. Barrois made some steps towards his master.

“Ah, sir,” said he, “tell me what is the matter with me. I am
suffering—I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are piercing my brain.
Ah, don’t touch me, pray don’t.”

By this time his haggard eyes had the appearance of being ready to
start from their sockets; his head fell back, and the lower extremities
of the body began to stiffen. Valentine uttered a cry of horror; Morrel
took her in his arms, as if to defend her from some unknown danger.

“M. d’Avrigny, M. d’Avrigny,” cried she, in a stifled voice. “Help,
help!”

Barrois turned round and with a great effort stumbled a few steps, then
fell at the feet of Noirtier, and resting his hand on the knee of the
invalid, exclaimed:

“My master, my good master!”

At this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by the noise, appeared on the
threshold. Morrel relaxed his hold of Valentine, and retreating to a
distant corner of the room remained half hidden behind a curtain. Pale
as if he had been gazing on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye on
the agonized sufferer.

Noirtier, burning with impatience and terror, was in despair at his
utter inability to help his old domestic, whom he regarded more in the
light of a friend than a servant. One might by the fearful swelling of
the veins of his forehead and the contraction of the muscles round the
eye, trace the terrible conflict which was going on between the living
energetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body.

Barrois, his features convulsed, his eyes suffused with blood, and his
head thrown back, was lying at full length, beating the floor with his
hands, while his legs had become so stiff, that they looked as if they
would break rather than bend. A slight appearance of foam was visible
around the mouth, and he breathed painfully, and with extreme
difficulty.

Villefort seemed stupefied with astonishment, and remained gazing
intently on the scene before him without uttering a word. He had not
seen Morrel. After a moment of dumb contemplation, during which his
face became pale and his hair seemed to stand on end, he sprang towards
the door, crying out:

“Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come!”

“Madame, madame!” cried Valentine, calling her step-mother, and running
upstairs to meet her; “come quick, quick!—and bring your bottle of
smelling-salts with you.”

“What is the matter?” said Madame de Villefort in a harsh and
constrained tone.

“Oh! come! come!”

“But where is the doctor?” exclaimed Villefort; “where is he?”

Madame de Villefort now deliberately descended the staircase. In one
hand she held her handkerchief, with which she appeared to be wiping
her face, and in the other a bottle of English smelling-salts. Her
first look on entering the room was at Noirtier, whose face,
independent of the emotion which such a scene could not fail of
producing, proclaimed him to be in possession of his usual health; her
second glance was at the dying man. She turned pale, and her eye passed
quickly from the servant and rested on the master.

“In the name of heaven, madame,” said Villefort, “where is the doctor?
He was with you just now. You see this is a fit of apoplexy, and he
might be saved if he could but be bled!”

“Has he eaten anything lately?” asked Madame de Villefort, eluding her
husband’s question.

“Madame,” replied Valentine, “he has not even breakfasted. He has been
running very fast on an errand with which my grandfather charged him,
and when he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade.”

“Ah,” said Madame de Villefort, “why did he not take wine? Lemonade was
a very bad thing for him.”

“Grandpapa’s bottle of lemonade was standing just by his side; poor
Barrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to drink anything he could
find.”

Madame de Villefort started. Noirtier looked at her with a glance of
the most profound scrutiny.

“He has such a short neck,” said she.

“Madame,” said Villefort, “I ask where is M. d’Avrigny? In God’s name
answer me!”

“He is with Edward, who is not quite well,” replied Madame de
Villefort, no longer being able to avoid answering.

Villefort rushed upstairs to fetch him.

“Take this,” said Madame de Villefort, giving her smelling-bottle to
Valentine. “They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will retire,
for I cannot endure the sight of blood;” and she followed her husband
upstairs. Morrel now emerged from his hiding-place, where he had
remained quite unperceived, so great had been the general confusion.

“Go away as quick as you can, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “and stay
till I send for you. Go.”

Morrel looked towards Noirtier for permission to retire. The old man,
who had preserved all his usual coolness, made a sign to him to do so.
The young man pressed Valentine’s hand to his lips, and then left the
house by a back staircase.

At the same moment that he quitted the room, Villefort and the doctor
entered by an opposite door. Barrois was now showing signs of returning
consciousness. The risis seemed past, a low moaning was heard, and he
raised himself on one knee. D’Avrigny and Villefort laid him on a
couch.

“What do you prescribe, doctor?” demanded Villefort.

“Give me some water and ether. You have some in the house, have you
not?”

“Yes.”

“Send for some oil of turpentine and tartar emetic.”

Villefort immediately despatched a messenger. “And now let everyone
retire.”

“Must I go too?” asked Valentine timidly.

“Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,” replied the doctor abruptly.

Valentine looked at M. d’Avrigny with astonishment, kissed her
grandfather on the forehead, and left the room. The doctor closed the
door after her with a gloomy air.

“Look, look, doctor,” said Villefort, “he is quite coming round again;
I really do not think, after all, it is anything of consequence.”

M. d’Avrigny answered by a melancholy smile.

“How do you feel, Barrois?” asked he.

“A little better, sir.”

“Will you drink some of this ether and water?”

“I will try; but don’t touch me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the tip of your
finger the fit would return.”

“Drink.”

Barrois took the glass, and, raising it to his purple lips, took about
half of the liquid offered him.

“Where do you suffer?” asked the doctor.

“Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body.”

“Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Any noise in the ears?”

“Frightful.”

40112m



“When did you first feel that?”

“Just now.”

“Suddenly?”

“Yes, like a clap of thunder.”

“Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?”

“Nothing.”

“No drowsiness?”

“None.”

“What have you eaten today?”

“I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s
lemonade—that’s all.” And Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who,
immovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene
without allowing a word or a movement to escape him.

“Where is this lemonade?” asked the doctor eagerly.

“Downstairs in the decanter.”

“Whereabouts downstairs?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?” inquired Villefort.

“No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of
ether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade.”

D’Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down the back staircase, and
almost knocked down Madame de Villefort, in his haste, who was herself
going down to the kitchen. She cried out, but d’Avrigny paid no
attention to her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four
steps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he saw the
decanter about three parts empty still standing on the waiter, where it
had been left. He darted upon it as an eagle would seize upon its prey.
Panting with loss of breath, he returned to the room he had just left.
Madame de Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her
room.

“Is this the decanter you spoke of?” asked d’Avrigny.

“Yes, doctor.”

“Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?”

“I believe so.”

“What did it taste like?”

“It had a bitter taste.”

The doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand,
put his lips to it, and after having rinsed his mouth as a man does
when he is tasting wine, he spat the liquor into the fireplace.

“It is no doubt the same,” said he. “Did you drink some too, M.
Noirtier?”

“Yes.”

“And did you also discover a bitter taste?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, doctor,” cried Barrois, “the fit is coming on again. Oh, do
something for me.” The doctor flew to his patient.

“That emetic, Villefort—see if it is coming.”

Villefort sprang into the passage, exclaiming, “The emetic! the
emetic!—is it come yet?” No one answered. The most profound terror
reigned throughout the house.

“If I had anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs,” said
d’Avrigny, looking around him, “perhaps I might prevent suffocation.
But there is nothing which would do!—nothing!”

40114m



“Oh, sir,” cried Barrois, “are you going to let me die without help?
Oh, I am dying! Oh, save me!”

“A pen, a pen!” said the doctor. There was one lying on the table; he
endeavored to introduce it into the mouth of the patient, who, in the
midst of his convulsions, was making vain attempts to vomit; but the
jaws were so clenched that the pen could not pass them. This second
attack was much more violent than the first, and he had slipped from
the couch to the ground, where he was writhing in agony. The doctor
left him in this paroxysm, knowing that he could do nothing to
alleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier, said abruptly:

“How do you find yourself?—well?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel light and
comfortable—eh?”

“Yes.”

“Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you have had the
dose which I am accustomed to give you every Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Did Barrois make your lemonade?”

“Yes.”

“Was it you who asked him to drink some of it?”

“No.”

“Was it M. de Villefort?”

“No.”

“Madame?”

“No.”

“It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?”

“Yes.”

A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the
very jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d’Avrigny; he left M.
Noirtier, and returned to the sick man.

“Barrois,” said the doctor, “can you speak?” Barrois muttered a few
unintelligible words. “Try and make an effort to do so, my good man.”
said d’Avrigny. Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes.

“Who made the lemonade?”

“I did.”

“Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?”

“No.”

“You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?”

“Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away.”

“Who brought it into this room, then?”

“Mademoiselle Valentine.” D’Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand.

“Gracious heaven,” exclaimed he.

“Doctor, doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.

“Will they never bring that emetic?” asked the doctor.

“Here is a glass with one already prepared,” said Villefort, entering
the room.

“Who prepared it?”

“The chemist who came here with me.”

40116m



“Drink it,” said the doctor to Barrois.

“Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am
choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like
this long?”

“No, no, friend,” replied the doctor, “you will soon cease to suffer.”

“Ah, I understand you,” said the unhappy man. “My God, have mercy upon
me!” and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell back as if he had been
struck by lightning. D’Avrigny put his hand to his heart, and placed a
glass before his lips.

“Well?” said Villefort.

“Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets.”

Villefort went immediately.

“Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier,” said d’Avrigny; “I am going to take
my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very
frightful to witness.”

And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining
room; but almost immediately he returned to fetch the lemonade.
Noirtier closed his right eye.

“You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you.”

Villefort returned, and d’Avrigny met him in the passage.

“Well, how is he now?” asked he.

“Come in here,” said d’Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where
the sick man lay.

“Is he still in a fit?” said the procureur.

“He is dead.”

Villefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed,
with real amazement and sympathy, “Dead?—and so soon too!”

“Yes, it is very soon,” said the doctor, looking at the corpse before
him; “but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de
Saint-Méran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de
Villefort.”

“What?” cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and
consternation, “are you still harping on that terrible idea?”

“Still, sir; and I shall always do so,” replied d’Avrigny, “for it has
never for one instant ceased to retain possession of my mind; and that
you may be quite sure I am not mistaken this time, listen well to what
I am going to say, M. de Villefort.”

The magistrate trembled convulsively.

“There is a poison which destroys life almost without leaving any
perceptible traces. I know it well; I have studied it in all its forms
and in the effects which it produces. I recognized the presence of this
poison in the case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de
Saint-Méran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It restores the
blue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of
violets green. We have no litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with
the syrup of violets.”

The doctor was right; steps were heard in the passage. M. d’Avrigny
opened the door, and took from the hands of the chambermaid a cup which
contained two or three spoonfuls of the syrup, he then carefully closed
the door.

“Look,” said he to the procureur, whose heart beat so loudly that it
might almost be heard, “here is in this cup some syrup of violets, and
this decanter contains the remainder of the lemonade of which M.
Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the lemonade be pure and inoffensive,
the syrup will retain its color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be
drugged with poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely!”

The doctor then slowly poured some drops of the lemonade from the
decanter into the cup, and in an instant a light cloudy sediment began
to form at the bottom of the cup; this sediment first took a blue
shade, then from the color of sapphire it passed to that of opal, and
from opal to emerald. Arrived at this last hue, it changed no more. The
result of the experiment left no doubt whatever on the mind.

“The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned,” said d’Avrigny, “and I
will maintain this assertion before God and man.”

Villefort said nothing, but he clasped his hands, opened his haggard
eyes, and, overcome with his emotion, sank into a chair.



 Chapter 80. The Accusation

M. d’Avrigny soon restored the magistrate to consciousness, who had
looked like a second corpse in that chamber of death.

“Oh, death is in my house!” cried Villefort.

“Say, rather, crime!” replied the doctor.

“M. d’Avrigny,” cried Villefort, “I cannot tell you all I feel at this
moment,—terror, grief, madness.”

“Yes,” said M. d’Avrigny, with an imposing calmness, “but I think it is
now time to act. I think it is time to stop this torrent of mortality.
I can no longer bear to be in possession of these secrets without the
hope of seeing the victims and society generally revenged.”

Villefort cast a gloomy look around him. “In my house,” murmured he,
“in my house!”

“Come, magistrate,” said M. d’Avrigny, “show yourself a man; as an
interpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by sacrificing your
selfish interests to it.”

“You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice?”

“I do.”

“Do you then suspect anyone?”

“I suspect no one; death raps at your door—it enters—it goes, not
blindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to room. Well, I follow its
course, I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and
feel my way, for my friendship for your family and my respect for you
are as a twofold bandage over my eyes; well——”

“Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage.”

“Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your family, perhaps,
one of the frightful monstrosities of which each century produces only
one. Locusta and Agrippina, living at the same time, were an exception,
and proved the determination of Providence to effect the entire ruin of
the Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunhilda and Fredegund
were the results of the painful struggle of civilization in its
infancy, when man was learning to control mind, were it even by an
emissary from the realms of darkness. All these women had been, or
were, beautiful. The same flower of innocence had flourished, or was
still flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the
culprit in your house.”

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Villefort shrieked, clasped his hands, and looked at the doctor with a
supplicating air. But the latter went on without pity:

“‘Seek whom the crime will profit,’ says an axiom of jurisprudence.”

“Doctor,” cried Villefort, “alas, doctor, how often has man’s justice
been deceived by those fatal words. I know not why, but I feel that
this crime——”

“You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime?”

“Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems that it is
intended to affect me personally. I fear an attack myself, after all
these disasters.”

“Oh, man!” murmured d’Avrigny, “the most selfish of all animals, the
most personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun
shines, and death strikes for him alone,—an ant cursing God from the
top of a blade of grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost
nothing?—M. de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, M. Noirtier——”

“How? M. Noirtier?”

“Yes; think you it was the poor servant’s life was coveted? No, no;
like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the
lemonade was intended for—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank
it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead,
it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.”

“But why did it not kill my father?”

“I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s
death—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the
dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no
one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I
have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the
assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent
poison.”

“Oh, have pity—have pity!” murmured Villefort, wringing his hands.

“Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran——”

“Oh, doctor!”

“I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with
what I have seen in the other cases.” Villefort ceased to contend; he
only groaned. “He first kills M. de Saint-Méran,” repeated the doctor,
“then Madame de Saint-Méran,—a double fortune to inherit.” Villefort
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Listen attentively.”

“Alas,” stammered Villefort, “I do not lose a single word.”

“M. Noirtier,” resumed M. d’Avrigny in the same pitiless tone,—“M.
Noirtier had once made a will against you—against your family—in favor
of the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is
expected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and
made a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck
down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see
there has been no time lost.”

“Oh, mercy, M. d’Avrigny!”

“No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to
fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the
mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and
God, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician
to bring the culprit to justice.”

40122m



“Have mercy on my child, sir,” murmured Villefort.

“You see it is yourself who have first named her—you, her father.”

“Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly
accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily!”

“No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed
all the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-Méran; and M. de
Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling
draughts which Madame de Saint-Méran took, and Madame de Saint-Méran is
dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was
sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has
escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit—she is
the poisoner! To you, as the king’s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle
de Villefort, do your duty.”

“Doctor, I resist no longer—I can no longer defend myself—I believe
you; but, for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!”

“M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with increased vehemence, “there
are occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If
your daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating
another, I would say ‘Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder
of her life in a convent, weeping and praying.’ If she had committed
two crimes, I would say, ‘Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the
prisoner is not acquainted with,—one that has no known antidote, quick
as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her
that poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your
life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching
your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations.
Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!’ This is what
I would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three
deaths,—has contemplated three murdered persons,—has knelt by three
corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner—to the scaffold! Do you talk
of your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!”

Villefort fell on his knees.

“Listen,” said he; “I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather
that which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your
daughter Madeleine were concerned.” The doctor turned pale. “Doctor,
every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer
and to await death.”

“Beware,” said M. d’Avrigny, “it may come slowly; you will see it
approach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son.”

Villefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor’s arm.

40124m



“Listen,” cried he; “pity me—help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If
you drag us both before a tribunal I will still say, ‘No, my daughter
is not guilty;—there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a
crime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like
death—it does not come alone.’ Listen. What does it signify to you if I
am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No,
you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter
before a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea
would kill me—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my
finger-nails! And if you were mistaken, doctor—if it were not my
daughter—if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you,
‘Assassin, you have killed my child!’—hold—if that should happen,
although I am a Christian, M. d’Avrigny, I should kill myself.”

“Well,” said the doctor, after a moment’s silence, “I will wait.”

Villefort looked at him as if he had doubted his words.

“Only,” continued M. d’Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone, “if anyone
falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for
me, for I will come no more. I will consent to share this dreadful
secret with you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and
increase in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your house.”

“Then you abandon me, doctor?”

“Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at the foot of
the scaffold. Some further discovery will be made, which will bring
this dreadful tragedy to a close. Adieu.”

“I entreat you, doctor!”

“All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house odious and
fatal. Adieu, sir.”

“One word—one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving me in all the
horror of my situation, after increasing it by what you have revealed
to me. But what will be reported of the sudden death of the poor old
servant?”

“True,” said M. d’Avrigny; “we will return.”

The doctor went out first, followed by M. de Villefort. The terrified
servants were on the stairs and in the passage where the doctor would
pass.

“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, so loud that all might hear, “poor
Barrois has led too sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to
ride on horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of Europe,
the monotonous walk around that armchair has killed him—his blood has
thickened. He was stout, had a short, thick neck; he was attacked with
apoplexy, and I was called in too late. By the way,” added he in a low
tone, “take care to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the
ashes.”

The doctor, without shaking hands with Villefort, without adding a word
to what he had said, went out, amid the tears and lamentations of the
whole household. The same evening all Villefort’s servants, who had
assembled in the kitchen, and had a long consultation, came to tell
Madame de Villefort that they wished to leave. No entreaty, no
proposition of increased wages, could induce them to remain; to every
argument they replied, “We must go, for death is in this house.”

They all left, in spite of prayers and entreaties, testifying their
regret at leaving so good a master and mistress, and especially
Mademoiselle Valentine, so good, so kind, and so gentle.

Villefort looked at Valentine as they said this. She was in tears, and,
strange as it was, in spite of the emotions he felt at the sight of
these tears, he looked also at Madame de Villefort, and it appeared to
him as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over her thin lips, like a
meteor seen passing inauspiciously between two clouds in a stormy sky.



 Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker

The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars’
house with feelings of shame and anger at the rejection of the
projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with curled hair, moustaches
in perfect order, and white gloves which fitted admirably, had entered
the courtyard of the banker’s house in Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He
had not been more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew
Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after an ingenious
preamble, related to him all his anxieties and cares since his noble
father’s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness which had been
shown him by the banker’s family, in which he had been received as a
son, and where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object on
which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars.

Danglars listened with the most profound attention; he had expected
this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at last it
came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered on listening to
Morcerf. He would not, however, yield immediately to the young man’s
request, but made a few conscientious objections.

“Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying?”

“I think not, sir,” replied M. Cavalcanti; “in Italy the nobility
generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure
happiness while it is within our reach.”

“Well, sir,” said Danglars, “in case your proposals, which do me honor,
are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary
arrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be
conducted by the respective fathers of the young people.”

“Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that
I might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together
with the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he
approved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was
married. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my
father’s revenue.”

“I,” said Danglars, “have always intended giving my daughter 500,000
francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole heiress.”

“All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are
willing. We should command an annuity of 175,000 livres. Supposing,
also, I should persuade the marquis to give me my capital, which is not
likely, but still is possible, we would place these two or three
millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize ten per
cent.”

“I never give more than four per cent, and generally only three and a
half; but to my son-in-law I would give five, and we would share the
profits.”

“Very good, father-in-law,” said Cavalcanti, yielding to his low-born
nature, which would escape sometimes through the aristocratic gloss
with which he sought to conceal it. Correcting himself immediately, he
said, “Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me almost mad,—what will not
reality do?”

“But,” said Danglars, who, on his part, did not perceive how soon the
conversation, which was at first disinterested, was turning to a
business transaction, “there is, doubtless, a part of your fortune your
father could not refuse you?”

“Which?” asked the young man.

“That you inherit from your mother.”

“Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari.”

“How much may it amount to?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Andrea, “I assure you I have never given the
subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at least two
millions.”

Danglars felt as much overcome with joy as the miser who finds a lost
treasure, or as the shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid
ground instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him up.

“Well, sir,” said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully, “may I
hope?”

“You may not only hope,” said Danglars, “but consider it a settled
thing, if no obstacle arises on your part.”

“I am, indeed, rejoiced,” said Andrea.

“But,” said Danglars thoughtfully, “how is it that your patron, M. de
Monte Cristo, did not make his proposal for you?”

Andrea blushed imperceptibly.

“I have just left the count, sir,” said he; “he is, doubtless, a
delightful man but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me
highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that my father
would give me the capital instead of the interest of my property. He
has promised to use his influence to obtain it for me; but he also
declared that he never had taken on himself the responsibility of
making proposals for another, and he never would. I must, however, do
him the justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted the
repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this occasion, because he
thought the projected union would be a happy and suitable one. Besides,
if he will do nothing officially, he will answer any questions you
propose to him. And now,” continued he, with one of his most charming
smiles, “having finished talking to the father-in-law, I must address
myself to the banker.”

“And what may you have to say to him?” said Danglars, laughing in his
turn.

“That the day after tomorrow I shall have to draw upon you for about
four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my bachelor’s revenue
could not suffice for the coming month’s outlay, has offered me a draft
for twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you see, which
is all-sufficient.”

“Bring me a million such as that,” said Danglars, “I shall be well
pleased,” putting the draft in his pocket. “Fix your own hour for
tomorrow, and my cashier shall call on you with a check for eighty
thousand francs.”

“At ten o’clock then, if you please; I should like it early, as I am
going into the country tomorrow.”

“Very well, at ten o’clock; you are still at the Hôtel des Princes?”

“Yes.”

The following morning, with the banker’s usual punctuality, the eighty
thousand francs were placed in the young man’s hands, as he was on the
point of starting, after having left two hundred francs for Caderousse.
He went out chiefly to avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late
as possible in the evening.

But scarcely had he stepped out of his carriage when the porter met him
with a parcel in his hand.

“Sir,” said he, “that man has been here.”

“What man?” said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting him whom he
but too well recollected.

“Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity.”

“Oh,” said Andrea, “my father’s old servant. Well, you gave him the two
hundred francs I had left for him?”

“Yes, your excellency.” Andrea had expressed a wish to be thus
addressed. “But,” continued the porter, “he would not take them.”

Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his pallor was not perceptible.
“What? he would not take them?” said he with slight emotion.

40130m



“No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you were gone
out, and after some dispute he believed me and gave me this letter,
which he had brought with him already sealed.”

“Give it me,” said Andrea, and he read by the light of his
carriage-lamp:

“‘You know where I live; I expect you tomorrow morning at nine
o’clock.’”

Andrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had been
opened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its contents; but it was so
carefully folded, that no one could have read it, and the seal was
perfect.

“Very well,” said he. “Poor man, he is a worthy creature.” He left the
porter to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire, the
master or the servant.

“Take out the horses quickly, and come up to me,” said Andrea to his
groom. In two seconds the young man had reached his room and burnt
Caderousse’s letter. The servant entered just as he had finished.

“You are about my height, Pierre,” said he.

“I have that honor, your excellency.”

“You had a new livery yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this evening, and
do not wish to be known; lend me your livery till tomorrow. I may
sleep, perhaps, at an inn.”

Pierre obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel, completely
disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the driver to take him to the
Cheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next morning he left that inn as he had
left the Hôtel des Princes, without being noticed, walked down the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Ménilmontant, and
stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked for someone
of whom to make inquiry in the porter’s absence.

“For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?” asked the fruiteress on the
opposite side.

“Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman,” replied Andrea.

“A retired baker?” asked the fruiteress.

“Exactly.”

“He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story.”

40132m



Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third floor he found a
hare’s paw, which, by the hasty ringing of the bell, it was evident he
pulled with considerable ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse’s face
appeared at the grating in the door.

“Ah! you are punctual,” said he, as he drew back the door.

“Confound you and your punctuality!” said Andrea, throwing himself into
a chair in a manner which implied that he would rather have flung it at
the head of his host.

“Come, come, my little fellow, don’t be angry. See, I have thought
about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but
what you are fond of.”

Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not
unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and
garlic peculiar to Provençal kitchens of an inferior order, added to
that of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and
cloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and
placed on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In
an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for
two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with
yellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a
cabbage-leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate.

“What do you think of it, my little fellow?” said Caderousse. “Ay, that
smells good! You know I used to be a good cook; do you recollect how
you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any
of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.” While speaking,
Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions.

“But,” said Andrea, ill-temperedly, “by my faith, if it was only to
breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken
you!”

“My boy,” said Caderousse sententiously, “one can talk while eating.
And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old
friend? I am weeping with joy.”

He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether
joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands
of the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard.

“Hold your tongue, hypocrite,” said Andrea; “you love me!”

“Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness,” said
Caderousse, “but it overpowers me.”

“And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some
trick.”

“Come,” said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, “if I did
not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead
me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you
therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own
meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hôte of the
Hôtel des Princes, or the Café de Paris. Well, I too could keep a
servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but
why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just
acknowledge that I could, eh?”

This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult
to understand.

“Well,” said Andrea, “admitting your love, why do you want me to
breakfast with you?”

“That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.”

“What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?”

“Eh, dear friend,” said Caderousse, “are wills ever made without
codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down,
and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I
have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you
look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each.
But what do you expect? This is not the Hôtel des Princes.”

“Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who
only wish to live like a retired baker.”

Caderousse sighed.

“Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized.”

“I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is
rich—he has an annuity.”

“Well, you have an annuity.”

“I have?”

40134m



“Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs.”

Caderousse shrugged his shoulders.

“It is humiliating,” said he, “thus to receive money given
grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am
obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my
friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I
know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the
daughter of Danglars.”

“What? of Danglars?”

“Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count
Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a
memory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine.
Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then,—he was an under-clerk
to the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count
of Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to
cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms.”

“Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light.”

“That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying.
Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the
great gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat.”

Caderousse set the example and attacked the breakfast with good
appetite, praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter
seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and partook largely
of the fish with the garlic and fat.

“Ah, mate,” said Caderousse, “you are getting on better terms with your
old landlord!”

“Faith, yes,” replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over every other
feeling.

“So you like it, you rogue?”

“So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard
living.”

“Do you see,” said Caderousse, “all my happiness is marred by one
thought?”

“What is that?”

“That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own
livelihood honestly.”

“Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.”

“No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I
am tormented by remorse.”

“Good Caderousse!”

“So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.”

“Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?”

“True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me.”

Andrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse’s ideas.

“It is miserable—do you see?—always to wait till the end of the month.”

“Oh,” said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion
narrowly, “does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare
better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?”

“Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you
expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you
take care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had
little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your
poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend
Caderousse.”

“There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of
the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that
again?”

“Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty,
and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.”

“Yes.”

“I was going to say, if I were in your place——”

“Well.”

“I would realize——”

“How would you realize?”

“I would ask for six months’ in advance, under pretence of being able
to purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp.”

“Well, well,” said Andrea, “that isn’t a bad idea.”

“My dear friend,” said Caderousse, “eat of my bread, and take my
advice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally.”

“But,” said Andrea, “why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why
do you not realize a six months’, a year’s advance even, and retire to
Brussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a
bankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good.”

“But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs?”

“Ah, Caderousse,” said Andrea, “how covetous you are! Two months ago
you were dying with hunger.”

“The appetite grows by what it feeds on,” said Caderousse, grinning and
showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a tiger growling. “And,”
added he, biting off with his large white teeth an enormous mouthful of
bread, “I have formed a plan.”

Caderousse’s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were
but the germ, the plan was reality.

“Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one.”

“Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of
M——! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we
are!”

“I do not say,” replied Andrea, “that you never make a good one; but
let us see your plan.”

“Well,” pursued Caderousse, “can you without expending one sou, put me
in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are
not enough,—I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty
thousand francs.”

“No,” replied Andrea, dryly, “no, I cannot.”

“I do not think you understand me,” replied Caderousse, calmly; “I said
without your laying out a sou.”

“Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune—and
yours with mine—and both of us to be dragged down there again?”

“It would make very little difference to me,” said Caderousse, “if I
were retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine
for my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be
glad never to see them again.”

Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale.

“Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!” said he.

“Don’t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me
some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your
assistance, and I will contrive it.”

“Well, I’ll see—I’ll try to contrive some way,” said Andrea.

“Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs,
my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper.”

“Well, you shall have your five hundred francs,” said Andrea; “but it
is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse—you take advantage——”

“Bah,” said Caderousse, “when you have access to countless stores.”

One would have said Andrea anticipated his companion’s words, so did
his eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment.

“True,” he replied, “and my protector is very kind.”

“That dear protector,” said Caderousse; “and how much does he give you
monthly?”

“Five thousand francs.”

“As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards
who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil
can you do with all that?”

“Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want
capital.”

“Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.”

“Well, and I shall get it.”

“Who will give it to you—your prince?”

“Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.”

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“You must wait for what?” asked Caderousse.

“For his death.”

“The death of your prince?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Because he has made his will in my favor.”

“Indeed?”

“On my honor.”

“For how much?”

“For five hundred thousand.”

“Only that? It’s little enough.”

“But so it is.”

“No, it cannot be!”

“Are you my friend, Caderousse?”

“Yes, in life or death.”

“Well, I will tell you a secret.”

“What is it?”

“But remember——”

“Ah! _pardieu!_ mute as a carp.”

“Well, I think——”

Andrea stopped and looked around.

“You think? Do not fear; _pardieu!_ we are alone.”

“I think I have discovered my father.”

“Your true father?”

“Yes.”

“Not old Cavalcanti?”

“No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.”

“And that father is——”

“Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo.”

“Bah!”

“Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me
openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him
fifty thousand francs for it.”

“Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for
half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not
think of me, ungrateful man?”

“Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down
there?”

“Ah, truly? And you say that by his will——”

“He leaves me five hundred thousand livres.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“He showed it me; but that is not all—there is a codicil, as I said
just now.”

“Probably.”

“And in that codicil he acknowledges me.”

“Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!” said
Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air between his two hands.

“Now, say if I conceal anything from you?”

“No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your
princely father, is he rich, very rich?”

“Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune.”

“Is it possible?”

“It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day
a banker’s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about
the size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred
thousand francs in gold.”

Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man’s words sounded to him
like metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of
louis.

“And you go into that house?” cried he briskly.

“When I like.”

Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to perceive he was
revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then suddenly,—

“How I should like to see all that,” cried he; “how beautiful it must
be!”

“It is, in fact, magnificent,” said Andrea.

“And does he not live in the Champs-Élysées?”

“Yes, No. 30.”

“Ah,” said Caderousse, “No. 30.”

“Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a
garden,—you must know it.”

“Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior.
What beautiful furniture there must be in it!”

“Have you ever seen the Tuileries?”

“No.”

“Well, it surpasses that.”

“It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte
Cristo lets fall his purse.”

“It is not worthwhile to wait for that,” said Andrea; “money is as
plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.”

“But you should take me there one day with you.”

“How can I? On what plea?”

“You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see
it; I shall find a way.”

“No nonsense, Caderousse!”

“I will offer myself as floor-polisher.”

“The rooms are all carpeted.”

“Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.”

“That is the best plan, believe me.”

“Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.”

“How can I?”

“Nothing is easier. Is it large?”

“Middling.”

“How is it arranged?”

“Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.”

“They are all here,” said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old
secretaire a sheet of white paper and pen and ink. “Here,” said
Caderousse, “draw me all that on the paper, my boy.”

Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began.

“The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this
way, do you see?” Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house.

40142m



“High walls?”

“Not more than eight or ten feet.”

“That is not prudent,” said Caderousse.

“In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.”

“And no steel-traps?”

“No.”

“The stables?”

“Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.” And Andrea
continued his plan.

“Let us see the ground floor,” said Caderousse.

“On the ground floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room,
staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.”

“Windows?”

“Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of
your size should pass through each frame.”

“Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?”

“Luxury has everything.”

“But shutters?”

“Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an
original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.”

“And where do the servants sleep?”

“Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty
coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well,
over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding
with the different apartments.”

“Ah, _diable!_ bells did you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is
the use of them, I should like to know?”

“There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been
taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.”

“Yes.”

“I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur
Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is
left unprotected.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day
you will be robbed.’”

“What did he answer?”

“He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’”

“Andrea, he has some secretaire with a spring.”

“How do you know?”

“Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told
there were such at the last exhibition.”

“He has simply a mahogany secretaire, in which the key is always kept.”

“And he is not robbed?”

“No; his servants are all devoted to him.”

“There ought to be some money in that secretaire?”

“There may be. No one knows what there is.”

“And where is it?”

“On the first floor.”

“Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground
floor, my boy.”

“That is very simple.” Andrea took the pen. “On the first story, do you
see, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the
drawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a
dressing-room. The famous secretaire is in the dressing-room.”

“Is there a window in the dressing-room?”

“Two,—one here and one there.” Andrea sketched two windows in the room,
which formed an angle on the plan, and appeared as a small square added
to the rectangle of the bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful.

“Does he often go to Auteuil?” added he.

“Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to
spend the day and night there.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“He has invited me to dine there.”

“There’s a life for you,” said Caderousse; “a town house and a country
house.”

“That is what it is to be rich.”

“And shall you dine there?”

“Probably.”

“When you dine there, do you sleep there?”

“If I like; I am at home there.”

Caderousse looked at the young man, as if to get at the truth from the
bottom of his heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took
a Havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking.

“When do you want your twelve hundred francs?” said he to Caderousse.

“Now, if you have them.” Andrea took five-and-twenty louis from his
pocket.

“Yellow boys?” said Caderousse; “no, I thank you.”

“Oh, you despise them.”

“On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them.”

“You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous.”

“Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay
hands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold. No
nonsense, my good fellow; silver simply, round coins with the head of
some monarch or other on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece.”

“But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with me? I should
want a porter.”

“Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I will call
for them.”

“Today?”

“No, tomorrow; I shall not have time today.”

“Well, tomorrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil.”

“May I depend on it?”

“Certainly.”

“Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of it.”

“Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not torment me any
more?”

“Never.”

Caderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared he should be obliged
to notice the change. He redoubled his gayety and carelessness.

“How sprightly you are,” said Caderousse; “One would say you were
already in possession of your property.”

“No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it——”

“Well?”

“I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that.”

“Yes, since you have such a good memory.”

“What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece me?”

“I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece of good
advice.”

“What is it?”

“To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We shall both
get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and me by your folly.”

“How so?” said Andrea.

“How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a servant, and yet
keep a diamond on your finger worth four or five thousand francs.”

“You guess well.”

“I know something of diamonds; I have had some.”

“You do well to boast of it,” said Andrea, who, without becoming angry,
as Caderousse feared, at this new extortion, quietly resigned the ring.
Caderousse looked so closely at it that Andrea well knew that he was
examining to see if all the edges were perfect.

“It is a false diamond,” said Caderousse.

“You are joking now,” replied Andrea.

“Do not be angry, we can try it.” Caderousse went to the window,
touched the glass with it, and found it would cut.

“_Confiteor!_” said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his little
finger; “I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well
that it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller’s shop—it is another
branch of industry paralyzed.”

“Have you finished?” said Andrea,—“do you want anything more?—will you
have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now you have begun.”

“No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain you, and
will try to cure myself of my ambition.”

“But take care the same thing does not happen to you in selling the
diamond you feared with the gold.”

“I shall not sell it—do not fear.”

“Not at least till the day after tomorrow,” thought the young man.

“Happy rogue,” said Caderousse; “you are going to find your servants,
your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!”

“Yes,” said Andrea.

“Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the day you
marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”

“I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in your head.”

“What fortune has she?”

“But I tell you——”

“A million?”

Andrea shrugged his shoulders.

“Let it be a million,” said Caderousse; “you can never have so much as
I wish you.”

“Thank you,” said the young man.

“Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!” added Caderousse with his hoarse
laugh. “Stop, let me show you the way.”

“It is not worthwhile.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why?”

“Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable
to take, one of Huret & Fichet’s locks, revised and improved by Gaspard
Caderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a
capitalist.”

“Thank you,” said Andrea; “I will let you know a week beforehand.”

They parted. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had not only
seen Andrea go down the three stories, but also cross the court. Then
he returned hastily, shut his door carefully, and began to study, like
a clever architect, the plan Andrea had left him.

“Dear Benedetto,” said he, “I think he will not be sorry to inherit his
fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred
thousand will not be his worst friend.”



 Chapter 82. The Burglary

The day following that on which the conversation we have related took
place, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by
Ali and several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose
qualities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake
this journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and which
had not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from
Normandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house
was ready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor
in a small creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the
requisite formalities and were ready again to put to sea.

The count praised Bertuccio’s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a
speedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more
than a month.

“Now,” said he, “I may require to go in one night from Paris to
Tréport; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will
enable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours.”

“Your highness had already expressed that wish,” said Bertuccio, “and
the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at
the most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally
stops.”

“That’s well,” said Monte Cristo; “I remain here a day or two—arrange
accordingly.”

As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders,
Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.

“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered with
dust; “I did not send for you, I think?”

Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the
letter. “Important and urgent,” said he.

The count opened the letter, and read:

“‘M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his
house in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off some
papers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The
count’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the
police, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this
advice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing
himself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property
himself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the
villain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the
opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who
now sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able to
send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be
made.’”


The count’s first idea was that this was an artifice—a gross deception,
to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a
greater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of
police, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps
because of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it
might be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over
whom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as
Fiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the
count’s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,
with that energy which marks the great man.

From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the
count had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which he
had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, and
sometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.

“They do not want my papers,” said Monte Cristo, “they want to kill me;
they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of
police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough,
forsooth, to distribute his authority on this occasion.”

The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering
the letter.

“Return to Paris,” said he; “assemble the servants who remain there. I
want all my household at Auteuil.”

“But will no one remain in the house, my lord?” asked Baptistin.

“Yes, the porter.”

“My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.”

“Well?”

“The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.”

“By whom?”

“By thieves.”

“You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it would
annoy me less than to be disobeyed.” Baptistin bowed.

40150m



“You understand me?” said the count. “Bring your comrades here, one and
all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the
ground floor.”

“And those of the first floor?”

“You know they are never closed. Go!”

The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but
Ali should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and
moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out
by the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned,
apparently without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself
opposite his house in the Champs-Élysées. All was dark; one solitary,
feeble light was burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces
distant from the house, as Baptistin had said.

Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glance
which was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examined
the passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, to
see that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he was
convinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-door
with Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants’ staircase, of which
he had the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a
single curtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion
that the house, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.

Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he
passed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared
as usual—the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in the
secretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom
door, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali
had procured the arms the count required—namely, a short carbine and a
pair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might be
taken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held the
lives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine.

The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of
Spanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable
panels, which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within
his reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one
of the small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since the
Crusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with
that in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.

Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his
wild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,
could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.
The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be
expected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be
made from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in
Monte Cristo’s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It
would be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the
back staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room.

The clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind
bore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.

40152m



As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise
in the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,
was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew
what to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting
the four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his
heart beat more rapidly.

Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril,
they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of
the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality,
between the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made
a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching
from the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager
to ascertain the strength and number of his enemies.

The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which
the count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that
window—he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes
became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,
then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was
passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its
hinges, and a man entered. He was alone.

“That’s a daring rascal,” whispered the count.

At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali
pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the
street.

“I see!” said he, “there are two of them; one does the work while the
other stands guard.” He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man
in the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.

The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms
stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself
familiar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them
both.

When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he
was coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the
sound of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a
precaution. The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count
had removed the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue
his purpose with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the
man then drew from his pocket something which the count could not
discern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire,
felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was
missing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for
all emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of
skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a
lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of
their nightly song when they grind against the bolt.

“Ah, ha,” whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, “he is
only a thief.”

But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the
instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and
immediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects
distinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance.

“By heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back, “it is——”

Ali raised his hatchet.

“Don’t stir,” whispered Monte Cristo, “and put down your hatchet; we
shall require no arms.”

40154m



Then he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which
surprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled
the man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder.

It was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali went
noiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered
hat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his greatcoat,
waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmering
through the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, of
which the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn
by King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head
was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a long
cassock, as did his hair under a priest’s wig; the three-cornered hat
over this effectually transformed the count into an abbé.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whose
lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.

“Try again,” whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,
which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be—“try again,
you have a few minutes’ work there.”

And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on a
fence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as it
appeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of the
Champs-Élysées or by the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; his attention was
engrossed with what was passing at the count’s, and his only aim
appeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room.

Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile
passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered:

“Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear,
whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.”

Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a
lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with
his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should
shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief
heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly
illuminated. He turned.

“Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what are
you doing here, at such an hour?”

40156m



“The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this
strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he
let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The
count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting
off from the thief his only chance of retreat.

“The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the
count.

“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And
I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have
a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.”

This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness,
staggered Caderousse.

“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth
chattering.

“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé.

“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window,
which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe
me—I take my oath——”

“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of
false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——”

Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in,
some way of escape.

“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an
assassin.”

“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was
La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned
to the galleys.”

“Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return
there?”

“No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.”

“That someone has done society a great kindness.”

“Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised——”

“And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo.

“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.

“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de
Grève. So much the worse, so much the worse—_diavolo!_ as they say in
my country.”

“Reverend sir, I am impelled——”

“Every criminal says the same thing.”

“Poverty——”

“Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a
loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire
in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had
just paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you
killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also
poverty?”

“Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once,
save me again!”

“That is but poor encouragement.”

“Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize
me?”

“I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, and
will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may
lead to, if you tell me the truth.”

“Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing
nearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!”

“You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?”

“Yes, that is true, reverend sir.”

“Who was your liberator?”

“An Englishman.”

“What was his name?”

“Lord Wilmore.”

“I know him; I shall know if you lie.”

“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”

“Was this Englishman protecting you?”

“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”

“What was this young Corsican’s name?”

“Benedetto.”

“Is that his Christian name?”

“He had no other; he was a foundling.”

“Then this young man escaped with you?”

“He did.”

“In what way?”

“We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know
Saint-Mandrier?”

“I do.”

“In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——”

“Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor
fellows!” said the abbé.

“Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.”

“So much the better for the dogs,” said Monte Cristo.

“While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed
our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.”

“And what is become of this Benedetto?”

“I don’t know.”

“You ought to know.”

“No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.” And, to give more weight to his
protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbé, who
remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his
interrogation.

“You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.

“Reverend sir!”

“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of
him as your accomplice.”

40160m



“Oh, reverend sir!”

“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”

“On what I could get.”

“You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperative
tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on
the money he has given you.”

“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great
lord.”

“How can he be the son of a great lord?”

“A natural son.”

“And what is that great lord’s name?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.”

“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his
turn.

“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false
father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and
leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”

“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and what
name does the young man bear meanwhile?”

“Andrea Cavalcanti.”

“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo
has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars?”

“Exactly.”

“And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his
crime?”

“Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse.

“You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.”

“Do not do so, reverend sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would bring us to ruin.”

“And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an
abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?”

“Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.

“I will expose all.”

“To whom?”

“To M. Danglars.”

“By Heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open
knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose
nothing, reverend sir!”

To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the
count’s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized
with his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such
strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse
uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued
to wring the bandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell
first on his knees, then flat on the floor.

The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not what
restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.”

“Ah, mercy—mercy!” cried Caderousse.

The count withdrew his foot.

40162m



“Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.

“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking his
arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a
wrist!”

“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in
the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at
this moment is still serving him.”

“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.

“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”

“I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.”

“You lie! Take this pen, and write!”

Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbé, sat down and wrote:

“Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you
intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from
confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called
Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his
parents.”


“Sign it!” continued the count.

“But would you ruin me?”

“If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first
guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability
you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!”

Caderousse signed it.

“The address, ‘To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la
Chaussée d’Antin.’”

Caderousse wrote the address. The abbé took the note.

“Now,” said he, “that suffices—begone!”

“Which way?”

“The way you came.”

“You wish me to get out at that window?”

“You got in very well.”

“Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.”

“Idiot! what design can I have?”

“Why, then, not let me out by the door?”

“What would be the advantage of waking the porter?”

“Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?”

“I wish what God wills.”

“But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.”

“Cowardly fool!”

“What do you intend doing with me?”

“I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you
have turned out a murderer.”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me once
more!”

“I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.”

“Yes,” said Caderousse.

“If you arrive safely at home——”

“What have I to fear, except from you?”

“If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever
you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a
small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then——”

“Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering.

40164m



“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you
too.”

“As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make me
die of fright!”

“Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window.

Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of
the window and stood on the ladder.

“Now go down,” said the abbé, folding his arms. Understanding he had
nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the
count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the
Champs-Élysées that a man was getting out of the window while another
held a light.

“What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?” And
he blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt
his foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.

Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the
garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the
end of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different
part from where he came in. The count then looking over into the
street, saw the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same
direction, and place himself against the angle of the wall where
Caderousse would come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and
looked over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could be
seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse
sat astride the coping, and drawing up his ladder passed it over the
wall; then he began to descend, or rather to slide down by the two
stanchions, which he did with an ease which proved how accustomed he
was to the exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did
he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down—in vain did
he see an arm raised as he touched the ground.

Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the
back that he let go the ladder, crying, “Help!” A second blow struck
him almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, “Help,
murder!” Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by
the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest.

This time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter
a groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds.
The assassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up
by the hair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The
murderer, supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared.

Then Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on his
elbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort:

“Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help!”

This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the
back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and
his master were on the spot with lights.



 Chapter 83. The Hand of God

Caderousse continued to call piteously, “Help, reverend sir, help!”

“What is the matter?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Help,” cried Caderousse; “I am murdered!”

“We are here;—take courage.”

“Ah, it’s all over! You are come too late—you are come to see me die.
What blows, what blood!”

He fainted. Ali and his master conveyed the wounded man into a room.
Monte Cristo motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his
dreadful wounds.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only
that it may fall the more effectually.” Ali looked at his master for
further instructions. “Bring here immediately the king’s attorney, M.
de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As you pass the
lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon.”

Ali obeyed, leaving the abbé alone with Caderousse, who had not yet
revived.

When the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count looked at him
with a mournful expression of pity, and his lips moved as if in prayer.
“A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!” said Caderousse.

“I have sent for one,” replied the abbé.

“I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my
evidence.”

“Against whom?”

“Against my murderer.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Yes; it was Benedetto.”

“The young Corsican?”

“Himself.”

“Your comrade?”

“Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should
kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would
kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered
me.”

“I have also sent for the procureur.”

“He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.”

“Wait a moment,” said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and returned in
five minutes with a phial. The dying man’s eyes were all the time
riveted on the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive.

“Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!” Monte Cristo
approached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the
contents of the phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath. “Oh,” said he,
“that is life to me; more, more!”

“Two drops more would kill you,” replied the abbé.

“Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch!”

“Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of
this posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote:

“I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys
at Toulon, No. 59.”


“Quick, quick!” said Caderousse, “or I shall be unable to sign it.”

Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his
strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying:

“You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls
himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hôtel des Princes. Oh, I am
dying!” He again fainted. The abbé made him smell the contents of the
phial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not
forsaken him.

“Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?”

“Yes, and much more.”

“What more will you say?”

“I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the
hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised
the count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I
read the note and sat up to await you.”

“And he will be guillotined, will be not?” said Caderousse. “Promise me
that, and I will die with that hope.”

“I will say,” continued the count, “that he followed and watched you
the whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle
of the wall to conceal himself.”

“Did you see all that?”

“Remember my words: ‘If you return home safely, I shall believe God has
forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.’”

“And you did not warn me!” cried Caderousse, raising himself on his
elbows. “You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not
warn me!”

40168m



“No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and
should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence.”

“God’s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you
know how many would be punished who now escape.”

“Patience,” said the abbé, in a tone which made the dying man shudder;
“have patience!”

Caderousse looked at him with amazement.

“Besides,” said the abbé, “God is merciful to all, as he has been to
you; he is first a father, then a judge.”

“Do you then believe in God?” said Caderousse.

“Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,” said Monte
Cristo, “I must believe on seeing you.”

Caderousse raised his clenched hands towards heaven.

“Listen,” said the abbé, extending his hand over the wounded man, as if
to command him to believe; “this is what the God in whom, on your
death-bed, you refuse to believe, has done for you—he gave you health,
strength, regular employment, even friends—a life, in fact, which a man
might enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts,
rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course—you have given
yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have
ruined your best friend.”

“Help!” cried Caderousse; “I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I
am not mortally wounded—I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my
life.”

“Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave
you, you would now be dead. Listen, then.”

“Ah,” murmured Caderousse, “what a strange priest you are; you drive
the dying to despair, instead of consoling them.”

“Listen,” continued the abbé. “When you had betrayed your friend, God
began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had
already passed half your life in coveting that which you might have
honorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse
of want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my
hands, a fortune—brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed
any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you
no longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and
how?—by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and
brought you to justice.”

“It was not I who wished to kill the Jew,” said Caderousse; “it was La
Carconte.”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “and God,—I cannot say in justice, for his
justice would have slain you,—but God, in his mercy, spared your life.”

“_Pardieu!_ to transport me for life, how merciful!”

“You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared
death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you
said, ‘I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.’ And you said
truly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited
Toulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice
fell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money
and tranquillity were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned
to a felon’s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature,
then you tempted God a third time. ‘I have not enough,’ you said, when
you had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third
crime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished
you.”

Caderousse was fast sinking. “Give me drink,” said he: “I thirst—I
burn!” Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water. “And yet that villain,
Benedetto, will escape!”

“No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished.”

“Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a
priest—you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me.”

“I?” said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man, “when
you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected
my breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might
have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and
blood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.”

“I do not believe there is a God,” howled Caderousse; “you do not
believe it; you lie—you lie!”

“Silence,” said the abbé; “you will force the last drop of blood from
your veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you
dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a
tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin’s
dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter
of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.”

“No,” said Caderousse, “no; I will not repent. There is no God; there
is no Providence—all comes by chance.”

“There is a Providence; there is a God,” said Monte Cristo, “of whom
you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him,
while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in
whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe
in him.”

“But who are you, then?” asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the
count.

“Look well at me!” said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face.

“Well, the abbé—the Abbé Busoni.” Monte Cristo took off the wig which
disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the
beauty of his pallid features.

“Oh?” said Caderousse, thunderstruck, “but for that black hair, I
should say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore.”

“I am neither the Abbé Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,” said Monte Cristo;
“think again,—do you not recollect me?”

There was a magic effect in the count’s words, which once more revived
the exhausted powers of the miserable man.

“Yes, indeed,” said he; “I think I have seen you and known you
formerly.”

“Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.”

“Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?”

“Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been
possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of
God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear
by my father’s tomb.”

“By your father’s tomb!” said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural
power, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had
just taken the oath which all men hold sacred; “who, then, are you?”

The count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last
struggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a
calm and melancholy look, he whispered, “I am—I am——”

And his almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count himself
appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his
knees, and stretched out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his
hands, and raising them with a desperate effort, “Oh, my God, my God!”
said he, “pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art
indeed man’s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord,
I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, Oh, my Lord!”

Caderousse sighed deeply, and fell back with a groan. The blood no
longer flowed from his wounds. He was dead.

“_One!_” said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse,
disfigured by so awful a death.

Ten minutes afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one
accompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were received by the
Abbé Busoni, who was praying by the side of the corpse.



 Chapter 84. Beauchamp

The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation
throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a
deposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had
orders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse’s
knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the
waistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry;
the corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told everyone that
this adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he
only knew what was related by the Abbé Busoni, who that evening, by
mere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine
some valuable books in his library.

Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto’s name was mentioned in
his presence, but there was no reason why anyone should notice his
doing so.

Villefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing his brief
with the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to
speak in criminal cases.

But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had
been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber
by his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching
marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It
was expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young
man was received at the banker’s as the betrothed.

Letters had been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count’s father,
who highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave
Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty
thousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be
intrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man
of the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late
sustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and
confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single
doubt to the baron.

The baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti; not so Mademoiselle Eugénie
Danglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered
Andrea’s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea
urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might
possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned
ignorance.

The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated
the advice of Monte Cristo to let things die away of their own accord.
No one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had
recognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble
count in the House of Peers.

Albert, however, felt no less insulted; the few lines which had
irritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner
in which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection
in his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal
its true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since
the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always
told him he was out on a journey which would detain him some days.
Where he was no one knew.

One morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced
Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him
into the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himself
quickly, and went down.

He found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp
stopped.

“Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks
well, sir,” said Albert. “Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying,
‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’
or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?”

“Albert,” said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which stupefied the
young man, “let us first sit down and talk.”

“Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.”

“Albert,” said the journalist, “these are questions which it is
difficult to answer.”

“I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you
not, retract?’”

“Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which
concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as
Lieutenant-général the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.”

“What must then be done?”

40174m



“What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are
nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family;
probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat
with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of
a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of
intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a
heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own
arm must save his life.”

“Well,” said Morcerf, impatiently, “what does all this mean?”

“It means that I have just returned from Yanina.”

“From Yanina?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible!”

“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste,
Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a
kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then
raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp.

“You have been to Yanina?” said he.

“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that
Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since,
and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble;
but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to
go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours
to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here
I am.”

“What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most
wish to know?”

“Because, in truth, Albert——”

“You hesitate?”

“Yes,—I fear.”

“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh,
no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot
be doubted.”

“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——”

Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words
died on his lips.

“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should
gladly make an apology; but, alas!——”

“But what?”

“The paragraph was correct, my friend.”

“What? That French officer——”

“Yes.”

“Fernand?”

“Yes.”

“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he
was——”

“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”

Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained
him more by a mild look than by his extended hand.

“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.”

40176m



Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable
inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the
service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million
crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell
overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name
was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart
overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had
watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached
him.

“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see
all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation
would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But,
on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand
Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no
other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you
had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.”

Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands,
as if to prevent the light from reaching him.

“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in
this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his
children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the
midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to
soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I
have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power
can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you
with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand
of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone
possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain
with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my
friend, do you wish it?”

Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck.

“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he.

“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.

Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and
trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to
confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for
cigars, and burned every fragment.

“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers.

“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it
vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as
the smoke from those silent ashes.”

“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal
friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted
to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my
life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh,
Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I
could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my
country.”

“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon
forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.

“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?”

40178m



“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus,
in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with
which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp,
Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead
from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched
of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his
tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you
suffer!”

“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my
friend.”

“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some
unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.”

“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be
visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within
it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go,
my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall
come.”

40179m



“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken.

“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——”

“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.

“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”

“Why do you ask me now?”

“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with
the person of whom we were speaking.”

“How?” said Albert, whose brow reddened; “you think M. Danglars——”

“I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on
my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue
weight.”

“No.” said Albert, “the engagement is broken off.”

“Well,” said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse
into melancholy, “Let us go out, Albert,” said he; “a ride in the wood
in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return
to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.”

“Willingly,” said Albert; “but let us walk. I think a little exertion
would do me good.”

The two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the
Madeleine:

“Since we are out,” said Beauchamp, “let us call on M. de Monte Cristo;
he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never
interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best
comforters.”

“Gladly,” said Albert; “let us call—I love him.”



 Chapter 85. The Journey

Monte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the young men
together. “Ah, ha!” said he, “I hope all is over, explained and
settled.”

“Yes,” said Beauchamp; “the absurd reports have died away, and should
they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak
no more of it.”

“Albert will tell you,” replied the count “that I gave him the same
advice. Look,” added he. “I am finishing the most execrable morning’s
work.”

“What is it?” said Albert; “arranging your papers, apparently.”

“My papers, thank God, no,—my papers are all in capital order, because
I have none; but M. Cavalcanti’s.”

“M. Cavalcanti’s?” asked Beauchamp.

“Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is
introducing?” said Morcerf.

“Let us not misunderstand each other,” replied Monte Cristo; “I
introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.”

“And who,” said Albert with a forced smile, “is to marry Mademoiselle
Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.”

“What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” asked
Beauchamp.

“Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?” said Monte Cristo;
“you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all
Paris.”

“And you, count, have made this match?” asked Beauchamp.

“I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a
match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose
it.”

“Ah, I understand,” said Beauchamp, “on our friend Albert’s account.”

“On my account?” said the young man; “oh, no, indeed, the count will do
me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated
him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count
pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar _Deo
ignoto_.”

“Listen,” said Monte Cristo; “I have had little to do with it, for I am
at variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is
only Mademoiselle Eugénie, who appears but little charmed with the
thoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to
persuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for
me.”

“And do you say this wedding is at hand?”

“Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he
is said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague
assertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is
fascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a
circumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed
by his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know
which. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten
years; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all
that was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to
demand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate—washing
my hands.”

“And what does Mademoiselle d’Armilly say to you for robbing her of her
pupil?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy.
Madame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the
_impresari_; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle
Theatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter,
Albert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with
Mademoiselle Eugénie?”

“I am not aware of it,” said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp
turned to look at some paintings.

“But,” continued Monte Cristo, “you are not in your usual spirits?”

“I have a dreadful headache,” said Albert.

“Well, my dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo, “I have an infallible
remedy to propose to you.”

“What is that?” asked the young man.

“A change.”

“Indeed?” said Albert.

“Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home.
Shall we go together?”

“You annoyed, count?” said Beauchamp; “and by what?”

“Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a
brief preparing in your house.”

“What brief?”

“The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin—some
brigand escaped from the gallows apparently.”

“True,” said Beauchamp; “I saw it in the paper. Who is this
Caderousse?”

“Some Provençal, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at
Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently,
the procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police
very much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very
grateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood,
under pretence of their being Caderousse’s murderers, so that in three
months, if this continues, every robber and assassin in France will
have the plan of my house at his fingers’ ends. I am resolved to desert
them and go to some remote corner of the earth, and shall be happy if
you will accompany me, viscount.”

“Willingly.”

“Then it is settled?”

“Yes, but where?”

“I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound soothes,
where one is sure to be humbled, however proud may be his nature. I
love that humiliation, I, who am master of the universe, as was
Augustus.”

“But where are you really going?”

“To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when an infant
in the arms of old Ocean, and on the bosom of the beautiful Amphitrite;
I have sported with the green mantle of the one and the azure robe of
the other; I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see
her.”

“Let us go, count.”

“To sea?”

“Yes.”

“You accept my proposal?”

“I do.”

“Well, viscount, there will be in my courtyard this evening a good
travelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which one may rest as in
a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very well, will you accompany us?”

“Thank you, I have just returned from sea.”

“What? you have been to sea?”

“Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands18.”

“What of that? come with us,” said Albert.

“No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is impossible.
Besides, it is important,” added he in a low tone, “that I should
remain in Paris just now to watch the paper.”

“Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend,” said Albert; “yes, you
are right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to discover the enemy who
made this disclosure.”

Albert and Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands
expressing what their tongues could not before a stranger.

“Beauchamp is a worthy fellow,” said Monte Cristo, when the journalist
was gone; “is he not, Albert?”

“Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are
alone,—although it is immaterial to me,—where are we going?”

“Into Normandy, if you like.”

“Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors?”

“Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with, and a
fishing-boat.”

“Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and
return to you.”

“But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?”

“I may go where I please.”

“Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy—but to
accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?”

“You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep interest my
mother takes in you.”

“‘Woman is fickle.’ said Francis I.; ‘woman is like a wave of the sea,’
said Shakespeare; both the great king and the great poet ought to have
known woman’s nature well.”

“Woman’s, yes; my mother is not woman, but _a_ woman.”

“As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do not
understand all the subtle refinements of your language.”

“What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give her
confidence, but when she does she never changes.”

“Ah, yes, indeed,” said Monte Cristo with a sigh; “and do you think she
is in the least interested in me?”

“I repeat it, you must really be a very strange and superior man, for
my mother is so absorbed by the interest you have excited, that when I
am with her she speaks of no one else.”

“And does she try to make you dislike me?”

“On the contrary, she often says, ‘Morcerf, I believe the count has a
noble nature; try to gain his esteem.’”

“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, sighing.

“You see, then,” said Albert, “that instead of opposing, she will
encourage me.”

“Adieu, then, until five o’clock; be punctual, and we shall arrive at
twelve or one.”

“At Tréport?”

“Yes; or in the neighborhood.”

“But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours?”

“Easily,” said Monte Cristo.

“You are certainly a prodigy; you will soon not only surpass the
railway, which would not be very difficult in France, but even the
telegraph.”

“But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less than seven
or eight hours, do not keep me waiting.”

“Do not fear, I have little to prepare.”

Monte Cristo smiled as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment
absorbed in deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead
as if to dispel his reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio
entered.

“Bertuccio,” said he, “I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead
of tomorrow or the next day. You will have sufficient time before five
o’clock; despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first
station. M. de Morcerf will accompany me.”

Bertuccio obeyed and despatched a courier to Pontoise to say the
travelling-carriage would arrive at six o’clock. From Pontoise another
express was sent to the next stage, and in six hours all the horses
stationed on the road were ready.

Before his departure, the count went to Haydée’s apartments, told her
his intention, and resigned everything to her care.

Albert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting from its
rapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous idea.

“Truly,” said Monte Cristo, “with your post-horses going at the rate of
two leagues an hour, and that absurd law that one traveller shall not
pass another without permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered
traveller may detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to
move; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own postilion and
horses; do I not, Ali?”

The count put his head out of the window and whistled, and the horses
appeared to fly. The carriage rolled with a thundering noise over the
pavement, and everyone turned to notice the dazzling meteor. Ali,
smiling, repeated the sound, grasped the reins with a firm hand, and
spurred his horses, whose beautiful manes floated in the breeze. This
child of the desert was in his element, and with his black face and
sparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of dust he raised, like the
genius of the simoom and the god of the hurricane.

“I never knew till now the delight of speed,” said Morcerf, and the
last cloud disappeared from his brow; “but where the devil do you get
such horses? Are they made to order?”

“Precisely,” said the count; “six years since I bought a horse in
Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use
tonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the
exception of a star upon the forehead.”

“That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count, with all these
horses?”

“You see, I travel with them.”

“But you are not always travelling.”

“When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he
expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale.”

“But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase them.”

“Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will empty his
coffers to purchase them, and refill them by applying the bastinado to
his subjects.”

“Count, may I suggest one idea to you?”

“Certainly.”

“It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest gentleman in
Europe.”

“You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in his
possession.”

“Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me many more
marvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe them.”

“I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does
a steward rob his master?”

“Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love of
robbing.”

“You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family, and
ambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he is not sure of
always retaining his situation, and wishes to provide for the future.
Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in the world; he uses my property without
accounting for the use he makes of it; he is sure never to leave my
service.”

“Why?”

“Because I should never get a better.”

“Probabilities are deceptive.”

“But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has
the power of life and death.”

“Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?”

“Yes.”

There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was
the count’s “yes.”

The whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two
horses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination
in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful
park. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom
of the last stage of the count’s approach. At half past two in the
morning Morcerf was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and
supper were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of the
carriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front, attended the
count.

Albert bathed, took his supper, and went to bed. All night he was
lulled by the melancholy noise of the surf. On rising, he went to his
window, which opened on a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the
back a pretty park bounded by a small forest.

In a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts,
bearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain _or_,
on a sea _azure_, with a cross _gules_ in chief which might be an
allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our
Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross
which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal
remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this
mysterious personage’s pas life.

Around the schooner lay a number of small fishing-boats belonging to
the fishermen of the neighboring village, like humble subjects awaiting
orders from their queen. There, as in every spot where Monte Cristo
stopped, if but for two days, luxury abounded and life went on with the
utmost ease.

Albert found in his anteroom two guns, with all the accoutrements for
hunting; a lofty room on the ground floor containing all the ingenious
instruments the English—eminent in piscatory pursuits, since they are
patient and sluggish—have invented for fishing. The day passed in
pursuing those exercises in which Monte Cristo excelled. They killed a
dozen pheasants in the park, as many trout in the stream, dined in a
summer-house overlooking the ocean, and took tea in the library.

Towards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely exhausted with
the exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo, was sleeping in an
armchair near the window, while the count was designing with his
architect the plan of a conservatory in his house, when the sound of a
horse at full speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was
disagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom he had not
brought, that he might not inconvenience Monte Cristo.

40188m



“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he
hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the
valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a
newspaper and a letter.

“From whom is this?” said he eagerly.

“From M. Beauchamp,” replied Florentin.

“Did he send you?”

“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey,
procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached
you, I have come in fifteen hours.”

Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the
first line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank
under him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him.

“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true
that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and
fourth generation.”

Meanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back
his head, saying:

“Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?”

“It is a poor, lame post-horse.”

“In what state was the house when you left?”

“All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp’s, I found madame in
tears; she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my
orders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me,
but after a moment’s reflection, ‘Yes, go, Florentin,’ said she, ‘and
may he come quickly.’”

“Yes, my mother,” said Albert, “I will return, and woe to the infamous
wretch! But first of all I must get there.”

He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes
had sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His
voice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles;
his eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a
drunken man.

“Count,” said he, “I thank you for your hospitality, which I would
gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.”

“What has happened?”

“A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don’t question me,
I beg of you, but lend me a horse.”

“My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself
by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage.”

“No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will
do me good.”

Albert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the
door. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical
exhaustion; he was at the window, calling:

“Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!”

40190m



These words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the
count.

“Thank you!” cried he, throwing himself on his horse.

“Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to
procure a horse?”

“Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.”

Albert hesitated a moment. “You may think my departure strange and
foolish,” said the young man; “you do not know how a paragraph in a
newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,” said he, “when I am gone,
that you may not be witness of my anger.”

While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which
leaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with
the rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of
compassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows:

“The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to
three weeks since in _l’Impartial_, who not only surrendered the castle
of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly
at that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has
since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family
name. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the
peers.”

Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed,
appeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its
information from some malicious source, had published two days after
Albert’s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the
unfortunate young man almost crazy.



 Chapter 86. The Trial

At eight o’clock in the morning Albert had arrived at Beauchamp’s door.
The valet de chambre had received orders to usher him in at once.
Beauchamp was in his bath.

“Here I am,” Albert said.

“Well, my poor friend,” replied Beauchamp, “I expected you.”

“I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to have
spoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent for me is another
proof of your affection. So, without losing time, tell me, have you the
slightest idea whence this terrible blow proceeds?”

“I think I have some clew.”

“But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot.”

Beauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who was overwhelmed
with shame and grief, the following facts. Two days previously, the
article had appeared in another paper besides _ l’Impartial_, and, what
was more serious, one that was well known as a government paper.
Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent
immediately for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher’s office.
Although professing diametrically opposite principles from those of the
editor of the other paper, Beauchamp—as it sometimes, we may say often,
happens—was his intimate friend. The editor was reading, with apparent
delight, a leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a
composition of his own.

“Ah, _pardieu!_” said Beauchamp, “with the paper in your hand, my
friend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit.”

“Are you interested in the sugar question?” asked the editor of the
ministerial paper.

“No,” replied Beauchamp, “I have not considered the question; a totally
different subject interests me.”

“What is it?”

“The article relative to Morcerf.”

“Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?”

“So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a prosecution
for defamation of character.”

“Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite
proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice
against us; besides, it is rendering a service to one’s country to
denounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor
bestowed on them.”

Beauchamp was thunderstruck.

“Who, then, has so correctly informed you?” asked he; “for my paper,
which gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to
stop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in
exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the
opposition.”

“Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize. This news
was brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from Yanina, bringing a
formidable array of documents; and when we hesitated to publish the
accusatory article, he told us it should be inserted in some other
paper.”

Beauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit, and left the
office to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he had been unable to send
to Albert the following particulars, as the events had transpired after
the messenger’s departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation
was manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm members of
that dignified assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before the usual
hour, and was conversing on the melancholy event which was to attract
the attention of the public towards one of their most illustrious
colleagues. Some were perusing the article, others making comments and
recalling circumstances which substantiated the charges still more.

The Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his colleagues. Like all
upstarts, he had had recourse to a great deal of haughtiness to
maintain his position. The true nobility laughed at him, the talented
repelled him, and the honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in
fact, in the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the
finger of God once pointed at him, everyone was prepared to raise the
hue and cry.

The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did not take in
the paper containing the defamatory article, and had passed the morning
in writing letters and in trying a horse. He arrived at his usual hour,
with a proud look and insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through
the corridors, and entered the house without observing the hesitation
of the door-keepers or the coolness of his colleagues.

40194m



Business had already been going on for half an hour when he entered.
Everyone held the accusing paper, but, as usual, no one liked to take
upon himself the responsibility of the attack. At length an honorable
peer, Morcerf’s acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune with that
solemnity which announced that the expected moment had arrived. There
was an impressive silence; Morcerf alone knew not why such profound
attention was given to an orator who was not always listened to with so
much complacency.

The count did not notice the introduction, in which the speaker
announced that his communication would be of that vital importance that
it demanded the undivided attention of the House; but at the mention of
Yanina and Colonel Fernand, he turned so frightfully pale that every
member shuddered and fixed his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have this
peculiarity,—they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful,
always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the
heart.

The article having been read during the painful hush that followed, a
universal shudder pervaded the assembly, and immediately the closest
attention was given to the orator as he resumed his remarks. He stated
his scruples and the difficulties of the case; it was the honor of M.
de Morcerf, and that of the whole House, he proposed to defend, by
provoking a debate on personal questions, which are always such painful
themes of discussion. He concluded by calling for an investigation,
which might dispose of the calumnious report before it had time to
spread, and restore M. de Morcerf to the position he had long held in
public opinion.

Morcerf was so completely overwhelmed by this great and unexpected
calamity that he could scarcely stammer a few words as he looked around
on the assembly. This timidity, which might proceed from the
astonishment of innocence as well as the shame of guilt, conciliated
some in his favor; for men who are truly generous are always ready to
compassionate when the misfortune of their enemy surpasses the limits
of their hatred.

The president put it to the vote, and it was decided that the
investigation should take place. The count was asked what time he
required to prepare his defence. Morcerf’s courage had revived when he
found himself alive after this horrible blow.

“My lords,” answered he, “it is not by time I could repel the attack
made on me by enemies unknown to me, and, doubtless, hidden in
obscurity; it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt, that I must repel
the flash of lightning which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I
could, instead of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to
prove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in worth.”

These words made a favorable impression on behalf of the accused.

“I demand, then, that the examination shall take place as soon as
possible, and I will furnish the house with all necessary information.”

“What day do you fix?” asked the president.

“Today I am at your service,” replied the count.

The president rang the bell. “Does the House approve that the
examination should take place today?”

40196m



“Yes,” was the unanimous answer.

A committee of twelve members was chosen to examine the proofs brought
forward by Morcerf. The investigation would begin at eight o’clock that
evening in the committee-room, and if postponement were necessary, the
proceedings would be resumed each evening at the same hour. Morcerf
asked leave to retire; he had to collect the documents he had long been
preparing against this storm, which his sagacity had foreseen.

Beauchamp related to the young man all the facts we have just narrated;
his story, however, had over ours all the advantage of the animation of
living things over the coldness of dead things.

Albert listened, trembling now with hope, then with anger, and then
again with shame, for from Beauchamp’s confidence he knew his father
was guilty, and he asked himself how, since he was guilty, he could
prove his innocence. Beauchamp hesitated to continue his narrative.

“What next?” asked Albert.

“What next? My friend, you impose a painful task on me. Must you know
all?”

“Absolutely; and rather from your lips than another’s.”

“Muster up all your courage, then, for never have you required it
more.”

Albert passed his hand over his forehead, as if to try his strength, as
a man who is preparing to defend his life proves his shield and bends
his sword. He thought himself strong enough, for he mistook fever for
energy. “Go on,” said he.

“The evening arrived; all Paris was in expectation. Many said your
father had only to show himself to crush the charge against him; many
others said he would not appear; while some asserted that they had seen
him start for Brussels; and others went to the police-office to inquire
if he had taken out a passport. I used all my influence with one of the
committee, a young peer of my acquaintance, to get admission to one of
the galleries. He called for me at seven o’clock, and, before anyone
had arrived, asked one of the door-keepers to place me in a box. I was
concealed by a column, and might witness the whole of the terrible
scene which was about to take place. At eight o’clock all were in their
places, and M. de Morcerf entered at the last stroke. He held some
papers in his hand; his countenance was calm, and his step firm, and he
was dressed with great care in his military uniform, which was buttoned
completely up to the chin. His presence produced a good effect. The
committee was made up of Liberals, several of whom came forward to
shake hands with him.”

Albert felt his heart bursting at these particulars, but gratitude
mingled with his sorrow: he would gladly have embraced those who had
given his father this proof of esteem at a moment when his honor was so
powerfully attacked.

“At this moment one of the door-keepers brought in a letter for the
president. ‘You are at liberty to speak, M. de Morcerf,’ said the
president, as he unsealed the letter; and the count began his defence,
I assure you, Albert, in a most eloquent and skilful manner. He
produced documents proving that the Vizier of Yanina had up to the last
moment honored him with his entire confidence, since he had interested
him with a negotiation of life and death with the emperor. He produced
the ring, his mark of authority, with which Ali Pasha generally sealed
his letters, and which the latter had given him, that he might, on his
return at any hour of the day or night, gain access to the presence,
even in the harem. Unfortunately, the negotiation failed, and when he
returned to defend his benefactor, he was dead. ‘But,’ said the count,
‘so great was Ali Pasha’s confidence, that on his death-bed he resigned
his favorite mistress and her daughter to my care.’”

Albert started on hearing these words; the history of Haydée recurred
to him, and he remembered what she had said of that message and the
ring, and the manner in which she had been sold and made a slave.

“And what effect did this discourse produce?” anxiously inquired
Albert.

“I acknowledge it affected me, and, indeed, all the committee also,”
said Beauchamp.

“Meanwhile, the president carelessly opened the letter which had been
brought to him; but the first lines aroused his attention; he read them
again and again, and fixing his eyes on M. de Morcerf, ‘Count,’ said
he, ‘you have said that the Vizier of Yanina confided his wife and
daughter to your care?’—‘Yes, sir,’ replied Morcerf; ‘but in that, like
all the rest, misfortune pursued me. On my return, Vasiliki and her
daughter Haydée had disappeared.’—‘Did you know them?’—‘My intimacy
with the pasha and his unlimited confidence had gained me an
introduction to them, and I had seen them above twenty times.’

“‘Have you any idea what became of them?’—‘Yes, sir; I heard they had
fallen victims to their sorrow, and, perhaps, to their poverty. I was
not rich; my life was in constant danger; I could not seek them, to my
great regret.’ The president frowned imperceptibly. ‘Gentlemen,’ said
he, ‘you have heard the Comte de Morcerf’s defence. Can you, sir,
produce any witnesses to the truth of what you have asserted?’—‘Alas,
no, monsieur,’ replied the count; ‘all those who surrounded the vizier,
or who knew me at his court, are either dead or gone away, I know not
where. I believe that I alone, of all my countrymen, survived that
dreadful war. I have only the letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have
placed before you; the ring, a token of his good-will, which is here;
and, lastly, the most convincing proof I can offer, after an anonymous
attack, and that is the absence of any witness against my veracity and
the purity of my military life.’

“A murmur of approbation ran through the assembly; and at this moment,
Albert, had nothing more transpired, your father’s cause had been
gained. It only remained to put it to the vote, when the president
resumed: ‘Gentlemen and you, monsieur,—you will not be displeased, I
presume, to listen to one who calls himself a very important witness,
and who has just presented himself. He is, doubtless, come to prove the
perfect innocence of our colleague. Here is a letter I have just
received on the subject; shall it be read, or shall it be passed over?
and shall we take no notice of this incident?’ M. de Morcerf turned
pale, and clenched his hands on the papers he held. The committee
decided to hear the letter; the count was thoughtful and silent. The
president read:

“‘Mr. President,—I can furnish the committee of inquiry into the
conduct of the Lieutenant-General the Count of Morcerf in Epirus and in
Macedonia with important particulars.’

“The president paused, and the count turned pale. The president looked
at his auditors. ‘Proceed,’ was heard on all sides. The president
resumed:

“‘I was on the spot at the death of Ali Pasha. I was present during his
last moments. I know what is become of Vasiliki and Haydée. I am at the
command of the committee, and even claim the honor of being heard. I
shall be in the lobby when this note is delivered to you.’

“‘And who is this witness, or rather this enemy?’ asked the count, in a
tone in which there was a visible alteration. ‘We shall know, sir,’
replied the president. ‘Is the committee willing to hear this
witness?’—‘Yes, yes,’ they all said at once. The door-keeper was
called. ‘Is there anyone in the lobby?’ said the president.

“‘Yes, sir.’—‘Who is it?’—‘A woman, accompanied by a servant.’ Everyone
looked at his neighbor. ‘Bring her in,’ said the president. Five
minutes after the door-keeper again appeared; all eyes were fixed on
the door, and I,” said Beauchamp, “shared the general expectation and
anxiety. Behind the door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in a large
veil, which completely concealed her. It was evident, from her figure
and the perfumes she had about her, that she was young and fastidious
in her tastes, but that was all. The president requested her to throw
aside her veil, and it was then seen that she was dressed in the
Grecian costume, and was remarkably beautiful.”

“Ah,” said Albert, “it was she.”

“Who?”

“Haydée.”

“Who told you that?”

“Alas, I guess it. But go on, Beauchamp. You see I am calm and strong.
And yet we must be drawing near the disclosure.”

“M. de Morcerf,” continued Beauchamp, “looked at this woman with
surprise and terror. Her lips were about to pass his sentence of life
or death. To the committee the adventure was so extraordinary and
curious, that the interest they had felt for the count’s safety became
now quite a secondary matter. The president himself advanced to place a
seat for the young lady; but she declined availing herself of it. As
for the count, he had fallen on his chair; it was evident that his legs
refused to support him.

“‘Madame,’ said the president, ‘you have engaged to furnish the
committee with some important particulars respecting the affair at
Yanina, and you have stated that you were an eyewitness of the
event.’—‘I was, indeed,’ said the stranger, with a tone of sweet
melancholy, and with the sonorous voice peculiar to the East.

“‘But allow me to say that you must have been very young then.’—‘I was
four years old; but as those events deeply concerned me, not a single
detail has escaped my memory.’—‘In what manner could these events
concern you? and who are you, that they should have made so deep an
impression on you?’—‘On them depended my father’s life,’ replied she.
‘I am Haydée, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of
Vasiliki, his beloved wife.’

40202m



“The blush of mingled pride and modesty which suddenly suffused the
cheeks of the young woman, the brilliancy of her eye, and her highly
important communication, produced an indescribable effect on the
assembly. As for the count, he could not have been more overwhelmed if
a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet and opened an immense gulf before
him.

“‘Madame,’ replied the president, bowing with profound respect, ‘allow
me to ask one question; it shall be the last: Can you prove the
authenticity of what you have now stated?’

“‘I can, sir,’ said Haydée, drawing from under her veil a satin satchel
highly perfumed; ‘for here is the register of my birth, signed by my
father and his principal officers, and that of my baptism, my father
having consented to my being brought up in my mother’s faith,—this
latter has been sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia and Epirus;
and lastly (and perhaps the most important), the record of the sale of
my person and that of my mother to the Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by
the French officer, who, in his infamous bargain with the Porte, had
reserved as his part of the booty the wife and daughter of his
benefactor, whom he sold for the sum of four hundred thousand francs.’
A greenish pallor spread over the count’s cheeks, and his eyes became
bloodshot at these terrible imputations, which were listened to by the
assembly with ominous silence.

“Haydée, still calm, but with a calmness more dreadful than the anger
of another would have been, handed to the president the record of her
sale, written in Arabic. It had been supposed some of the papers might
be in the Arabian, Romaic, or Turkish language, and the interpreter of
the House was in attendance. One of the noble peers, who was familiar
with the Arabic language, having studied it during the famous Egyptian
campaign, followed with his eye as the translator read aloud:

“‘I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and purveyor of the harem of his
highness, acknowledge having received for transmission to the sublime
emperor, from the French lord, the Count of Monte Cristo, an emerald
valued at eight hundred thousand francs; as the ransom of a young
Christian slave of eleven years of age, named Haydée, the acknowledged
daughter of the late lord Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of
Vasiliki, his favorite; she having been sold to me seven years
previously, with her mother, who had died on arriving at
Constantinople, by a French colonel in the service of the Vizier Ali
Tepelini, named Fernand Mondego. The above-mentioned purchase was made
on his highness’s account, whose mandate I had, for the sum of four
hundred thousand francs.

“‘Given at Constantinople, by authority of his highness, in the year
1247 of the Hegira.

“‘Signed, El-Kobbir.’

“‘That this record should have all due authority, it shall bear the
imperial seal, which the vendor is bound to have affixed to it.’

“Near the merchant’s signature there was, indeed, the seal of the
sublime emperor. A dreadful silence followed the reading of this
document; the count could only stare, and his gaze, fixed as if
unconsciously on Haydée, seemed one of fire and blood. ‘Madame,’ said
the president, ‘may reference be made to the Count of Monte Cristo, who
is now, I believe, in Paris?’

“‘Sir,’ replied Haydée, ‘the Count of Monte Cristo, my foster-father,
has been in Normandy the last three days.’

“‘Who, then, has counselled you to take this step, one for which the
court is deeply indebted to you, and which is perfectly natural,
considering your birth and your misfortunes?’—‘Sir,’ replied Haydée, ‘I
have been led to take this step from a feeling of respect and grief.
Although a Christian, may God forgive me, I have always sought to
revenge my illustrious father. Since I set my foot in France, and knew
the traitor lived in Paris, I have watched carefully. I live retired in
the house of my noble protector, but I do it from choice. I love
retirement and silence, because I can live with my thoughts and
recollections of past days. But the Count of Monte Cristo surrounds me
with every paternal care, and I am ignorant of nothing which passes in
the world. I learn all in the silence of my apartments,—for instance, I
see all the newspapers, every periodical, as well as every new piece of
music; and by thus watching the course of the life of others, I learned
what had transpired this morning in the House of Peers, and what was to
take place this evening; then I wrote.’

40204m



“‘Then,’ remarked the president, ‘the Count of Monte Cristo knows
nothing of your present proceedings?’—‘He is quite unaware of them, and
I have but one fear, which is that he should disapprove of what I have
done. But it is a glorious day for me,’ continued the young girl,
raising her ardent gaze to heaven, ‘that on which I find at last an
opportunity of avenging my father!’

“The count had not uttered one word the whole of this time. His
colleagues looked at him, and doubtless pitied his prospects, blighted
under the perfumed breath of a woman. His misery was depicted in
sinister lines on his countenance. ‘M. de Morcerf,’ said the president,
‘do you recognize this lady as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of
Yanina?’—‘No,’ said Morcerf, attempting to rise, ‘it is a base plot,
contrived by my enemies.’ Haydée, whose eyes had been fixed on the
door, as if expecting someone, turned hastily, and, seeing the count
standing, shrieked, ‘You do not know me?’ said she. ‘Well, I
fortunately recognize you! You are Fernand Mondego, the French officer
who led the troops of my noble father! It is you who surrendered the
castle of Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to Constantinople, to
treat with the emperor for the life or death of your benefactor,
brought back a false mandate granting full pardon! It is you who, with
that mandate, obtained the pasha’s ring, which gave you authority over
Selim, the fire-keeper! It is you who stabbed Selim. It is you who sold
us, my mother and me, to the merchant, El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin,
assassin, you have still on your brow your master’s blood! Look,
gentlemen, all!’

“These words had been pronounced with such enthusiasm and evident
truth, that every eye was fixed on the count’s forehead, and he himself
passed his hand across it, as if he felt Ali’s blood still lingering
there. ‘You positively recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer, Fernand
Mondego?’—‘Indeed I do!’ cried Haydée. ‘Oh, my mother, it was you who
said, “You were free, you had a beloved father, you were destined to be
almost a queen. Look well at that man; it is he who raised your
father’s head on the point of a spear; it is he who sold us; it is he
who forsook us! Look well at his right hand, on which he has a large
wound; if you forgot his features, you would know him by that hand,
into which fell, one by one, the gold pieces of the merchant
El-Kobbir!” I know him! Ah, let him say now if he does not recognize
me!’ Each word fell like a dagger on Morcerf, and deprived him of a
portion of his energy; as she uttered the last, he hid his mutilated
hand hastily in his bosom, and fell back on his seat, overwhelmed by
wretchedness and despair. This scene completely changed the opinion of
the assembly respecting the accused count.

“‘Count of Morcerf,’ said the president, ‘do not allow yourself to be
cast down; answer. The justice of the court is supreme and impartial as
that of God; it will not suffer you to be trampled on by your enemies
without giving you an opportunity of defending yourself. Shall further
inquiries be made? Shall two members of the House be sent to Yanina?
Speak!’ Morcerf did not reply. Then all the members looked at each
other with terror. They knew the count’s energetic and violent temper;
it must be, indeed, a dreadful blow which would deprive him of courage
to defend himself. They expected that his stupefied silence would be
followed by a fiery outburst. ‘Well,’ asked the president, ‘what is
your decision?’

40206m



“‘I have no reply to make,’ said the count in a low tone.

“‘Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini spoken the truth?’ said the
president. ‘Is she, then, the terrible witness to whose charge you dare
not plead “Not guilty”? Have you really committed the crimes of which
you are accused?’ The count looked around him with an expression which
might have softened tigers, but which could not disarm his judges. Then
he raised his eyes towards the ceiling, but withdrew then, immediately,
as if he feared the roof would open and reveal to his distressed view
that second tribunal called heaven, and that other judge named God.
Then, with a hasty movement, he tore open his coat, which seemed to
stifle him, and flew from the room like a madman; his footstep was
heard one moment in the corridor, then the rattling of his
carriage-wheels as he was driven rapidly away. ‘Gentlemen,’ said the
president, when silence was restored, ‘is the Count of Morcerf
convicted of felony, treason, and conduct unbecoming a member of this
House?’—‘Yes,’ replied all the members of the committee of inquiry with
a unanimous voice.

“Haydée had remained until the close of the meeting. She heard the
count’s sentence pronounced without betraying an expression of joy or
pity; then drawing her veil over her face she bowed majestically to the
councillors, and left with that dignified step which Virgil attributes
to his goddesses.”



 Chapter 87. The Challenge

Then,” continued Beauchamp, “I took advantage of the silence and the
darkness to leave the house without being seen. The usher who had
introduced me was waiting for me at the door, and he conducted me
through the corridors to a private entrance opening into the Rue de
Vaugirard. I left with mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse
me, Albert,—sorrow on your account, and delight with that noble girl,
thus pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes, Albert, from whatever source the
blow may have proceeded—it may be from an enemy, but that enemy is only
the agent of Providence.”

Albert held his head between his hands; he raised his face, red with
shame and bathed in tears, and seizing Beauchamp’s arm:

“My friend,” said he, “my life is ended. I cannot calmly say with you,
‘Providence has struck the blow;’ but I must discover who pursues me
with this hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he
will kill me. I rely on your friendship to assist me, Beauchamp, if
contempt has not banished it from your heart.”

“Contempt, my friend? How does this misfortune affect you? No, happily
that unjust prejudice is forgotten which made the son responsible for
the father’s actions. Review your life, Albert; although it is only
just beginning, did a lovely summer’s day ever dawn with greater purity
than has marked the commencement of your career? No, Albert, take my
advice. You are young and rich—leave Paris—all is soon forgotten in
this great Babylon of excitement and changing tastes. You will return
after three or four years with a Russian princess for a bride, and no
one will think more of what occurred yesterday than if it had happened
sixteen years ago.”

“Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank you for the excellent feeling
which prompts your advice; but it cannot be. I have told you my wish,
or rather my determination. You understand that, interested as I am in
this affair, I cannot see it in the same light as you do. What appears
to you to emanate from a celestial source, seems to me to proceed from
one far less pure. Providence appears to me to have no share in this
affair; and happily so, for instead of the invisible, impalpable agent
of celestial rewards and punishments, I shall find one both palpable
and visible, on whom I shall revenge myself, I assure you, for all I
have suffered during the last month. Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish
to return to human and material existence, and if you are still the
friend you profess to be, help me to discover the hand that struck the
blow.”

“Be it so,” said Beauchamp; “if you must have me descend to earth, I
submit; and if you will seek your enemy, I will assist you, and I will
engage to find him, my honor being almost as deeply interested as
yours.”

“Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp, that we begin our search
immediately. Each moment’s delay is an eternity for me. The calumniator
is not yet punished, and he may hope that he will not be; but, on my
honor, if he thinks so, he deceives himself.”

“Well, listen, Morcerf.”

“Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know something already; you will restore me
to life.”

“I do not say there is any truth in what I am going to tell you, but it
is, at least, a ray of light in a dark night; by following it we may,
perhaps, discover something more certain.”

“Tell me; satisfy my impatience.”

“Well, I will tell you what I did not like to mention on my return from
Yanina.”

“Say on.”

“I went, of course, to the chief banker of the town to make inquiries.
At the first word, before I had even mentioned your father’s name”—

“‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I guess what brings you here.’

“‘How, and why?’

“‘Because a fortnight since I was questioned on the same subject.’

“‘By whom?’

“‘By a banker of Paris, my correspondent.’

“‘Whose name is——’

“‘Danglars.’”

“He!” cried Albert; “yes, it is indeed he who has so long pursued my
father with jealous hatred. He, the man who would be popular, cannot
forgive the Count of Morcerf for being created a peer; and this
marriage broken off without a reason being assigned—yes, it is all from
the same cause.”

“Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be angry without reason; make
inquiries, and if it be true——”

“Oh, yes, if it be true,” cried the young man, “he shall pay me all I
have suffered.”

“Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old man.”

“I will respect his age as he has respected the honor of my family; if
my father had offended him, why did he not attack him personally? Oh,
no, he was afraid to encounter him face to face.”

“I do not condemn you, Albert; I only restrain you. Act prudently.”

“Oh, do not fear; besides, you will accompany me. Beauchamp, solemn
transactions should be sanctioned by a witness. Before this day closes,
if M. Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to live, or I shall die.
_Pardieu_, Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid funeral!”

“When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be promptly
executed. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go immediately.”

They sent for a cabriolet. On entering the banker’s mansion, they
perceived the phaeton and servant of M. Andrea Cavalcanti.

“Ah! _parbleu!_ that’s good,” said Albert, with a gloomy tone. “If M.
Danglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti
will certainly fight.”

The servant announced the young man; but the banker, recollecting what
had transpired the day before, did not wish him admitted. It was,
however, too late; Albert had followed the footman, and, hearing the
order given, forced the door open, and followed by Beauchamp found
himself in the banker’s study.

“Sir,” cried the latter, “am I no longer at liberty to receive whom I
choose in my house? You appear to forget yourself sadly.”

“No, sir,” said Albert, coldly; “there are circumstances in which one
cannot, except through cowardice,—I offer you that refuge,—refuse to
admit certain persons at least.”

“What is your errand, then, with me, sir?”

“I mean,” said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently noticing
Cavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the fireplace—“I mean to
propose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us
for ten minutes; that will be sufficient—where two men having met, one
of them will remain on the ground.”

Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and Albert
turned towards him.

“And you, too,” said he, “come, if you like, monsieur; you have a
claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many
rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them.”

Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a stupefied air, and the latter,
making an effort, arose and stepped between the two young men. Albert’s
attack on Andrea had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped
this visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed.

“Indeed, sir,” said he to Albert, “if you are come to quarrel with this
gentleman because I have preferred him to you, I shall resign the case
to the king’s attorney.”

“You mistake, sir,” said Morcerf with a gloomy smile; “I am not
referring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M.
Cavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one
respect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today;
but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.”

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“Sir,” replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, “I warn you, when I
have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from
thinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness.
Now, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity.
Is it my fault that your father has dishonored himself?”

“Yes, miserable wretch!” cried Morcerf, “it is your fault.”

Danglars retreated a few steps. “My fault?” said he; “you must be mad!
What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country?
Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray——”

“Silence!” said Albert, with a thundering voice. “No; it is not you who
have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you
hypocritically provoked it.”

“I?”

“Yes; you! How came it known?”

“I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina?”

“Who wrote to Yanina?”

“To Yanina?”

“Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?”

“I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.”

“But one person only wrote!”

“One only?”

“Yes; and that was you!”

“I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to marry your
daughter to a young man, it is right to make some inquiries respecting
his family; it is not only a right, but a duty.”

“You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive.”

“I, indeed? I assure you,” cried Danglars, with a confidence and
security proceeding less from fear than from the interest he really
felt for the young man, “I solemnly declare to you, that I should never
have thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha’s
misfortunes.”

“Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me.”

“_Pardieu!_ it was the most simple thing in the world. I was speaking
of your father’s past history. I said the origin of his fortune
remained obscure. The person to whom I addressed my scruples asked me
where your father had acquired his property? I answered, ‘In
Greece.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘write to Yanina.’”

“And who thus advised you?”

“No other than your friend, Monte Cristo.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina?”

“Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like.”

Albert and Beauchamp looked at each other.

“Sir,” said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken, “you appear to accuse
the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify
himself.”

“I accuse no one, sir,” said Danglars; “I relate, and I will repeat
before the count what I have said to you.”

“Does the count know what answer you received?”

“Yes; I showed it to him.”

“Did he know my father’s Christian name was Fernand, and his family
name Mondego?”

“Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what any other
would have done in my circumstances, and perhaps less. When, the day
after the arrival of this answer, your father came by the advice of
Monte Cristo to ask my daughter’s hand for you, I decidedly refused
him, but without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I
have any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or disgrace of
M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased nor decreased my income.”

Albert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no doubt upon the
subject. Danglars defended himself with the baseness, but at the same
time with the assurance, of a man who speaks the truth, at least in
part, if not wholly—not for conscience’ sake, but through fear.
Besides, what was Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte
Cristo was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for the
offence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who would fight, and
it was evident Danglars would not fight.

In addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before
presented itself now to his recollection. Monte Cristo knew everything,
as he had bought the daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he
had advised Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had
yielded to Albert’s wish to be introduced to Haydée, and allowed the
conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Haydée’s
recital (but having, doubtless, warned the young girl, in the few
Romaic words he spoke to her, not to implicate Morcerf’s father).
Besides, had he not begged of Morcerf not to mention his father’s name
before Haydée? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew the
final blow was near. There could be no doubt that all had been
calculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo then was in league
with his father’s enemies. Albert took Beauchamp aside, and
communicated these ideas to him.

“You are right,” said the latter; “M. Danglars has only been a
secondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de Monte Cristo
that you must demand an explanation.”

Albert turned.

“Sir,” said he to Danglars, “understand that I do not take a final
leave of you; I must ascertain if your insinuations are just, and am
going now to inquire of the Count of Monte Cristo.”

He bowed to the banker, and went out with Beauchamp, without appearing
to notice Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he
again assured Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced
him against the Count of Morcerf.



 Chapter 88. The Insult

At the banker’s door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf.

“Listen,” said he; “just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo
you must demand an explanation.”

“Yes; and we are going to his house.”

“Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go.”

“On what shall I reflect?”

“On the importance of the step you are taking.”

“Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?”

“Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love money, you know,
think too much of what they risk to be easily induced to fight a duel.
The other is, on the contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but
do you not fear to find him a bully?”

“I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not fight.”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Beauchamp; “he will meet you. My only fear is
that he will be too strong for you.”

“My friend,” said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, “that is what I wish.
The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my
father’s stead; that would save us all.”

“Your mother would die of grief.”

“My poor mother!” said Albert, passing his hand across his eyes, “I
know she would; but better so than die of shame.”

“Are you quite decided, Albert?”

“Yes; let us go.”

“But do you think we shall find the count at home?”

“He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at
home.”

They ordered the driver to take them to No. 30 Champs-Élysées.
Beauchamp wished to go in alone, but Albert observed that as this was
an unusual circumstance he might be allowed to deviate from the usual
etiquette of duels. The cause which the young man espoused was one so
sacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his wishes; he
yielded and contented himself with following Morcerf. Albert sprang
from the porter’s lodge to the steps. He was received by Baptistin. The
count had, indeed, just arrived, but he was in his bath, and had
forbidden that anyone should be admitted.

“But after his bath?” asked Morcerf.

“My master will go to dinner.”

“And after dinner?”

“He will sleep an hour.”

“Then?”

“He is going to the Opera.”

“Are you sure of it?” asked Albert.

“Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o’clock
precisely.”

“Very good,” replied Albert; “that is all I wished to know.”

Then, turning towards Beauchamp, “If you have anything to attend to,
Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this
evening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the
Opera; and if you can, bring Château-Renaud with you.”

Beauchamp availed himself of Albert’s permission, and left him,
promising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On his return
home, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see
them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother, who
since the events of the day before had refused to see anyone, and had
kept her room. He found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this
public humiliation.

The sight of Albert produced the effect which might naturally be
expected on Mercédès; she pressed her son’s hand and sobbed aloud, but
her tears relieved her. Albert stood one moment speechless by the side
of his mother’s bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows
that his resolution to revenge himself was growing weaker.

“My dear mother,” said he, “do you know if M. de Morcerf has any
enemy?”

Mercédès started; she noticed that the young man did not say “my
father.”

“My son,” she said, “persons in the count’s situation have many secret
enemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous.”

“I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a
mind, nothing escapes you.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave,
that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.”

Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm.

“M. de Monte Cristo!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the
question you asked me?”

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“You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is
customary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not
eating or drinking in the houses of their enemies.”

“Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?” replied Mercédès,
becoming paler than the sheet which covered her. “Who told you so? Why,
you are mad, Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. M.
de Monte Cristo saved your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh,
I entreat you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it;
and my counsel to you—nay, my prayer—is to retain his friendship.”

“Mother,” replied the young man, “you have special reasons for telling
me to conciliate that man.”

“I?” said Mercédès, blushing as rapidly as she had turned pale, and
again becoming paler than ever.

“Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he may never do us any harm?”

Mercédès shuddered, and, fixing on her son a scrutinizing gaze, “You
speak strangely,” said she to Albert, “and you appear to have some
singular prejudices. What has the count done? Three days since you were
with him in Normandy; only three days since we looked on him as our
best friend.”

An ironical smile passed over Albert’s lips. Mercédès saw it and with
the double instinct of woman and mother guessed all; but as she was
prudent and strong-minded she concealed both her sorrows and her fears.
Albert was silent; an instant after, the countess resumed:

“You came to inquire after my health; I will candidly acknowledge that
I am not well. You should install yourself here, and cheer my solitude.
I do not wish to be left alone.”

“Mother,” said the young man, “you know how gladly I would obey your
wish, but an urgent and important affair obliges me to leave you for
the whole evening.”

“Well,” replied Mercédès, sighing, “go, Albert; I will not make you a
slave to your filial piety.”

Albert pretended he did not hear, bowed to his mother, and quitted her.
Scarcely had he shut her door, when Mercédès called a confidential
servant, and ordered him to follow Albert wherever he should go that
evening, and to come and tell her immediately what he observed. Then
she rang for her lady’s maid, and, weak as she was, she dressed, in
order to be ready for whatever might happen. The footman’s mission was
an easy one. Albert went to his room, and dressed with unusual care. At
ten minutes to eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen Château-Renaud, who
had promised to be in the orchestra before the curtain was raised. Both
got into Albert’s _coupé_; and, as the young man had no reason to
conceal where he was going, he called aloud, “To the Opera.” In his
impatience he arrived before the beginning of the performance.

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Château-Renaud was at his post; apprised by Beauchamp of the
circumstances, he required no explanation from Albert. The conduct of
the son in seeking to avenge his father was so natural that
Château-Renaud did not seek to dissuade him, and was content with
renewing his assurances of devotion. Debray was not yet come, but
Albert knew that he seldom lost a scene at the Opera.

Albert wandered about the theatre until the curtain was drawn up. He
hoped to meet with M. de Monte Cristo either in the lobby or on the
stairs. The bell summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra
with Château-Renaud and Beauchamp. But his eyes scarcely quitted the
box between the columns, which remained obstinately closed during the
whole of the first act. At last, as Albert was looking at his watch for
about the hundredth time, at the beginning of the second act the door
opened, and Monte Cristo entered, dressed in black, and, leaning over
the front of the box, looked around the pit. Morrel followed him, and
looked also for his sister and brother in-law; he soon discovered them
in another box, and kissed his hand to them.

The count, in his survey of the pit, encountered a pale face and
threatening eyes, which evidently sought to gain his attention. He
recognized Albert, but thought it better not to notice him, as he
looked so angry and discomposed. Without communicating his thoughts to
his companion, he sat down, drew out his opera-glass, and looked
another way. Although apparently not noticing Albert, he did not,
however, lose sight of him, and when the curtain fell at the end of the
second act, he saw him leave the orchestra with his two friends. Then
his head was seen passing at the back of the boxes, and the count knew
that the approaching storm was intended to fall on him. He was at the
moment conversing cheerfully with Morrel, but he was well prepared for
what might happen.

The door opened, and Monte Cristo, turning round, saw Albert, pale and
trembling, followed by Beauchamp and Château-Renaud.

“Well,” cried he, with that benevolent politeness which distinguished
his salutation from the common civilities of the world, “my cavalier
has attained his object. Good-evening, M. de Morcerf.”

The countenance of this man, who possessed such extraordinary control
over his feelings, expressed the most perfect cordiality. Morrel only
then recollected the letter he had received from the viscount, in
which, without assigning any reason, he begged him to go to the Opera,
but he understood that something terrible was brooding.

“We are not come here, sir, to exchange hypocritical expressions of
politeness, or false professions of friendship,” said Albert, “but to
demand an explanation.”

The young man’s trembling voice was scarcely audible.

“An explanation at the Opera?” said the count, with that calm tone and
penetrating eye which characterize the man who knows his cause is good.
“Little acquainted as I am with the habits of Parisians, I should not
have thought this the place for such a demand.”

“Still, if people will shut themselves up,” said Albert, “and cannot be
seen because they are bathing, dining, or asleep, we must avail
ourselves of the opportunity whenever they are to be seen.”

“I am not difficult of access, sir; for yesterday, if my memory does
not deceive me, you were at my house.”

“Yesterday I was at your house, sir,” said the young man; “because then
I knew not who you were.”

In pronouncing these words Albert had raised his voice so as to be
heard by those in the adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus the
attention of many was attracted by this altercation.

“Where are you come from, sir? “ said Monte Cristo “You do not appear
to be in the possession of your senses.”

“Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in making you
understand that I will be revenged, I shall be reasonable enough,” said
Albert furiously.

“I do not understand you, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “and if I did,
your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right to
raise my voice above another’s. Leave the box, sir!”

Monte Cristo pointed towards the door with the most commanding dignity.

“Ah, I shall know how to make you leave your home!” replied Albert,
clasping in his convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not
lose sight of.

“Well, well,” said Monte Cristo quietly, “I see you wish to quarrel
with me; but I would give you one piece of advice, which you will do
well to keep in mind. It is in poor taste to make a display of a
challenge. Display is not becoming to everyone, M. de Morcerf.”

At this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the group of
spectators of this scene. They had talked of no one but Morcerf the
whole day. Albert understood the allusion in a moment, and was about to
throw his glove at the count, when Morrel seized his hand, while
Beauchamp and Château-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the
limits of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without rising,
and leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and,
taking the damp, crushed glove from the clenched hand of the young man:

“Sir,” said he in a solemn tone, “I consider your glove thrown, and
will return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will
summon my servants to throw you out at the door.”

Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back,
and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if
nothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like
bronze. Morrel whispered, “What have you done to him?”

“I? Nothing—at least personally,” said Monte Cristo.

“But there must be some cause for this strange scene.”

“The Count of Morcerf’s adventure exasperates the young man.”

“Have you anything to do with it?”

“It was through Haydée that the Chamber was informed of his father’s
treason.”

“Indeed?” said Morrel. “I had been told, but would not credit it, that
the Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the
daughter of Ali Pasha.”

“It is true, nevertheless.”

“Then,” said Morrel, “I understand it all, and this scene was
premeditated.”

“How so?”

“Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the Opera, doubtless that I
might be a witness to the insult he meant to offer you.”

“Probably,” said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable tranquillity.

“But what shall you do with him?”

“With whom?”

“With Albert.”

“What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press
your hand, I shall kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Morrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo’s hand in both of his, and he
shuddered to feel how cold and steady it was.

“Ah, count,” said he, “his father loves him so much!”

“Do not speak to me of that,” said Monte Cristo, with the first
movement of anger he had betrayed; “I will make him suffer.”

Morrel, amazed, let fall Monte Cristo’s hand. “Count, count!” said he.

“Dear Maximilian,” interrupted the count, “listen how adorably Duprez
is singing that line,—

‘O Mathilde! idole de mon âme!’


“I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first to applaud
him. Bravo, bravo!”

Morrel saw it was useless to say more, and refrained. The curtain,
which had risen at the close of the scene with Albert, again fell, and
a rap was heard at the door.

“Come in,” said Monte Cristo with a voice that betrayed not the least
emotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared. “Good-evening, M.
Beauchamp,” said Monte Cristo, as if this was the first time he had
seen the journalist that evening; “be seated.”

Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down, “Sir,” said he, “I just now
accompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw.”

“And that means,” replied Monte Cristo, laughing, “that you had,
probably, just dined together. I am happy to see, M. Beauchamp, that
you are more sober than he was.”

“Sir,” said M. Beauchamp, “Albert was wrong, I acknowledge, to betray
so much anger, and I come, on my own account, to apologize for him. And
having done so, entirely on my own account, be it understood, I would
add that I believe you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some
explanation concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two
words about the young Greek girl.”

Monte Cristo motioned him to be silent. “Come,” said he, laughing,
“there are all my hopes about to be destroyed.”

“How so?” asked Beauchamp.

“Doubtless you wish to make me appear a very eccentric character. I am,
in your opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord Ruthven; then, just as I am
arriving at the climax, you defeat your own end, and seek to make an
ordinary man of me. You bring me down to your own level, and demand
explanations! Indeed, M. Beauchamp, it is quite laughable.”

“Yet,” replied Beauchamp haughtily, “there are occasions when probity
commands——”

“M. Beauchamp,” interposed this strange man, “the Count of Monte Cristo
bows to none but the Count of Monte Cristo himself. Say no more, I
entreat you. I do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it is always well
done.”

“Sir,” replied the young man, “honest men are not to be paid with such
coin. I require honorable guaranties.”

“I am, sir, a living guaranty,” replied Monte Cristo, motionless, but
with a threatening look; “we have both blood in our veins which we wish
to shed—that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that
tomorrow, before ten o’clock, I shall see what color his is.”

“Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel,” said Beauchamp.

“It is quite immaterial to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and it was very
unnecessary to disturb me at the Opera for such a trifle. In France
people fight with the sword or pistol, in the colonies with the
carbine, in Arabia with the dagger. Tell your client that, although I
am the insulted party, in order to carry out my eccentricity, I leave
him the choice of arms, and will accept without discussion, without
dispute, anything, even combat by drawing lots, which is always stupid,
but with me different from other people, as I am sure to gain.”

“Sure to gain!” repeated Beauchamp, looking with amazement at the
count.

“Certainly,” said Monte Cristo, slightly shrugging his shoulders;
“otherwise I would not fight with M. de Morcerf. I shall kill him—I
cannot help it. Only by a single line this evening at my house let me
know the arms and the hour; I do not like to be kept waiting.”

“Pistols, then, at eight o’clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,” said
Beauchamp, quite disconcerted, not knowing if he was dealing with an
arrogant braggadocio or a supernatural being.

“Very well, sir,” said Monte Cristo. “Now all that is settled, do let
me see the performance, and tell your friend Albert not to come any
more this evening; he will hurt himself with all his ill-chosen
barbarisms: let him go home and go to sleep.”

Beauchamp left the box, perfectly amazed.

“Now,” said Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, “I may depend upon
you, may I not?”

“Certainly,” said Morrel, “I am at your service, count; still——”

“What?”

“It is desirable I should know the real cause.”

“That is to say, you would rather not?”

“No.”

“The young man himself is acting blindfolded, and knows not the true
cause, which is known only to God and to me; but I give you my word,
Morrel, that God, who does know it, will be on our side.”

“Enough,” said Morrel; “who is your second witness?”

“I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom I could confer that honor
besides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think Emmanuel would
oblige me?”

“I will answer for him, count.”

“Well? that is all I require. Tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock, you
will be with me, will you not?”

“We will.”

“Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I never lose a note of this opera
if I can avoid it; the music of _William Tell_ is so sweet.”



 Chapter 89. The Night

Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until Duprez had
sung his famous “_Suivez-moi!_” then he rose and went out. Morrel took
leave of him at the door, renewing his promise to be with him the next
morning at seven o’clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into
his _coupé_, calm and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one
who knew the count could mistake his expression when, on entering, he
said:

“Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross.”

Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons with a
solicitude very natural to a man who is about to intrust his life to a
little powder and shot. These were pistols of an especial pattern,
which Monte Cristo had had made for target practice in his own room. A
cap was sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining room
no one would have suspected that the count was, as sportsmen would say,
keeping his hand in.

He was just taking one up and looking for the point to aim at on a
little iron plate which served him as a target, when his study door
opened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word, the count
saw in the next room a veiled woman, who had followed closely after
Baptistin, and now, seeing the count with a pistol in his hand and
swords on the table, rushed in. Baptistin looked at his master, who
made a sign to him, and he went out, closing the door after him.

“Who are you, madame?” said the count to the veiled woman.

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The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that they were
quite alone; then bending as if she would have knelt, and joining her
hands, she said with an accent of despair:

“Edmond, you will not kill my son!”

The count retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall
the pistol he held.

“What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?” said he.

“Yours!” cried she, throwing back her veil,—“yours, which I alone,
perhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is
come to you, it is Mercédès.”

“Mercédès is dead, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “I know no one now of
that name.”

“Mercédès lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone recognized you
when she saw you, and even before she saw you, by your voice,
Edmond,—by the simple sound of your voice; and from that moment she has
followed your steps, watched you, feared you, and she needs not to
inquire what hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf.”

“Fernand, do you mean?” replied Monte Cristo, with bitter irony; “since
we are recalling names, let us remember them all.” Monte Cristo had
pronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred that
Mercédès felt a thrill of horror run through every vein.

“You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say, ‘Spare my
son!’”

“And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile intentions against
your son?”

“No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed all; I
followed him this evening to the Opera, and, concealed in a parquet
box, have seen all.”

“If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of Fernand has
publicly insulted me,” said Monte Cristo with awful calmness.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!”

“You have seen that he would have thrown his glove in my face if
Morrel, one of my friends, had not stopped him.”

“Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are,—he attributes his
father’s misfortunes to you.”

“Madame, you are mistaken, they are not misfortunes,—it is a
punishment. It is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is Providence
which punishes him.”

“And why do you represent Providence?” cried Mercédès. “Why do you
remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you,
Edmond? What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali
Tepelini?”

“Ah, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “all this is an affair between the
French captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It does not concern me,
you are right; and if I have sworn to revenge myself, it is not on the
French captain, or the Count of Morcerf, but on the fisherman Fernand,
the husband of Mercédès the Catalane.”

“Ah, sir!” cried the countess, “how terrible a vengeance for a fault
which fatality made me commit!—for I am the only culprit, Edmond, and
if you owe revenge to anyone, it is to me, who had not fortitude to
bear your absence and my solitude.”

“But,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “why was I absent? And why were you
alone?”

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“Because you had been arrested, Edmond, and were a prisoner.”

“And why was I arrested? Why was I a prisoner?”

“I do not know,” said Mercédès.

“You do not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I was
arrested and became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La Réserve,
the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote this
letter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted.”

Monte Cristo went to a secretaire, opened a drawer by a spring, from
which he took a paper which had lost its original color, and the ink of
which had become of a rusty hue—this he placed in the hands of
Mercédès. It was Danglars’ letter to the king’s attorney, which the
Count of Monte Cristo, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson &
French, had taken from the file against Edmond Dantès, on the day he
had paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de Boville. Mercédès
read with terror the following lines:

“The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion
that one Edmond Dantès, second in command on board the _Pharaon_, this
day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and
Porto-Ferrajo, is the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and
of another letter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris.
Ample corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting the
above-mentioned Edmond Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris
about with him, or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found
in possession of either father or son, then it will assuredly be
discovered in the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the
_Pharaon_.”


“How dreadful!” said Mercédès, passing her hand across her brow, moist
with perspiration; “and that letter——”

“I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame,” said Monte
Cristo; “but that is a trifle, since it enables me to justify myself to
you.”

“And the result of that letter——”

“You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know how long
that arrest lasted. You do not know that I remained for fourteen years
within a quarter of a league of you, in a dungeon in the Château d’If.
You do not know that every day of those fourteen years I renewed the
vow of vengeance which I had made the first day; and yet I was not
aware that you had married Fernand, my calumniator, and that my father
had died of hunger!”

“Can it be?” cried Mercédès, shuddering.

“That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after I had
entered it; and that is why, on account of the living Mercédès and my
deceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on Fernand, and—I have
revenged myself.”

“And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?”

“I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you; besides,
that is not much more odious than that a Frenchman by adoption should
pass over to the English; that a Spaniard by birth should have fought
against the Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed
and murdered Ali. Compared with such things, what is the letter you
have just read?—a lover’s deception, which the woman who has married
that man ought certainly to forgive; but not so the lover who was to
have married her. Well, the French did not avenge themselves on the
traitor, the Spaniards did not shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left
the traitor unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen
from my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He sends me for
that purpose, and here I am.”

The poor woman’s head and arms fell; her legs bent under her, and she
fell on her knees.

“Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love you still!”

The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother.
Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forward
and raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manly
countenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed
a threatening expression.

“Not crush that accursed race?” murmured he; “abandon my purpose at the
moment of its accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible!”

“Edmond,” said the poor mother, who tried every means, “when I call you
Edmond, why do you not call me Mercédès?”

“Mercédès!” repeated Monte Cristo; “Mercédès! Well yes, you are right;
that name has still its charms, and this is the first time for a long
period that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh, Mercédès, I have
uttered your name with the sigh of melancholy, with the groan of
sorrow, with the last effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen
with cold, crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it,
consumed with heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison. Mercédès,
I must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years,—fourteen years I
wept, I cursed; now I tell you, Mercédès, I must revenge myself.”

The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently
loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred.

“Revenge yourself, then, Edmond,” cried the poor mother; “but let your
vengeance fall on the culprits,—on him, on me, but not on my son!”

“It is written in the good book,” said Monte Cristo, “that the sins of
the fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourth
generation. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why
should I seek to make myself better than God?”

“Edmond,” continued Mercédès, with her arms extended towards the count,
“since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected your
memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and
pure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if
you knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I
thought you were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes,
dead, alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy
tower, or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept!
What could I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten
years I dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you had
endeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner;
that you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you
had been thrown alive from the top of the Château d’If, and that the
cry you uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your
jailers that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by
the head of that son for whom I entreat your pity,—Edmond, for ten
years I saw every night every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for
ten years I heard every night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and
cold. And I, too, Edmond—oh! believe me—guilty as I was—oh, yes, I,
too, have suffered much!”

“Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in your
absence?” cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair; “have
you seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while you
were perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?”

“No,” interrupted Mercédès, “but I have seen him whom I loved on the
point of murdering my son.”

Mercédès uttered these words with such deep anguish, with an accent of
such intense despair, that Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob. The
lion was daunted; the avenger was conquered.

“What do you ask of me?” said he,—“your son’s life? Well, he shall
live!”

Mercédès uttered a cry which made the tears start from Monte Cristo’s
eyes; but these tears disappeared almost instantaneously, for,
doubtless, God had sent some angel to collect them—far more precious
were they in his eyes than the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.

“Oh,” said she, seizing the count’s hand and raising it to her lips;
“oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are exactly what I dreamt
you were,—the man I always loved. Oh, now I may say so!”

“So much the better,” replied Monte Cristo; “as that poor Edmond will
not have long to be loved by you. Death is about to return to the tomb,
the phantom to retire in darkness.”

“What do you say, Edmond?”

“I say, since you command me, Mercédès, I must die.”

“Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? Whence have you these ideas of
death?”

“You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a whole
theatre, in the presence of your friends and those of your
son—challenged by a boy who will glory in my forgiveness as if it were
a victory—you do not suppose that I can for one moment wish to live.
What I most loved after you, Mercédès, was myself, my dignity, and that
strength which rendered me superior to other men; that strength was my
life. With one word you have crushed it, and I die.”

“But the duel will not take place, Edmond, since you forgive?”

“It will take place,” said Monte Cristo, in a most solemn tone; “but
instead of your son’s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow.”

Mercédès shrieked, and sprang towards Monte Cristo, but, suddenly
stopping, “Edmond,” said she, “there is a God above us, since you live
and since I have seen you again; I trust to him from my heart. While
waiting his assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my son
should live, have you not?”

“Yes, madame, he shall live,” said Monte Cristo, surprised that without
more emotion Mercédès had accepted the heroic sacrifice he made for
her. Mercédès extended her hand to the count.

“Edmond,” said she, and her eyes were wet with tears while looking at
him to whom she spoke, “how noble it is of you, how great the action
you have just performed, how sublime to have taken pity on a poor woman
who appealed to you with every chance against her, Alas, I am grown old
with grief more than with years, and cannot now remind my Edmond by a
smile, or by a look, of that Mercédès whom he once spent so many hours
in contemplating. Ah, believe me, Edmond, as I told you, I too have
suffered much; I repeat, it is melancholy to pass one’s life without
having one joy to recall, without preserving a single hope; but that
proves that all is not yet over. No, it is not finished; I feel it by
what remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, Edmond; what you have just
done is beautiful—it is grand; it is sublime.”

“Do you say so now, Mercédès?—then what would you say if you knew the
extent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose that the Supreme Being,
after having created the world and fertilized chaos, had paused in the
work to spare an angel the tears that might one day flow for mortal
sins from her immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in
readiness and the moment had come for God to look upon his work and see
that it was good—suppose he had snuffed out the sun and tossed the
world back into eternal night—then—even then, Mercédès, you could not
imagine what I lose in sacrificing my life at this moment.”

Mercédès looked at the count in a way which expressed at the same time
her astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. Monte Cristo
pressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could no
longer bear alone the weight of its thoughts.

“Edmond,” said Mercédès, “I have but one word more to say to you.”

The count smiled bitterly.

“Edmond,” continued she, “you will see that if my face is pale, if my
eyes are dull, if my beauty is gone; if Mercédès, in short, no longer
resembles her former self in her features, you will see that her heart
is still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask of
heaven—I have seen you again, and have found you as noble and as great
as formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you.”

But the count did not answer. Mercédès opened the door of the study and
had disappeared before he had recovered from the painful and profound
reverie into which his thwarted vengeance had plunged him.

The clock of the Invalides struck one when the carriage which conveyed
Madame de Morcerf rolled away on the pavement of the Champs-Élysées,
and made Monte Cristo raise his head.

“What a fool I was,” said he, “not to tear my heart out on the day when
I resolved to avenge myself!”



 Chapter 90. The Meeting

After Mercédès had left Monte Cristo, he fell into profound gloom.
Around him and within him the flight of thought seemed to have stopped;
his energetic mind slumbered, as the body does after extreme fatigue.

“What?” said he to himself, while the lamp and the wax lights were
nearly burnt out, and the servants were waiting impatiently in the
anteroom; “what? this edifice which I have been so long preparing,
which I have reared with so much care and toil, is to be crushed by a
single touch, a word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom I thought so
much, of whom I was so proud, who had appeared so worthless in the
dungeons of the Château d’If, and whom I had succeeded in making so
great, will be but a lump of clay tomorrow. Alas, it is not the death
of the body I regret; for is not the destruction of the vital
principle, the repose to which everything is tending, to which every
unhappy being aspires,—is not this the repose of matter after which I
so long sighed, and which I was seeking to attain by the painful
process of starvation when Faria appeared in my dungeon? What is death
for me? One step farther into rest,—two, perhaps, into silence. No, it
is not existence, then, that I regret, but the ruin of projects so
slowly carried out, so laboriously framed. Providence is now opposed to
them, when I most thought it would be propitious. It is not God’s will
that they should be accomplished. This burden, almost as heavy as a
world, which I had raised, and I had thought to bear to the end, was
too great for my strength, and I was compelled to lay it down in the
middle of my career. Oh, shall I then, again become a fatalist, whom
fourteen years of despair and ten of hope had rendered a believer in
Providence?

“And all this—all this, because my heart, which I thought dead, was
only sleeping; because it has awakened and has begun to beat again,
because I have yielded to the pain of the emotion excited in my breast
by a woman’s voice.

“Yet,” continued the count, becoming each moment more absorbed in the
anticipation of the dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, which Mercédès
had accepted, “yet, it is impossible that so noble-minded a woman
should thus through selfishness consent to my death when I am in the
prime of life and strength; it is impossible that she can carry to such
a point maternal love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which
become crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some
pathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us; and what
would be sublime here will there appear ridiculous.”

The blush of pride mounted to the count’s forehead as this thought
passed through his mind.

“Ridiculous?” repeated he; “and the ridicule will fall on me. I
ridiculous? No, I would rather die.”

By thus exaggerating to his own mind the anticipated ill-fortune of the
next day, to which he had condemned himself by promising Mercédès to
spare her son, the count at last exclaimed:

“Folly, folly, folly!—to carry generosity so far as to put myself up as
a mark for that young man to aim at. He will never believe that my
death was suicide; and yet it is important for the honor of my
memory,—and this surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride,—it is
important the world should know that I have consented, by my free will,
to stop my arm, already raised to strike, and that with the arm which
has been so powerful against others I have struck myself. It must be;
it shall be.”

Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a secret drawer in his desk, and
wrote at the bottom of the document (which was no other than his will,
made since his arrival in Paris) a sort of codicil, clearly explaining
the nature of his death.

“I do this, Oh, my God,” said he, with his eyes raised to heaven, “as
much for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years considered
myself the agent of thy vengeance, and other wretches, like Morcerf,
Danglars, Villefort, even Morcerf himself, must not imagine that chance
has freed them from their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that
their punishment, which had been decreed by Providence, is only delayed
by my present determination, and although they escape it in this world,
it awaits them in another, and that they are only exchanging time for
eternity.”

While he was thus agitated by gloomy uncertainties,—wretched waking
dreams of grief,—the first rays of morning pierced his windows, and
shone upon the pale blue paper on which he had just inscribed his
justification of Providence.

It was just five o’clock in the morning when a slight noise like a
stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned his head, looked around him,
and saw no one; but the sound was repeated distinctly enough to
convince him of its reality.

He arose, and quietly opening the door of the drawing-room, saw Haydée,
who had fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging down and her beautiful
head thrown back. She had been standing at the door, to prevent his
going out without seeing her, until sleep, which the young cannot
resist, had overpowered her frame, wearied as she was with watching.
The noise of the door did not awaken her, and Monte Cristo gazed at her
with affectionate regret.

“She remembered that she had a son,” said he; “and I forgot I had a
daughter.” Then, shaking his head sorrowfully, “Poor Haydée,” said he;
“she wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed
something. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I cannot die
without confiding her to someone.”

He quietly regained his seat, and wrote under the other lines:

“I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis,—and son of my
former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner at Marseilles,—the sum of
twenty millions, a part of which may be offered to his sister Julie and
brother-in-law Emmanuel, if he does not fear this increase of fortune
may mar their happiness. These twenty millions are concealed in my
grotto at Monte Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the secret. If his
heart is free, and he will marry Haydée, the daughter of Ali Pasha of
Yanina, whom I have brought up with the love of a father, and who has
shown the love and tenderness of a daughter for me, he will thus
accomplish my last wish. This will has already constituted Haydée
heiress of the rest of my fortune, consisting of lands, funds in
England, Austria, and Holland, furniture in my different palaces and
houses, and which without the twenty millions and the legacies to my
servants, may still amount to sixty millions.”


40241m



He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made him start,
and the pen fell from his hand.

“Haydée,” said he, “did you read it?”

“Oh, my lord,” said she, “why are you writing thus at such an hour? Why
are you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are you going to leave me?”

“I am going on a journey, dear child,” said Monte Cristo, with an
expression of infinite tenderness and melancholy; “and if any
misfortune should happen to me——”

The count stopped.

“Well?” asked the young girl, with an authoritative tone the count had
never observed before, and which startled him.

“Well, if any misfortune happen to me,” replied Monte Cristo, “I wish
my daughter to be happy.” Haydée smiled sorrowfully, and shook her
head.

“Do you think of dying, my lord?” said she.

“The wise man, my child, has said, ‘It is good to think of death.’”

“Well, if you die,” said she, “bequeath your fortune to others, for if
you die I shall require nothing;” and, taking the paper, she tore it in
four pieces, and threw it into the middle of the room. Then, the effort
having exhausted her strength, she fell, not asleep this time, but
fainting on the floor.

The count leaned over her and raised her in his arms; and seeing that
sweet pale face, those lovely eyes closed, that beautiful form
motionless and to all appearance lifeless, the idea occurred to him for
the first time, that perhaps she loved him otherwise than as a daughter
loves a father.

“Alas,” murmured he, with intense suffering, “I might, then, have been
happy yet.”

Then he carried Haydée to her room, resigned her to the care of her
attendants, and returning to his study, which he shut quickly this
time, he again copied the destroyed will. As he was finishing, the
sound of a cabriolet entering the yard was heard. Monte Cristo
approached the window, and saw Maximilian and Emmanuel alight. “Good,”
said he; “it was time,”—and he sealed his will with three seals.

A moment afterwards he heard a noise in the drawing-room, and went to
open the door himself. Morrel was there; he had come twenty minutes
before the time appointed.

“I am perhaps come too soon, count,” said he, “but I frankly
acknowledge that I have not closed my eyes all night, nor has anyone in
my house. I need to see you strong in your courageous assurance, to
recover myself.”

Monte Cristo could not resist this proof of affection; he not only
extended his hand to the young man, but flew to him with open arms.

“Morrel,” said he, “it is a happy day for me, to feel that I am beloved
by such a man as you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will come with me
then, Maximilian?”

“Did you doubt it?” said the young captain.

“But if I were wrong——”

“I watched you during the whole scene of that challenge yesterday; I
have been thinking of your firmness all night, and I said to myself
that justice must be on your side, or man’s countenance is no longer to
be relied on.”

“But, Morrel, Albert is your friend?”

“Simply an acquaintance, sir.”

“You met on the same day you first saw me?”

“Yes, that is true; but I should not have recollected it if you had not
reminded me.”

“Thank you, Morrel.” Then ringing the bell once, “Look.” said he to
Ali, who came immediately, “take that to my solicitor. It is my will,
Morrel. When I am dead, you will go and examine it.”

“What?” said Morrel, “you dead?”

“Yes; must I not be prepared for everything, dear friend? But what did
you do yesterday after you left me?”

“I went to Tortoni’s, where, as I expected, I found Beauchamp and
Château-Renaud. I own I was seeking them.”

“Why, when all was arranged?”

“Listen, count; the affair is serious and unavoidable.”

“Did you doubt it!”

“No; the offence was public, and everyone is already talking of it.”

“Well?”

“Well, I hoped to get an exchange of arms,—to substitute the sword for
the pistol; the pistol is blind.”

“Have you succeeded?” asked Monte Cristo quickly, with an imperceptible
gleam of hope.

“No; for your skill with the sword is so well known.”

“Ah?—who has betrayed me?”

“The skilful swordsman whom you have conquered.”

“And you failed?”

“They positively refused.”

“Morrel,” said the count, “have you ever seen me fire a pistol?”

“Never.”

“Well, we have time; look.” Monte Cristo took the pistols he held in
his hand when Mercédès entered, and fixing an ace of clubs against the
iron plate, with four shots he successively shot off the four sides of
the club. At each shot Morrel turned pale. He examined the bullets with
which Monte Cristo performed this dexterous feat, and saw that they
were no larger than buckshot.

“It is astonishing,” said he. “Look, Emmanuel.” Then turning towards
Monte Cristo, “Count,” said he, “in the name of all that is dear to
you, I entreat you not to kill Albert!—the unhappy youth has a mother.”

“You are right,” said Monte Cristo; “and I have none.” These words were
uttered in a tone which made Morrel shudder.

“You are the offended party, count.”

“Doubtless; what does that imply?”

“That you will fire first.”

“I fire first?”

“Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed that; we had conceded enough for
them to yield us that.”

“And at what distance?”

“Twenty paces.” A smile of terrible import passed over the count’s
lips.

“Morrel,” said he, “do not forget what you have just seen.”

“The only chance for Albert’s safety, then, will arise from your
emotion.”

“I suffer from emotion?” said Monte Cristo.

“Or from your generosity, my friend; to so good a marksman as you are,
I may say what would appear absurd to another.”

“What is that?”

“Break his arm—wound him—but do not kill him.”

“I will tell you, Morrel,” said the count, “that I do not need
entreating to spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he shall be so well
spared, that he will return quietly with his two friends, while I——”

“And you?”

“That will be another thing; I shall be brought home.”

“No, no,” cried Maximilian, quite unable to restrain his feelings.

“As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de Morcerf will kill me.”

Morrel looked at him in utter amazement. “But what has happened, then,
since last evening, count?”

“The same thing that happened to Brutus the night before the battle of
Philippi; I have seen a ghost.”

“And that ghost——”

“Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long enough.”

Maximilian and Emmanuel looked at each other. Monte Cristo drew out his
watch. “Let us go,” said he; “it is five minutes past seven, and the
appointment was for eight o’clock.”

A carriage was in readiness at the door. Monte Cristo stepped into it
with his two friends. He had stopped a moment in the passage to listen
at a door, and Maximilian and Emmanuel, who had considerately passed
forward a few steps, thought they heard him answer by a sigh to a sob
from within. As the clock struck eight they drove up to the place of
meeting.

“We are first,” said Morrel, looking out of the window.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Baptistin, who had followed his master with
indescribable terror, “but I think I see a carriage down there under
the trees.”

Monte Cristo sprang lightly from the carriage, and offered his hand to
assist Emmanuel and Maximilian. The latter retained the count’s hand
between his.

“I like,” said he, “to feel a hand like this, when its owner relies on
the goodness of his cause.”

“It seems to me,” said Emmanuel, “that I see two young men down there,
who are evidently, waiting.”

Monte Cristo drew Morrel a step or two behind his brother-in-law.

“Maximilian,” said he, “are your affections disengaged?” Morrel looked
at Monte Cristo with astonishment. “I do not seek your confidence, my
dear friend. I only ask you a simple question; answer it;—that is all I
require.”

“I love a young girl, count.”

“Do you love her much?”

“More than my life.”

“Another hope defeated!” said the count. Then, with a sigh, “Poor
Haydée!” murmured he.

“To tell the truth, count, if I knew less of you, I should think that
you were less brave than you are.”

“Because I sigh when thinking of someone I am leaving? Come, Morrel, it
is not like a soldier to be so bad a judge of courage. Do I regret
life? What is it to me, who have passed twenty years between life and
death? Moreover, do not alarm yourself, Morrel; this weakness, if it is
such, is betrayed to you alone. I know the world is a drawing-room,
from which we must retire politely and honestly; that is, with a bow,
and our debts of honor paid.”

“That is to the purpose. Have you brought your arms?”

“I?—what for? I hope these gentlemen have theirs.”

“I will inquire,” said Morrel.

“Do; but make no treaty—you understand me?”

“You need not fear.” Morrel advanced towards Beauchamp and
Château-Renaud, who, seeing his intention, came to meet him. The three
young men bowed to each other courteously, if not affably.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Morrel, “but I do not see M. de Morcerf.”

“He sent us word this morning,” replied Château-Renaud, “that he would
meet us on the ground.”

“Ah,” said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out his watch.

“It is only five minutes past eight,” said he to Morrel; “there is not
much time lost yet.”

“Oh, I made no allusion of that kind,” replied Morrel.

“There is a carriage coming,” said Château-Renaud. It advanced rapidly
along one of the avenues leading towards the open space where they were
assembled.

“You are doubtless provided with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte Cristo
yields his right of using his.”

“We had anticipated this kindness on the part of the count,” said
Beauchamp, “and I have brought some weapons which I bought eight or ten
days since, thinking to want them on a similar occasion. They are quite
new, and have not yet been used. Will you examine them.”

“Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does not know
these pistols, you may readily believe that your word will be quite
sufficient.”

“Gentlemen,” said Château-Renaud, “it is not Morcerf coming in that
carriage;—faith, it is Franz and Debray!”

The two young men he announced were indeed approaching. “What chance
brings you here, gentlemen?” said Château-Renaud, shaking hands with
each of them.

“Because,” said Debray, “Albert sent this morning to request us to
come.” Beauchamp and Château-Renaud exchanged looks of astonishment. “I
think I understand his reason,” said Morrel.

“What is it?”

“Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me
to attend the Opera.”

“And I,” said Debray.

“And I also,” said Franz.

“And we, too,” added Beauchamp and Château-Renaud.

“Having wished you all to witness the challenge, he now wishes you to
be present at the combat.”

“Exactly so,” said the young men; “you have probably guessed right.”

“But, after all these arrangements, he does not come himself,” said
Château-Renaud. “Albert is ten minutes after time.”

“There he comes,” said Beauchamp, “on horseback, at full gallop,
followed by a servant.”

“How imprudent,” said Château-Renaud, “to come on horseback to fight a
duel with pistols, after all the instructions I had given him.”

“And besides,” said Beauchamp, “with a collar above his cravat, an open
coat and white waistcoat! Why has he not painted a spot upon his
heart?—it would have been more simple.”

Meanwhile Albert had arrived within ten paces of the group formed by
the five young men. He jumped from his horse, threw the bridle on his
servant’s arms, and joined them. He was pale, and his eyes were red and
swollen; it was evident that he had not slept. A shade of melancholy
gravity overspread his countenance, which was not natural to him.

“I thank you, gentlemen,” said he, “for having complied with my
request; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of friendship.” Morrel
had stepped back as Morcerf approached, and remained at a short
distance. “And to you also, M. Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there
cannot be too many.”

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“Sir,” said Maximilian, “you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de
Monte Cristo’s friend?”

“I was not sure, but I thought it might be so. So much the better; the
more honorable men there are here the better I shall be satisfied.”

“M. Morrel,” said Château-Renaud, “will you apprise the Count of Monte
Cristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we are at his disposal?”

Morrel was preparing to fulfil his commission. Beauchamp had meanwhile
drawn the box of pistols from the carriage.

“Stop, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I have two words to say to the Count
of Monte Cristo.”

“In private?” asked Morrel.

“No, sir; before all who are here.”

Albert’s witnesses looked at each other. Franz and Debray exchanged
some words in a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at this unexpected
incident, went to fetch the count, who was walking in a retired path
with Emmanuel.

“What does he want with me?” said Monte Cristo.

“I do not know, but he wishes to speak to you.”

“Ah?” said Monte Cristo, “I trust he is not going to tempt me by some
fresh insult!”

“I do not think that such is his intention,” said Morrel.

The count advanced, accompanied by Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm
and serene look formed a singular contrast to Albert’s grief-stricken
face, who approached also, followed by the other four young men.

When at three paces distant from each other, Albert and the count
stopped.

“Approach, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I wish you not to lose one word of
what I am about to have the honor of saying to the Count of Monte
Cristo, for it must be repeated by you to all who will listen to it,
strange as it may appear to you.”

“Proceed, sir,” said the count.

“Sir,” said Albert, at first with a tremulous voice, but which
gradually became firmer, “I reproached you with exposing the conduct of
M. de Morcerf in Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, I thought you had
no right to punish him; but I have since learned that you had that
right. It is not Fernand Mondego’s treachery towards Ali Pasha which
induces me so readily to excuse you, but the treachery of the fisherman
Fernand towards you, and the almost unheard-of miseries which were its
consequences; and I say, and proclaim it publicly, that you were
justified in revenging yourself on my father, and I, his son, thank you
for not using greater severity.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the spectators of this
unexpected scene, it would not have surprised them more than did
Albert’s declaration. As for Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose towards
heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. He could not
understand how Albert’s fiery nature, of which he had seen so much
among the Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to this humiliation. He
recognized the influence of Mercédès, and saw why her noble heart had
not opposed the sacrifice she knew beforehand would be useless.

“Now, sir,” said Albert, “if you think my apology sufficient, pray give
me your hand. Next to the merit of infallibility which you appear to
possess, I rank that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this
confession concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted
better than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us from
death—that angel came from heaven, if not to make us friends (which,
alas, fatality renders impossible), at least to make us esteem each
other.”

Monte Cristo, with moistened eye, heaving breast, and lips half open,
extended to Albert a hand which the latter pressed with a sentiment
resembling respectful fear.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “M. de Monte Cristo receives my apology. I had
acted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are generally bad ones. Now my
fault is repaired. I hope the world will not call me cowardly for
acting as my conscience dictated. But if anyone should entertain a
false opinion of me,” added he, drawing himself up as if he would
challenge both friends and enemies, “I shall endeavor to correct his
mistake.”

“What happened during the night?” asked Beauchamp of Château-Renaud;
“we appear to make a very sorry figure here.”

“In truth, what Albert has just done is either very despicable or very
noble,” replied the baron.

“What can it mean?” said Debray to Franz.

“The Count of Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is
justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I should only
consider myself the more bound to fight ten times.”

As for Monte Cristo, his head was bent down, his arms were powerless.
Bowing under the weight of twenty-four years’ reminiscences, he thought
not of Albert, of Beauchamp, of Château-Renaud, or of any of that
group; but he thought of that courageous woman who had come to plead
for her son’s life, to whom he had offered his, and who had now saved
it by the revelation of a dreadful family secret, capable of destroying
forever in that young man’s heart every feeling of filial piety.

“Providence still,” murmured he; “now only am I fully convinced of
being the emissary of God!”



 Chapter 91. Mother and Son

The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the five young men with a melancholy
and dignified smile, and got into his carriage with Maximilian and
Emmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and Château-Renaud remained alone. Albert
looked at his two friends, not timidly, but in a way that appeared to
ask their opinion of what he had just done.

“Indeed, my dear friend,” said Beauchamp first, who had either the most
feeling or the least dissimulation, “allow me to congratulate you; this
is a very unhoped-for conclusion of a very disagreeable affair.”

Albert remained silent and wrapped in thought. Château-Renaud contented
himself with tapping his boot with his flexible cane.

“Are we not going?” said he, after this embarrassing silence.

“When you please,” replied Beauchamp; “allow me only to compliment M.
de Morcerf, who has given proof today of rare chivalric generosity.”

“Oh, yes,” said Château-Renaud.

“It is magnificent,” continued Beauchamp, “to be able to exercise so
much self-control!”

“Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,” said
Château-Renaud, with most significant coolness.

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Albert, “I think you did not understand that
something very serious had passed between M. de Monte Cristo and
myself.”

“Possibly, possibly,” said Beauchamp immediately; “but every simpleton
would not be able to understand your heroism, and sooner or later you
will find yourself compelled to explain it to them more energetically
than would be convenient to your bodily health and the duration of your
life. May I give you a friendly counsel? Set out for Naples, the Hague,
or St. Petersburg—calm countries, where the point of honor is better
understood than among our hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude and
oblivion, so that you may return peaceably to France after a few years.
Am I not right, M. de Château-Renaud?”

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“That is quite my opinion,” said the gentleman; “nothing induces
serious duels so much as a duel forsworn.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” replied Albert, with a smile of indifference;
“I shall follow your advice—not because you give it, but because I had
before intended to quit France. I thank you equally for the service you
have rendered me in being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my
heart, and, after what you have just said, I remember that only.”

Château-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at each other; the impression was
the same on both of them, and the tone in which Morcerf had just
expressed his thanks was so determined that the position would have
become embarrassing for all if the conversation had continued.

“Good-bye, Albert,” said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly extending his
hand to the young man. The latter did not appear to arouse from his
lethargy; in fact, he did not notice the offered hand.

“Good-bye,” said Château-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane in
his left hand, and saluting with his right.

Albert’s lips scarcely whispered “Good-bye,” but his look was more
explicit; it expressed a whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain,
and generous indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless
position for some time after his two friends had regained their
carriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the little tree to
which his servant had tied it, he mounted and galloped off in the
direction of Paris.

In a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue du Helder.
As he alighted, he thought he saw his father’s pale face behind the
curtain of the count’s bedroom. Albert turned away his head with a
sigh, and went to his own apartments. He cast one lingering look on all
the luxuries which had rendered life so easy and so happy since his
infancy; he looked at the pictures, whose faces seemed to smile, and
the landscapes, which appeared painted in brighter colors. Then he took
away his mother’s portrait, with its oaken frame, leaving the gilt
frame from which he took it black and empty. Then he arranged all his
beautiful Turkish arms, his fine English guns, his Japanese china, his
cups mounted in silver, his artistic bronzes by Feuchères or Barye;
examined the cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer
of his secretaire, which he left open, all the pocket-money he had
about him, and with it the thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his
jewel-boxes; then he made an exact inventory of everything, and placed
it in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting aside the
books and papers which had collected there.

At the beginning of this work, his servant, notwithstanding orders to
the contrary, came to his room.

“What do you want?” asked he, with a more sorrowful than angry tone.

“Pardon me, sir,” replied the valet; “you had forbidden me to disturb
you, but the Count of Morcerf has called me.”

“Well!” said Albert.

“I did not like to go to him without first seeing you.”

“Why?”

“Because the count is doubtless aware that I accompanied you to the
meeting this morning.”

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“It is probable,” said Albert.

“And since he has sent for me, it is doubtless to question me on what
happened there. What must I answer?”

“The truth.”

“Then I shall say the duel did not take place?”

“You will say I apologized to the Count of Monte Cristo. Go.”

The valet bowed and retired, and Albert returned to his inventory. As
he was finishing this work, the sound of horses prancing in the yard,
and the wheels of a carriage shaking his window, attracted his
attention. He approached the window, and saw his father get into it,
and drive away. The door was scarcely closed when Albert bent his steps
to his mother’s room; and, no one being there to announce him, he
advanced to her bedchamber, and distressed by what he saw and guessed,
stopped for one moment at the door.

As if the same idea had animated these two beings, Mercédès was doing
the same in her apartments that he had just done in his. Everything was
in order,—laces, dresses, jewels, linen, money, all were arranged in
the drawers, and the countess was carefully collecting the keys. Albert
saw all these preparations and understood them, and exclaiming, “My
mother!” he threw his arms around her neck.

The artist who could have depicted the expression of these two
countenances would certainly have made of them a beautiful picture. All
these proofs of an energetic resolution, which Albert did not fear on
his own account, alarmed him for his mother. “What are you doing?”
asked he.

“What were you doing?” replied she.

“Oh, my mother!” exclaimed Albert, so overcome he could scarcely speak;
“it is not the same with you and me—you cannot have made the same
resolution I have, for I have come to warn you that I bid adieu to your
house, and—and to you.”

“I also,” replied Mercédès, “am going, and I acknowledge I had depended
on your accompanying me; have I deceived myself?”

“Mother,” said Albert with firmness. “I cannot make you share the fate
I have planned for myself. I must live henceforth without rank and
fortune, and to begin this hard apprenticeship I must borrow from a
friend the loaf I shall eat until I have earned one. So, my dear
mother, I am going at once to ask Franz to lend me the small sum I
shall require to supply my present wants.”

“You, my poor child, suffer poverty and hunger? Oh, do not say so; it
will break my resolutions.”

“But not mine, mother,” replied Albert. “I am young and strong; I
believe I am courageous, and since yesterday I have learned the power
of will. Alas, my dear mother, some have suffered so much, and yet
live, and have raised a new fortune on the ruin of all the promises of
happiness which heaven had made them—on the fragments of all the hope
which God had given them! I have seen that, mother; I know that from
the gulf in which their enemies have plunged them they have risen with
so much vigor and glory that in their turn they have ruled their former
conquerors, and have punished them. No, mother; from this moment I have
done with the past, and accept nothing from it—not even a name, because
you can understand that your son cannot bear the name of a man who
ought to blush for it before another.”

“Albert, my child,” said Mercédès, “if I had a stronger heart, that is
the counsel I would have given you; your conscience has spoken when my
voice became too weak; listen to its dictates. You had friends, Albert;
break off their acquaintance. But do not despair; you have life before
you, my dear Albert, for you are yet scarcely twenty-two years old; and
as a pure heart like yours wants a spotless name, take my father’s—it
was Herrera. I am sure, my dear Albert, whatever may be your career,
you will soon render that name illustrious. Then, my son, return to the
world still more brilliant because of your former sorrows; and if I am
wrong, still let me cherish these hopes, for I have no future to look
forward to. For me the grave opens when I pass the threshold of this
house.”

“I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear mother,” said the young man.
“Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of Heaven will not pursue us, since
you are pure and I am innocent. But, since our resolution is formed,
let us act promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about half an hour ago; the
opportunity is favorable to avoid an explanation.”

“I am ready, my son,” said Mercédès.

Albert ran to fetch a carriage. He recollected that there was a small
furnished house to let in the Rue des Saints-Pères, where his mother
would find a humble but decent lodging, and thither he intended
conducting the countess. As the carriage stopped at the door, and
Albert was alighting, a man approached and gave him a letter.

Albert recognized the bearer. “From the count,” said Bertuccio. Albert
took the letter, opened, and read it, then looked round for Bertuccio,
but he was gone.

He returned to Mercédès with tears in his eyes and heaving breast, and
without uttering a word he gave her the letter. Mercédès read:

“Albert,—While showing you that I have discovered your plans, I hope
also to convince you of my delicacy. You are free, you leave the
count’s house, and you take your mother to your home; but reflect,
Albert, you owe her more than your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep
the struggle for yourself, bear all the suffering, but spare her the
trial of poverty which must accompany your first efforts; for she
deserves not even the shadow of the misfortune which has this day
fallen on her, and Providence is not willing that the innocent should
suffer for the guilty. I know you are going to leave the Rue du Helder
without taking anything with you. Do not seek to know how I discovered
it; I know it—that is sufficient.

“Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned, proud and
joyful, to my country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a lovely girl whom I
adored, and I was bringing to my betrothed a hundred and fifty louis,
painfully amassed by ceaseless toil. This money was for her; I destined
it for her, and, knowing the treachery of the sea I buried our treasure
in the little garden of the house my father lived in at Marseilles, on
the Allées de Meilhan. Your mother, Albert, knows that poor house well.
A short time since I passed through Marseilles, and went to see the old
place, which revived so many painful recollections; and in the evening
I took a spade and dug in the corner of the garden where I had
concealed my treasure. The iron box was there—no one had touched
it—under a beautiful fig-tree my father had planted the day I was born,
which overshadowed the spot. Well, Albert, this money, which was
formerly designed to promote the comfort and tranquillity of the woman
I adored, may now, through strange and painful circumstances, be
devoted to the same purpose.

“Oh, feel for me, who could offer millions to that poor woman, but who
return her only the piece of black bread forgotten under my poor roof
since the day I was torn from her I loved. You are a generous man,
Albert, but perhaps you may be blinded by pride or resentment; if you
refuse me, if you ask another for what I have a right to offer you, I
will say it is ungenerous of you to refuse the life of your mother at
the hands of a man whose father was allowed by your father to die in
all the horrors of poverty and despair.”

Albert stood pale and motionless to hear what his mother would decide
after she had finished reading this letter. Mercédès turned her eyes
with an ineffable look towards heaven.

“I accept it,” said she; “he has a right to pay the dowry, which I
shall take with me to some convent!”

Putting the letter in her bosom, she took her son’s arm, and with a
firmer step than she even herself expected she went downstairs.



 Chapter 92. The Suicide

Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with Emmanuel and
Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did not conceal his joy
at the peaceful termination of the affair, and was loud in his
expressions of delight. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, allowed
his brother-in-law’s gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt
equal inward joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his
countenance.

At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there,
motionless as a sentinel at his post. Monte Cristo put his head out of
the window, exchanged a few words with him in a low tone, and the
steward disappeared.

“Count,” said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the Place Royale,
“put me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment of
needless anxiety on my account or yours.”

“If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, said
Morrel, I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he
doubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave of
our friend, and let him hasten home.”

“Stop a moment,” said Monte Cristo; “do not let me lose both my
companions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and present my
best compliments to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the
Champs-Élysées.”

“Willingly,” said Maximilian; “particularly as I have business in that
quarter.”

“Shall we wait breakfast for you?” asked Emmanuel.

“No,” replied the young man. The door was closed, and the carriage
proceeded. “See what good fortune I brought you!” said Morrel, when he
was alone with the count. “Have you not thought so?”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “for that reason I wished to keep you near
me.”

“It is miraculous!” continued Morrel, answering his own thoughts.

“What?” said Monte Cristo.

“What has just happened.”

“Yes,” said the Count, “you are right—it is miraculous.”

“For Albert is brave,” resumed Morrel.

“Very brave,” said Monte Cristo; “I have seen him sleep with a sword
suspended over his head.”

“And I know he has fought two duels,” said Morrel. “How can you
reconcile that with his conduct this morning?”

“All owing to your influence,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling.

“It is well for Albert he is not in the army,” said Morrel.

“Why?”

“An apology on the ground!” said the young captain, shaking his head.

“Come,” said the count mildly, “do not entertain the prejudices of
ordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert is brave, he cannot
be a coward; he must then have had some reason for acting as he did
this morning, and confess that his conduct is more heroic than
otherwise.”

“Doubtless, doubtless,” said Morrel; “but I shall say, like the
Spaniard, ‘He has not been so brave today as he was yesterday.’”

“You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?” said the count, to
turn the conversation.

“No; I must leave you at ten o’clock.”

“Your engagement was for breakfast, then?” said the count.

Morrel smiled, and shook his head.

“Still you must breakfast somewhere.”

“But if I am not hungry?” said the young man.

“Oh,” said the count, “I only know two things which destroy the
appetite,—grief—and as I am happy to see you very cheerful, it is not
that—and love. Now after what you told me this morning of your heart, I
may believe——”

“Well, count,” replied Morrel gayly, “I will not dispute it.”

“But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?” said the count,
in a tone which showed how gladly he would have been admitted to the
secret.

“I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not, count?” Monte
Cristo only answered by extending his hand to the young man. “Well,”
continued the latter, “since that heart is no longer with you in the
Bois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I must go and find it.”

“Go,” said the count deliberately; “go, dear friend, but promise me if
you meet with any obstacle to remember that I have some power in this
world, that I am happy to use that power in the behalf of those I love,
and that I love you, Morrel.”

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“I will remember it,” said the young man, “as selfish children
recollect their parents when they want their aid. When I need your
assistance, and the moment arrives, I will come to you, count.”

“Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, till we meet again.”

They had arrived in the Champs-Élysées. Monte Cristo opened the
carriage-door, Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting
on the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, and Monte
Cristo hastened to join Bertuccio.

“Well?” asked he.

“She is going to leave her house,” said the steward.

“And her son?”

“Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same.”

“Come this way.” Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the
letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward. “Go,” said he quickly.
“But first, let Haydée be informed that I have returned.”

“Here I am,” said the young girl, who at the sound of the carriage had
run downstairs and whose face was radiant with joy at seeing the count
return safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport of a daughter finding a
father, all the delight of a mistress seeing an adored lover, were felt
by Haydée during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so
eagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte Cristo’s joy
was not less intense. Joy to hearts which have suffered long is like
the dew on the ground after a long drought; both the heart and the
ground absorb that beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is
outwardly apparent.

Monte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a long time
dared to believe, that there were two Mercédès in the world, and he
might yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was reading eagerly
the tearful gaze of Haydée, when suddenly the door opened. The count
knit his brow.

“M. de Morcerf!” said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for his
excuse. In fact, the count’s face brightened.

“Which,” asked he, “the viscount or the count?”

“The count.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Haydée, “is it not yet over?”

“I know not if it is finished, my beloved child,” said Monte Cristo,
taking the young girl’s hands; “but I do know you have nothing more to
fear.”

“But it is the wretched——”

“That man cannot injure me, Haydée,” said Monte Cristo; “it was his son
alone that there was cause to fear.”

“And what I have suffered,” said the young girl, “you shall never know,
my lord.”

Monte Cristo smiled. “By my father’s tomb,” said he, extending his hand
over the head of the young girl, “I swear to you, Haydée, that if any
misfortune happens, it will not be to me.”

“I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to me,”
said the young girl, presenting her forehead to him. Monte Cristo
pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts
throb at once, the one violently, the other secretly.

“Oh,” murmured the count, “shall I then be permitted to love again? Ask
M. de Morcerf into the drawing-room,” said he to Baptistin, while he
led the beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.

We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte Cristo, is
unexpected to our readers. While Mercédès, as we have said, was making
a similar inventory of her property to Albert’s, while she was
arranging her jewels, shutting her drawers, collecting her keys, to
leave everything in perfect order, she did not perceive a pale and
sinister face at a glass door which threw light into the passage, from
which everything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus looking,
without being heard or seen, probably heard and saw all that passed in
Madame de Morcerf’s apartments. From that glass door the pale-faced man
went to the count’s bedroom and raised with a constricted hand the
curtain of a window overlooking the courtyard. He remained there ten
minutes, motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own
heart. For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert,
returning from his meeting with the count, perceived his father
watching for his arrival behind a curtain, and turned aside. The
count’s eye expanded; he knew Albert had insulted the count dreadfully,
and that in every country in the world such an insult would lead to a
deadly duel. Albert returned safely—then the count was revenged.

An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched countenance like
the last ray of the sun before it disappears behind the clouds which
bear the aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have
said, he waited in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the
account of his triumph. He easily understood why his son did not come
to see him before he went to avenge his father’s honor; but when that
was done, why did not his son come and throw himself into his arms?

It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he sent for his
servant, who he knew was authorized not to conceal anything from him.
Ten minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was seen on the steps in a
black coat with a military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves.
He had apparently given previous orders, for as he reached the bottom
step his carriage came from the coach-house ready for him. The valet
threw into the carriage his military cloak, in which two swords were
wrapped, and, shutting the door, he took his seat by the side of the
coachman. The coachman stooped down for his orders.

“To the Champs-Élysées,” said the general; “the Count of Monte
Cristo’s. Hurry!”

The horses bounded beneath the whip; and in five minutes they stopped
before the count’s door. M. de Morcerf opened the door himself, and as
the carriage rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered the
open door with his servant.

A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of Morcerf to Monte
Cristo, and the latter, leading Haydée aside, ordered that Morcerf be
asked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the room the third
time when, in turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door.

“Ah, it is M. de Morcerf,” said Monte Cristo quietly; “I thought I had
not heard aright.”

“Yes, it is I,” said the count, whom a frightful contraction of the
lips prevented from articulating freely.

“May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing M. de
Morcerf so early?”

“Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?” asked the general.

“I had,” replied the count.

“And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with you, and to
endeavor to kill you.”

“Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite of them he
has not killed me, and did not even fight.”

“Yet he considered you the cause of his father’s dishonor, the cause of
the fearful ruin which has fallen on my house.”

“It is true, sir,” said Monte Cristo with his dreadful calmness; “a
secondary cause, but not the principal.”

“Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?”

“I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me.”

“But to what do you attribute this conduct?”

“To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty than I.”

“And who was that?”

“His father.”

“That may be,” said the count, turning pale; “but you know the guilty
do not like to find themselves convicted.”

“I know it, and I expected this result.”

“You expected my son would be a coward?” cried the count.

“M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!” said Monte Cristo.

“A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal enemy within
reach of that sword, and does not fight, is a coward! Why is he not
here that I may tell him so?”

“Sir,” replied Monte Cristo coldly, “I did not expect that you had come
here to relate to me your little family affairs. Go and tell M. Albert
that, and he may know what to answer you.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the general, smiling faintly, “I did not come for
that purpose; you are right. I came to tell you that I also look upon
you as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you instinctively; that
it seems as if I had always known you, and always hated you; and, in
short, since the young people of the present day will not fight, it
remains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir?”

“Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result, it is the
honor of your visit I alluded to.”

“So much the better. Are you prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead,” said the
general, whose teeth were clenched with rage.

40262m



“Until one of us dies,” repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly
up and down.

“Let us start, then; we need no witnesses.”

“Very true,” said Monte Cristo; “it is unnecessary, we know each other
so well!”

“On the contrary,” said the count, “we know so little of each other.”

“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable coolness; “let
us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the
battle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served as
guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain
Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have
not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count of
Morcerf, peer of France?”

“Oh,” cried the general, as if branded with a hot iron, “wretch,—to
reproach me with my shame when about, perhaps, to kill me! No, I did
not say I was a stranger to you. I know well, demon, that you have
penetrated into the darkness of the past, and that you have read, by
the light of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps
I may be more honorable in my shame than you under your pompous
coverings. No—no, I am aware you know me; but I know you only as an
adventurer sewn up in gold and jewellery. You call yourself, in Paris,
the Count of Monte Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I
forget what. But it is your real name I want to know, in the midst of
your hundred names, that I may pronounce it when we meet to fight, at
the moment when I plunge my sword through your heart.”

The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to
burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room near his
bedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his cravat, his coat
and waistcoat, he put on a sailor’s jacket and hat, from beneath which
rolled his long black hair. He returned thus, formidable and
implacable, advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the
general, who could not understand why he had disappeared, but who on
seeing him again, and feeling his teeth chatter and his legs sink under
him, drew back, and only stopped when he found a table to support his
clenched hand.

“Fernand,” cried he, “of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to
overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?—or, rather, you
remember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I
show you today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young
again—a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your
marriage with Mercédès, my betrothed!”

40268m



The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze fixed,
looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking the wall to
support him, he glided along close to it until he reached the door,
through which he went out backwards, uttering this single mournful,
lamentable, distressing cry:

“Edmond Dantès!”

Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself
to the door, reeled across the courtyard, and falling into the arms of
his valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible,—“Home, home.”

The fresh air and the shame he felt at having exposed himself before
his servants, partly recalled his senses, but the ride was short, and
as he drew near his house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a
short distance from the house and alighted. The door was wide open, a
hackney-coach was standing in the middle of the yard—a strange sight
before so noble a mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but
without daring to inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his apartment.

Two persons were coming down the stairs; he had only time to creep into
an alcove to avoid them. It was Mercédès leaning on her son’s arm and
leaving the house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who,
concealed behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercédès dress brush
past him, and his son’s warm breath, pronouncing these words:

“Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!”

The words died away, the steps were lost in the distance. The general
drew himself up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadful
sob which ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same
time by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of
the hackney-coach, then the coachman’s voice, and then the rolling of
the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to see
once more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach drove on
and the head of neither Mercédès nor her son appeared at the window to
take a last look at the house or the deserted father and husband.

And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the
gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped through one of
the panes of the window, which was broken by the explosion.

40270m




 Chapter 93. Valentine

We may easily conceive where Morrel’s appointment was. On leaving Monte
Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort’s; we say slowly, for Morrel
had more than half an hour to spare to go five hundred steps, but he
had hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo because he wished to be
alone with his thoughts. He knew his time well—the hour when Valentine
was giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was sure not to be disturbed in
the performance of this pious duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given
him leave to go twice a week, and he was now availing himself of that
permission.

He arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she
seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness,
amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf’s adventure
had made in the world, for the affair at the Opera was generally known.
No one at Villefort’s doubted that a duel would ensue from it.
Valentine, with her woman’s instinct, guessed that Morrel would be
Monte Cristo’s second, and from the young man’s well-known courage and
his great affection for the count, she feared that he would not content
himself with the passive part assigned to him. We may easily understand
how eagerly the particulars were asked for, given, and received; and
Morrel could read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when
she knew that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was
unexpected.

“Now,” said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her
grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool,—“now let us talk
about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of
leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M. de
Villefort’s.”

“Yes,” said Maximilian, “I recollect the project, of which I highly
approved.”

“Well,” said Valentine, “you may approve again, for grandpapa is again
thinking of it.”

“Bravo,” said Maximilian.

40272m



“And do you know,” said Valentine, “what reason grandpapa gives for
leaving this house.” Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose silence,
but she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her smile, were all
for Morrel.

“Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier’s reason,” answered Morrel, “I can
readily believe it to be a good one.”

“An excellent one,” said Valentine. “He pretends the air of the
Faubourg Saint-Honoré is not good for me.”

“Indeed?” said Morrel; “in that M. Noirtier may be right; you have not
seemed to be well for the last fortnight.”

“Not very,” said Valentine. “And grandpapa has become my physician, and
I have the greatest confidence in him, because he knows everything.”

“Do you then really suffer?” asked Morrel quickly.

“Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general uneasiness, that
is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach feels as if it were
struggling to get accustomed to something.” Noirtier did not lose a
word of what Valentine said.

“And what treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?”

“A very simple one,” said Valentine. “I swallow every morning a
spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one
spoonful, I began by one—now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a
panacea.” Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she suffered.

Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was very
beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were more
brilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white like
mother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was adding a
yellowish hue.

From Valentine the young man looked towards Noirtier. The latter
watched with strange and deep interest the young girl, absorbed by her
affection, and he also, like Morrel, followed those traces of inward
suffering which was so little perceptible to a common observer that
they escaped the notice of everyone but the grandfather and the lover.

“But,” said Morrel, “I thought this mixture, of which you now take four
spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?”

“I know it is very bitter,” said Valentine; “so bitter, that all I
drink afterwards appears to have the same taste.” Noirtier looked
inquiringly at his granddaughter. “Yes, grandpapa,” said Valentine; “it
is so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared
water; I left half, because it seemed so bitter.” Noirtier turned pale,
and made a sign that he wished to speak.

Valentine rose to fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with
evident anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl’s
head already, her cheeks were becoming red.

“Oh,” cried she, without losing any of her cheerfulness, “this is
singular! I can’t see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?” And she leaned
against the window.

“The sun is not shining,” said Morrel, more alarmed by Noirtier’s
expression than by Valentine’s indisposition. He ran towards her. The
young girl smiled.

“Cheer up,” said she to Noirtier. “Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is
nothing, and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a
carriage in the courtyard?” She opened Noirtier’s door, ran to a window
in the passage, and returned hastily. “Yes,” said she, “it is Madame
Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye;—I
must run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather, farewell
till I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you
not to persuade them to stay.”

40274m



Morrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend the little
staircase which led both to Madame de Villefort’s apartments and to
hers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a sign to Morrel to take
the dictionary. Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine, he had learned how
to understand the old man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he was to
the work, he had to repeat most of the letters of the alphabet and to
find every word in the dictionary, so that it was ten minutes before
the thought of the old man was translated by these words,

“Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from Valentine’s room.”

Morrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken Barrois’s
situation, and in Noirtier’s name gave that order. The servant soon
returned. The decanter and the glass were completely empty. Noirtier
made a sign that he wished to speak.

“Why are the glass and decanter empty?” asked he; “Valentine said she
only drank half the glassful.”

The translation of this new question occupied another five minutes.

“I do not know,” said the servant, “but the housemaid is in
Mademoiselle Valentine’s room: perhaps she has emptied them.”

“Ask her,” said Morrel, translating Noirtier’s thought this time by his
look. The servant went out, but returned almost immediately.
“Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de
Villefort’s,” said he; “and in passing, as she was thirsty, she drank
what remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master Edward had
emptied that to make a pond for his ducks.”

Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as a gambler does who stakes his
all on one stroke. From that moment the old man’s eyes were fixed on
the door, and did not quit it.

It was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom Valentine had seen;
they had been ushered into Madame de Villefort’s room, who had said she
would receive them there. That is why Valentine passed through her
room, which was on a level with Valentine’s, and only separated from it
by Edward’s. The two ladies entered the drawing-room with that sort of
official stiffness which preludes a formal communication. Among worldly
people manner is contagious. Madame de Villefort received them with
equal solemnity. Valentine entered at this moment, and the formalities
were resumed.

“My dear friend,” said the baroness, while the two young people were
shaking hands, “I and Eugénie are come to be the first to announce to
you the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti.”
Danglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found that it
answered better than count.

“Allow me to present you my sincere congratulations,” replied Madame de
Villefort. “Prince Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare
qualities.”

40276m



“Listen,” said the baroness, smiling; “speaking to you as a friend I
can say that the prince does not yet appear all he will be. He has
about him a little of that foreign manner by which French persons
recognize, at first sight, the Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he
gives evidence of great kindness of disposition, much keenness of wit,
and as to suitability, M. Danglars assures me that his fortune is
majestic—that is his word.”

“And then,” said Eugénie, while turning over the leaves of Madame de
Villefort’s album, “add that you have taken a great fancy to the young
man.”

“And,” said Madame de Villefort, “I need not ask you if you share that
fancy.”

“I?” replied Eugénie with her usual candor. “Oh, not the least in the
world, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or
the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in
heart, in person, and in thought.”

Eugénie pronounced these words with so firm a tone that the color
mounted to Valentine’s cheeks. The timid girl could not understand that
vigorous nature which appeared to have none of the timidities of woman.

“At any rate,” said she, “since I am to be married whether I will or
not, I ought to be thankful to Providence for having released me from
my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should this day have been
the wife of a dishonored man.”

“It is true,” said the baroness, with that strange simplicity sometimes
met with among fashionable ladies, and of which plebeian intercourse
can never entirely deprive them,—“it is very true that had not the
Morcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert. The
general depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have
had a narrow escape.”

“But,” said Valentine, timidly, “does all the father’s shame revert
upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent of the
treason charged against the general.”

“Excuse me,” said the implacable young girl, “Monsieur Albert claims
and well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M.
de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground
today.”

“Impossible,” said Madame de Villefort.

“Ah, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, with the same simplicity we
before noticed, “it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was
present at the explanation.”

Valentine also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word
had reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier’s room.
Deeply engaged with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had
ceased for a moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed,
have found it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few
minutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars’ hand, pressed on her arm,
aroused her from her lethargy.

“What is it?” said she, starting at Madame Danglars’ touch as she would
have done from an electric shock.

“It is, my dear Valentine,” said the baroness, “that you are,
doubtless, suffering.”

40280m



“I?” said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning forehead.

“Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and then red
successively, three or four times in one minute.”

“Indeed,” cried Eugénie, “you are very pale!”

“Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.” Artless as she
was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to leave, and
besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.

“Retire, Valentine,” said she; “you are really suffering, and these
ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore
you.”

Valentine kissed Eugénie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already
risen to take her leave, and went out.

“That poor child,” said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone,
“she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had
some serious illness.”

Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could not quite
understand, had crossed Edward’s room without noticing some trick of
the child, and through her own had reached the little staircase.

She was within three steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel’s
voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot
missed the step, her hands had no power to hold the baluster, and
falling against the wall she lost her balance wholly and toppled to the
floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened it, and found Valentine
stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised
her in his arms and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes.

“Oh, what a clumsy thing I am,” said she with feverish volubility; “I
don’t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the
landing.”

“You have hurt yourself, perhaps,” said Morrel. “What can I do for you,
Valentine?”

Valentine looked around her; she saw the deepest terror depicted in
Noirtier’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, dear grandpapa,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “it is
nothing—it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all.”

“Another attack of giddiness,” said Morrel, clasping his hands. “Oh,
attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you.”

“But no,” said Valentine,—“no, I tell you it is all past, and it was
nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugénie is to be married in a
week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal
festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I—at
least, I understood it so.”

“When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you
who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try to make him
answer—Soon.”

“And do you,” said Valentine, “depend on me to stimulate the tardiness
and arouse the memory of grandpapa?”

“Yes,” cried Morrel, “make haste. So long as you are not mine,
Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you.”

“Oh,” replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, “oh, indeed,
Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they
say, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha!”

She burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and
twisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless.
The cry of terror which was stopped on Noirtier’s lips, seemed to start
from his eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance.
The young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in
Mademoiselle Valentine’s room, and the servant who had replaced
Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold, so
inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they were
seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew into the
passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugénie were going out at
that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.

“I told you so!” exclaimed Madame de Villefort. “Poor child!”

40278m




 Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal

At the same moment M. de Villefort’s voice was heard calling from his
study, “What is the matter?”

Morrel looked at Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with
a glance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat similar
circumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time to get his hat and
throw himself breathless into the closet when the procureur’s footstep
was heard in the passage.

Villefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took her in his
arms.

“A physician, a physician,—M. d’Avrigny!” cried Villefort; “or rather I
will go for him myself.”

He flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same moment darted out at
the other door. He had been struck to the heart by a frightful
recollection—the conversation he had heard between the doctor and
Villefort the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death, recurred to him;
these symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had
preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo’s voice
seemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours
before, “Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power.”

More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence
to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M.
d’Avrigny’s door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed.
Villefort ran upstairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and
let him pass, only calling to him:

“In his study, Monsieur Procureur—in his study!” Villefort pushed, or
rather forced, the door open.

“Ah,” said the doctor, “is it you?”

“Yes,” said Villefort, closing the door after him, “it is I, who am
come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is
accursed!”

“What?” said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion,
“have you another invalid?”

“Yes, doctor,” cried Villefort, clutching his hair, “yes!”

D’Avrigny’s look implied, “I told you it would be so.” Then he slowly
uttered these words, “Who is now dying in your house? What new victim
is going to accuse you of weakness before God?”

A mournful sob burst from Villefort’s heart; he approached the doctor,
and seizing his arm,—“Valentine,” said he, “it is Valentine’s turn!”

40284m



“Your daughter!” cried d’Avrigny with grief and surprise.

“You see you were deceived,” murmured the magistrate; “come and see
her, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected
her.”

“Each time you have applied to me,” said the doctor, “it has been too
late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you
have to do with there is no time to be lost.”

“Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with
weakness. This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him.”

“Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,”
said d’Avrigny. “Come.”

The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them back at full
speed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo’s door.

The count was in his study and was reading with an angry look something
which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name of Morrel, who
had left him only two hours before, the count raised his head, arose,
and sprang to meet him.

“What is the matter, Maximilian?” asked he; “you are pale, and the
perspiration rolls from your forehead.” Morrel fell into a chair.

“Yes,” said he, “I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you.”

“Are all your family well?” asked the count, with an affectionate
benevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt.

“Thank you, count—thank you,” said the young man, evidently embarrassed
how to begin the conversation; “yes, everyone in my family is well.”

“So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?” replied the
count with increased anxiety.

“Yes,” said Morrel, “it is true; I have but now left a house where
death has just entered, to run to you.”

“Are you then come from M. de Morcerf’s?” asked Monte Cristo.

“No,” said Morrel; “is someone dead in his house?”

“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied Monte Cristo with
great coolness.

“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian.

“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said Monte Cristo; “a dead
father or husband is better than a dishonored one,—blood washes out
shame.”

“Poor countess,” said Maximilian, “I pity her very much; she is so
noble a woman!”

“Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son of
the countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to
me—can I have the happiness of being useful to you?”

40286m



“Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could
lend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me.”

“Tell me what it is,” replied Monte Cristo.

“Oh,” said Morrel, “I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to
mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count——”
Morrel hesitated.

“Do you think I love you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’s
hand affectionately in his.

“Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,” placing his hand
on his heart, “that I ought to have no secret from you.”

“You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart
speaks to you. Tell me what it says.”

“Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone
you know?”

“I am at your service, and still more my servants.”

“Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.”

“Shall I ring for Baptistin?”

“No, I will go and speak to him myself.” Morrel went out, called
Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly.

“Well, have you sent?” asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.

“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.”

“You know I am waiting,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.

“Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of
trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed
near me—allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were
speaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said
that I did not lose a single word.”

“This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and
shuddering, Morrel.”

“Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Someone had just died in the house to
which that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation I
overheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The
former was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the
second time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly
entered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some
exterminating angel, as an object of God’s anger.”

“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man,
and by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained
in the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian’s face.

“Yes,” continued Morrel, “death had entered that house twice within one
month.”

“And what did the doctor answer?” asked Monte Cristo.

“He replied—he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must
be attributed”—

“To what?”

“To poison.”

“Indeed!” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of
extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the
intense interest with which he listened; “indeed, Maximilian, did you
hear that?”

“Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another
death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice.”

Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest
calmness.

“Well,” said Maximilian, “death came a third time, and neither the
master of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps,
striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in
possession of this secret?”

“My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be relating an
adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard
it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a
physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden
deaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know
all that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it
does not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have
devoted that house to God’s anger—well, who says your supposition is
not reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to
see them pass over. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which
is walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let
his justice accomplish its purpose.”

Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in
the count’s manner.

“Besides,” continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would have
supposed it was the same person speaking—“besides, who says that it
will begin again?”

“It has returned, count,” exclaimed Morrel; “that is why I hastened to
you.”

“Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give
information to the procureur?” Monte Cristo uttered the last words with
so much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out:

“You know of whom I speak, count, do you not?”

“Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting
the dots to the _i_, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking
one evening in M. de Villefort’s garden; from what you relate, I
suppose it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death.
You heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M.
de Saint-Méran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M.
d’Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you,
honest man, have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your
conscience to know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We
are no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or
Free Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people? ‘Conscience, what
hast thou to do with me?’ as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them
sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness,
if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who
have no remorse to disturb you.”

Deep grief was depicted on Morrel’s features; he seized Monte Cristo’s
hand. “But it is beginning again, I say!”

“Well,” said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could
not understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, “let it
begin again,—it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemned
them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all
disappear, like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall,
one by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there are two
hundred of them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Méran; Madame de
Saint-Méran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the
old Noirtier, or young Valentine.”

“You knew it?” cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte
Cristo started,—he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;
“you knew it, and said nothing?”

“And what is it to me?” replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;
“do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?
Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice.”

“But I,” cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, “I love her!”

“You love?—whom?” cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing
the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.

“I love most fondly—I love madly—I love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear—I love Valentine de Villefort, who is
being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I
ask God and you how I can save her?”

Monte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heard
the roar of a wounded lion. “Unhappy man,” cried he, wringing his hands
in his turn; “you love Valentine,—that daughter of an accursed race!”

Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression—never had so terrible an
eye flashed before his face—never had the genius of terror he had so
often seen, either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of
Algeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as if
dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so
powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as
turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun’s genial influence when
the cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted
about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.

“See,” said he, “my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless
and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes
to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious
spectator,—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I,
who like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed
protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and
powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course
I was watching, and bitten to the heart!”

Morrel groaned.

“Come, come,” continued the count, “complaints are unavailing, be a
man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over
you.”

Morrel shook his head sorrowfully.

“I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?” cried Monte Cristo.
“Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is
twelve o’clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather
than in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel—it is noon; if
Valentine is not now dead, she will not die.”

“How so?” cried Morrel, “when I left her dying?”

Monte Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in
that brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of
light or the angel of darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and
generous? God only knows.

Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as a
child awaking from its sleep.

“Maximilian,” said he, “return home. I command you not to stir—attempt
nothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send
you tidings. Go.”

“Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power
against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?” And the young
man, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo with
indescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy
and sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.

“I can do much for you, my friend,” replied the count. “Go; I must be
alone.”

Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised
over everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressed
the count’s hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running.

Meanwhile, Villefort and d’Avrigny had made all possible haste,
Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, and
the doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstances
demanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secret
intensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and
his lips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than
even the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was
watching also intently and affectionately.

At last d’Avrigny slowly uttered these words: “She is still alive!”

“Still?” cried Villefort; “oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that.”

“Yes,” said the physician, “I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am
astonished at it.”

“But is she safe?” asked the father.

“Yes, since she lives.”

At that moment d’Avrigny’s glance met Noirtier’s eye. It glistened with
such extraordinary joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physician
was struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair,—her lips were
scarcely discernible, they were so pale and white, as well as her whole
face,—and remained motionless, looking at Noirtier, who appeared to
anticipate and commend all he did.

“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “call Mademoiselle Valentine’s
maid, if you please.”

Villefort went himself to find her; and d’Avrigny approached Noirtier.

“Have you something to tell me?” asked he. The old man winked his eyes
expressively, which we may remember was his only way of expressing his
approval.

“Privately?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I will remain with you.” At this moment Villefort returned,
followed by the lady’s maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort.

“What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me,
and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously
of it.”

The young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection of a
true mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D’Avrigny
continued to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate
and become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration
stood in drops upon his forehead.

“Ah,” said he, involuntarily following Noirtier’s eyes, which were
fixed on Madame de Villefort, who repeated:

“This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her
to bed.”

M. d’Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his remaining alone with
Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the best thing that could
be done; but he forbade that anything should be given to her except
what he ordered.

They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move
or speak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, just
power to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing her
seemed to be resigning his very soul. D’Avrigny followed the invalid,
wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go in
person to a chemist’s to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself,
and wait for him in his daughter’s room. Then, having renewed his
injunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again to
Noirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that
no one was listening:

“Do you,” said he, “know anything of this young lady’s illness?”

“Yes,” said the old man.

“We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me.”
Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. “Did you anticipate
the accident which has happened to your granddaughter?”

“Yes.” D’Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching Noirtier:

“Pardon what I am going to say,” added he, “but no indication should be
neglected in this terrible situation. Did you see poor Barrois die?”
Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven.

“Do you know of what he died!” asked d’Avrigny, placing his hand on
Noirtier’s shoulder.

“Yes,” replied the old man.

“Do you think he died a natural death?” A sort of smile was discernible
on the motionless lips of Noirtier.

“Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended for him?”

“No.”

“Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck Barrois has
now attacked Valentine?”

“Yes.”

“Then will she die too?” asked d’Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze
on Noirtier. He watched the effect of this question on the old man.

“No,” replied he with an air of triumph which would have puzzled the
most clever diviner.

“Then you hope?” said d’Avrigny, with surprise.

“Yes.”

“What do you hope?” The old man made him understand with his eyes that
he could not answer.

“Ah, yes, it is true,” murmured d’Avrigny. Then, turning to
Noirtier,—“Do you hope the assassin will be tried?”

“No.”

“Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine?”

“Yes.”

“It is no news to you,” added d’Avrigny, “to tell you that an attempt
has been made to poison her?” The old man made a sign that he
entertained no doubt upon the subject. “Then how do you hope Valentine
will escape?”

Noirtier kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same spot. D’Avrigny
followed the direction and saw that they were fixed on a bottle
containing the mixture which he took every morning. “Ah, indeed?” said
d’Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought, “has it occurred to
you”—Noirtier did not let him finish.

“Yes,” said he.

“To prepare her system to resist poison?”

“Yes.”

“By accustoming her by degrees——”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Noirtier, delighted to be understood.

“Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the mixture I give
you.”

“Yes.”

“And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored to
neutralize the effect of a similar poison?” Noirtier’s joy continued.
“And you have succeeded,” exclaimed d’Avrigny. “Without that precaution
Valentine would have died before assistance could have been procured.
The dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and
this time, at any rate, Valentine will not die.”

A superhuman joy expanded the old man’s eyes, which were raised towards
heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. At this moment
Villefort returned.

“Here, doctor,” said he, “is what you sent me for.”

“Was this prepared in your presence?”

“Yes,” replied the procureur.

“Have you not let it go out of your hands?”

“No.”

D’Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it
contained in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them.

“Well,” said he, “let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions to
everyone, and you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one
deviates from them.”

40294m



At the moment when d’Avrigny was returning to Valentine’s room,
accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor and
calm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel of
M. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that house
left it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be
unsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishing
himself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o’clock.
The lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant,
who, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months in
advance.

This new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was called Il
Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in, and that
same night the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with surprise
that carpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower part of
the tottering house.



 Chapter 95. Father and Daughter

We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally to
announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of Eugénie
Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This formal announcement, which
implied or appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons concerned
in this momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our
readers must be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and to
transport themselves, the morning of that day of great catastrophes,
into the showy, gilded salon we have before shown them, and which was
the pride of its owner, Baron Danglars.

In this room, at about ten o’clock in the morning, the banker himself
had been walking to and fro for some minutes thoughtfully and in
evident uneasiness, watching both doors, and listening to every sound.
When his patience was exhausted, he called his valet.

“Étienne,” said he, “see why Mademoiselle Eugénie has asked me to meet
her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long.”

Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more calm;
Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview with her
father, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the spot. The
singularity of this step, and above all its formality, had not a little
surprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed his daughter by
repairing first to the drawing-room. Étienne soon returned from his
errand.

“Mademoiselle’s lady’s maid says, sir, that mademoiselle is finishing
her toilette, and will be here shortly.”

Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world and to
his servants Danglars assumed the character of the good-natured man and
the indulgent father. This was one of his parts in the popular comedy
he was performing,—a make-up he had adopted and which suited him about
as well as the masks worn on the classic stage by paternal actors, who
seen from one side, were the image of geniality, and from the other
showed lips drawn down in chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that
in private the genial side descended to the level of the other, so that
generally the indulgent man disappeared to give place to the brutal
husband and domineering father.

“Why the devil does that foolish girl, who pretends to wish to speak to
me, not come into my study? and why on earth does she want to speak to
me at all?”

He was turning this thought over in his brain for the twentieth time,
when the door opened and Eugénie appeared, attired in a figured black
satin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if she were going to
the Italian Opera.

“Well, Eugénie, what is it you want with me? and why in this solemn
drawing-room when the study is so comfortable?”

“I quite understand why you ask, sir,” said Eugénie, making a sign that
her father might be seated, “and in fact your two questions suggest
fully the theme of our conversation. I will answer them both, and
contrary to the usual method, the last first, because it is the least
difficult. I have chosen the drawing-room, sir, as our place of
meeting, in order to avoid the disagreeable impressions and influences
of a banker’s study. Those gilded cashbooks, drawers locked like gates
of fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come from I know not where, and the
quantities of letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, and
Peru, have generally a strange influence on a father’s mind, and make
him forget that there is in the world an interest greater and more
sacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have, therefore,
chosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling and happy in their
magnificent frames, your portrait, mine, my mother’s, and all sorts of
rural landscapes and touching pastorals. I rely much on external
impressions; perhaps, with regard to you, they are immaterial, but I
should be no artist if I had not some fancies.”

“Very well,” replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all this preamble
with imperturbable coolness, but without understanding a word, since
like every man burdened with thoughts of the past, he was occupied with
seeking the thread of his own ideas in those of the speaker.

“There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so,” said
Eugénie, without the least confusion, and with that masculine
pointedness which distinguished her gesture and her language; “and you
appear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to the first.
You ask me why I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two
words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti.”

Danglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms towards
heaven.

40298m



“Yes, indeed, sir,” continued Eugénie, still quite calm; “you are
astonished, I see; for since this little affair began, I have not
manifested the slightest opposition, and yet I am always sure, when the
opportunity arrives, to oppose a determined and absolute will to people
who have not consulted me, and things which displease me. However, this
time, my tranquillity, or passiveness as philosophers say, proceeded
from another source; it proceeded from a wish, like a submissive and
devoted daughter” (a slight smile was observable on the purple lips of
the young girl), “to practice obedience.”

“Well?” asked Danglars.

“Well, sir,” replied Eugénie, “I have tried to the very last and now
that the moment has come, I feel in spite of all my efforts that it is
impossible.”

“But,” said Danglars, whose weak mind was at first quite overwhelmed
with the weight of this pitiless logic, marking evident premeditation
and force of will, “what is your reason for this refusal, Eugénie? what
reason do you assign?”

“My reason?” replied the young girl. “Well, it is not that the man is
more ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable than any other; no, M.
Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those who look at men’s faces and
figures as a very good specimen of his kind. It is not, either, that my
heart is less touched by him than any other; that would be a
schoolgirl’s reason, which I consider quite beneath me. I actually love
no one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not then see why, without
real necessity, I should encumber my life with a perpetual companion.
Has not some sage said, ‘Nothing too much’? and another, ‘I carry all
my effects with me’? I have been taught these two aphorisms in Latin
and in Greek; one is, I believe, from Phædrus, and the other from Bias.
Well, my dear father, in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal
shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that
is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly
alone, and consequently perfectly free.”

“Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!” murmured Danglars, turning pale, for he
knew from long experience the solidity of the obstacle he had so
suddenly encountered.

“Unhappy girl,” replied Eugénie, “unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No,
indeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical and affected. Happy,
on the contrary, for what am I in want of? The world calls me
beautiful. It is something to be well received. I like a favorable
reception; it expands the countenance, and those around me do not then
appear so ugly. I possess a share of wit, and a certain relative
sensibility, which enables me to draw from life in general, for the
support of mine, all I meet with that is good, like the monkey who
cracks the nut to get at its contents. I am rich, for you have one of
the first fortunes in France. I am your only daughter, and you are not
so exacting as the fathers of the Porte Saint-Martin and Gaîté, who
disinherit their daughters for not giving them grandchildren. Besides,
the provident law has deprived you of the power to disinherit me, at
least entirely, as it has also of the power to compel me to marry
Monsieur This or Monsieur That. And so—being, beautiful, witty,
somewhat talented, as the comic operas say, and rich—and that is
happiness, sir—why do you call me unhappy?”

Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to insolence,
could not entirely repress his brutal feelings, but they betrayed
themselves only by an exclamation. Under the fixed and inquiring gaze
levelled at him from under those beautiful black eyebrows, he prudently
turned away, and calmed himself immediately, daunted by the power of a
resolute mind.

“Truly, my daughter,” replied he with a smile, “you are all you boast
of being, excepting one thing; I will not too hastily tell you which,
but would rather leave you to guess it.”

Eugénie looked at Danglars, much surprised that one flower of her crown
of pride, with which she had so superbly decked herself, should be
disputed.

“My daughter,” continued the banker, “you have perfectly explained to
me the sentiments which influence a girl like you, who is determined
she will not marry; now it remains for me to tell you the motives of a
father like me, who has decided that his daughter shall marry.”

Eugénie bowed, not as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary
prepared for a discussion.

“My daughter,” continued Danglars, “when a father asks his daughter to
choose a husband, he has always some reason for wishing her to marry.
Some are affected with the mania of which you spoke just now, that of
living again in their grandchildren. This is not my weakness, I tell
you at once; family joys have no charm for me. I may acknowledge this
to a daughter whom I know to be philosophical enough to understand my
indifference, and not to impute it to me as a crime.”

“This is not to the purpose,” said Eugénie; “let us speak candidly,
sir; I admire candor.”

“Oh,” said Danglars, “I can, when circumstances render it desirable,
adopt your system, although it may not be my general practice. I will
therefore proceed. I have proposed to you to marry, not for your sake,
for indeed I did not think of you in the least at the moment (you
admire candor, and will now be satisfied, I hope); but because it
suited me to marry you as soon as possible, on account of certain
commercial speculations I am desirous of entering into.” Eugénie became
uneasy.

40302m



“It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be angry with
me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not willingly enter into
arithmetical explanations with an artist like you, who fears to enter
my study lest she should imbibe disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions
and sensations. But in that same banker’s study, where you very
willingly presented yourself yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I
give you monthly for pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady,
that many things may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not
marry. There one may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your
nervous susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room,
namely, that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life;
that credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte
Cristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never
forgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body becomes a
corpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the banker who is
proud to own so good a logician as you for his daughter.”

But Eugénie, instead of stooping, drew herself up under the blow.
“Ruined?” said she.

“Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean,” said Danglars,
almost digging his nails into his breast, while he preserved on his
harsh features the smile of the heartless though clever man;
“ruined—yes, that is it.”

“Ah!” said Eugénie.

“Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of horror, as the
tragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from my lips how you may
alleviate this misfortune, so far as it will affect you.”

“Oh,” cried Eugénie, “you are a bad physiognomist, if you imagine I
deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you warn me. I
ruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my talent left?
Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself what you
would never have given me, whatever might have been your fortune, a
hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per annum, for which I
shall be indebted to no one but myself; and which, instead of being
given as you gave me those poor twelve thousand francs, with sour looks
and reproaches for my prodigality, will be accompanied with
acclamations, with bravos, and with flowers? And if I do not possess
that talent, which your smiles prove to me you doubt, should I not
still have that ardent love of independence, which will be a substitute
for wealth, and which in my mind supersedes even the instinct of
self-preservation? No, I grieve not on my own account, I shall always
find a resource; my books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which
cost but little, and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my
own.

“Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive yourself
again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided against the
catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass over without
affecting her. She has taken care for herself,—at least I hope so,—for
her attention has not been diverted from her projects by watching over
me. She has fostered my independence by professedly indulging my love
for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my childhood I have seen too much, and
understood too much, of what has passed around me, for misfortune to
have an undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have
been beloved by no one—so much the worse; that has naturally led me to
love no one—so much the better—now you have my profession of faith.”

“Then,” said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due to
offended paternal love,—“then, mademoiselle, you persist in your
determination to accelerate my ruin?”

“Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not
understand you.”

“So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen.”

“I am all attention,” said Eugénie, looking so earnestly at her father
that it was an effort for the latter to endure her unrelenting gaze.

“M. Cavalcanti,” continued Danglars, “is about to marry you, and will
place in my hands his fortune, amounting to three million livres.”

“That is admirable!” said Eugénie with sovereign contempt, smoothing
her gloves out one upon the other.

“You think I shall deprive you of those three millions,” said Danglars;
“but do not fear it. They are destined to produce at least ten. I and a
brother banker have obtained a grant of a railway, the only industrial
enterprise which in these days promises to make good the fabulous
prospects that Law once held out to the eternally deluded Parisians, in
the fantastic Mississippi scheme. As I look at it, a millionth part of
a railway is worth fully as much as an acre of waste land on the banks
of the Ohio. We make in our case a deposit, on a mortgage, which is an
advance, as you see, since we gain at least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a
hundred livres’ worth of iron in exchange for our money. Well, within a
week I am to deposit four millions for my share; the four millions, I
promise you, will produce ten or twelve.”

“But during my visit to you the day before yesterday, sir, which you
appear to recollect so well,” replied Eugénie, “I saw you arranging a
deposit—is not that the term?—of five millions and a half; you even
pointed it out to me in two drafts on the treasury, and you were
astonished that so valuable a paper did not dazzle my eyes like
lightning.”

“Yes, but those five millions and a half are not mine, and are only a
proof of the great confidence placed in me; my title of popular banker
has gained me the confidence of charitable institutions, and the five
millions and a half belong to them; at any other time I should not have
hesitated to make use of them, but the great losses I have recently
sustained are well known, and, as I told you, my credit is rather
shaken. That deposit may be at any moment withdrawn, and if I had
employed it for another purpose, I should bring on me a disgraceful
bankruptcy. I do not despise bankruptcies, believe me, but they must be
those which enrich, not those which ruin. Now, if you marry M.
Cavalcanti, and I get the three millions, or even if it is thought I am
going to get them, my credit will be restored, and my fortune, which
for the last month or two has been swallowed up in gulfs which have
been opened in my path by an inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do
you understand me?”

“Perfectly; you pledge me for three millions, do you not?”

“The greater the amount, the more flattering it is to you; it gives you
an idea of your value.”

“Thank you. One word more, sir; do you promise me to make what use you
can of the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti will bring without
touching the money? This is no act of selfishness, but of delicacy. I
am willing to help rebuild your fortune, but I will not be an
accomplice in the ruin of others.”

“But since I tell you,” cried Danglars, “that with these three
million——”

“Do you expect to recover your position, sir, without touching those
three million?”

“I hope so, if the marriage should take place and confirm my credit.”

“Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti the five hundred thousand
francs you promise for my dowry?”

“He shall receive them on returning from the mayor’s20.”

“Very well!”

“What next? what more do you want?”

“I wish to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me entirely
free in my person?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, as I said before, sir,—very well; I am ready to marry M.
Cavalcanti.”

“But what are you up to?”

“Ah, that is my affair. What advantage should I have over you, if
knowing your secret I were to tell you mine?”

Danglars bit his lips. “Then,” said he, “you are ready to pay the
official visits, which are absolutely indispensable?”

“Yes,” replied Eugénie.

“And to sign the contract in three days?”

“Yes.”

“Then, in my turn, I also say, very well!”

Danglars pressed his daughter’s hand in his. But, extraordinary to
relate, the father did not say, “Thank you, my child,” nor did the
daughter smile at her father.

“Is the conference ended?” asked Eugénie, rising.

Danglars motioned that he had nothing more to say. Five minutes
afterwards the piano resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle d’Armilly’s
fingers, and Mademoiselle Danglars was singing Brabantio’s malediction
on Desdemona. At the end of the piece Étienne entered, and announced to
Eugénie that the horses were to the carriage, and that the baroness was
waiting for her to pay her visits. We have seen them at Villefort’s;
they proceeded then on their course.

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VOLUME FIVE

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 Chapter 96. The Contract

Three days after the scene we have just described, namely towards five
o’clock in the afternoon of the day fixed for the signature of the
contract between Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars and Andrea Cavalcanti,
whom the banker persisted in calling prince, a fresh breeze was
stirring the leaves in the little garden in front of the Count of Monte
Cristo’s house, and the count was preparing to go out. While his horses
were impatiently pawing the ground, held in by the coachman, who had
been seated a quarter of an hour on his box, the elegant phaeton with
which we are familiar rapidly turned the angle of the entrance-gate,
and cast out on the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as decked up and
gay as if he were going to marry a princess.

He inquired after the count with his usual familiarity, and ascending
lightly to the first story met him at the top of the stairs.

The count stopped on seeing the young man. As for Andrea, he was
launched, and when he was once launched nothing stopped him.

“Ah, good morning, my dear count,” said he.

“Ah, M. Andrea,” said the latter, with his half-jesting tone; “how do
you do?”

“Charmingly, as you see. I am come to talk to you about a thousand
things; but, first tell me, were you going out or just returned?”

“I was going out, sir.”

“Then, in order not to hinder you, I will get up with you if you please
in your carriage, and Tom shall follow with my phaeton in tow.”

“No,” said the count, with an imperceptible smile of contempt, for he
had no wish to be seen in the young man’s society,—“no; I prefer
listening to you here, my dear M. Andrea; we can chat better in-doors,
and there is no coachman to overhear our conversation.”

The count returned to a small drawing-room on the first floor, sat
down, and crossing his legs motioned to the young man to take a seat
also. Andrea assumed his gayest manner.

“You know, my dear count,” said he, “the ceremony is to take place this
evening. At nine o’clock the contract is to be signed at my
father-in-law’s.”

“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo.

“What; is it news to you? Has not M. Danglars informed you of the
ceremony?”

“Oh, yes,” said the count; “I received a letter from him yesterday, but
I do not think the hour was mentioned.”

“Possibly my father-in-law trusted to its general notoriety.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “you are fortunate, M. Cavalcanti; it is a
most suitable alliance you are contracting, and Mademoiselle Danglars
is a handsome girl.”

“Yes, indeed she is,” replied Cavalcanti, in a very modest tone.

“Above all, she is very rich,—at least, I believe so,” said Monte
Cristo.

“Very rich, do you think?” replied the young man.

“Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars conceals at least half of his
fortune.”

“And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty millions,” said Andrea with a
look sparkling with joy.

“Without reckoning,” added Monte Cristo, “that he is on the eve of
entering into a sort of speculation already in vogue in the United
States and in England, but quite novel in France.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,—the railway, of which he has obtained
the grant, is it not?”

“Precisely; it is generally believed he will gain ten millions by that
affair.”

“Ten millions! Do you think so? It is magnificent!” said Cavalcanti,
who was quite confounded at the metallic sound of these golden words.

“Without reckoning,” replied Monte Cristo, “that all his fortune will
come to you, and justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only
daughter. Besides, your own fortune, as your father assured me, is
almost equal to that of your betrothed. But enough of money matters. Do
you know, M. Andrea, I think you have managed this affair rather
skilfully?”

“Not badly, by any means,” said the young man; “I was born for a
diplomatist.”

“Well, you must become a diplomatist; diplomacy, you know, is something
that is not to be acquired; it is instinctive. Have you lost your
heart?”

“Indeed, I fear it,” replied Andrea, in the tone in which he had heard
Dorante or Valère reply to Alceste21 at the Théâtre Français.

“Is your love returned?”

“I suppose so,” said Andrea with a triumphant smile, “since I am
accepted. But I must not forget one grand point.”

“Which?”

“That I have been singularly assisted.”

“Nonsense.”

“I have, indeed.”

“By circumstances?”

“No; by you.”

“By me? Not at all, prince,” said Monte Cristo laying a marked stress
on the title, “what have I done for you? Are not your name, your social
position, and your merit sufficient?”

“No,” said Andrea,—“no; it is useless for you to say so, count. I
maintain that the position of a man like you has done more than my
name, my social position, and my merit.”

“You are completely mistaken, sir,” said Monte Cristo coldly, who felt
the perfidious manœuvre of the young man, and understood the bearing of
his words; “you only acquired my protection after the influence and
fortune of your father had been ascertained; for, after all, who
procured for me, who had never seen either you or your illustrious
father, the pleasure of your acquaintance?—two of my good friends, Lord
Wilmore and the Abbé Busoni. What encouraged me not to become your
surety, but to patronize you?—your father’s name, so well known in
Italy and so highly honored. Personally, I do not know you.”

This calm tone and perfect ease made Andrea feel that he was, for the
moment, restrained by a more muscular hand than his own, and that the
restraint could not be easily broken through.

“Oh, then my father has really a very large fortune, count?”

“It appears so, sir,” replied Monte Cristo.

“Do you know if the marriage settlement he promised me has come?”

“I have been advised of it.”

“But the three millions?”

“The three millions are probably on the road.”

“Then I shall really have them?”

“Oh, well,” said the count, “I do not think you have yet known the want
of money.”

Andrea was so surprised that he pondered the matter for a moment. Then,
arousing from his reverie:

“Now, sir, I have one request to make to you, which you will
understand, even if it should be disagreeable to you.”

“Proceed,” said Monte Cristo.

“I have formed an acquaintance, thanks to my good fortune, with many
noted persons, and have, at least for the moment, a crowd of friends.
But marrying, as I am about to do, before all Paris, I ought to be
supported by an illustrious name, and in the absence of the paternal
hand some powerful one ought to lead me to the altar; now, my father is
not coming to Paris, is he?”

“He is old, covered with wounds, and suffers dreadfully, he says, in
travelling.”

“I understand; well, I am come to ask a favor of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes, of you.”

“And pray what may it be?”

“Well, to take his part.”

“Ah, my dear sir! What?—after the varied relations I have had the
happiness to sustain towards you, can it be that you know me so little
as to ask such a thing? Ask me to lend you half a million and, although
such a loan is somewhat rare, on my honor, you would annoy me less!
Know, then, what I thought I had already told you, that in
participation in this world’s affairs, more especially in their moral
aspects, the Count of Monte Cristo has never ceased to entertain the
scruples and even the superstitions of the East. I, who have a seraglio
at Cairo, one at Smyrna, and one at Constantinople, preside at a
wedding?—never!”

“Then you refuse me?”

“Decidedly; and were you my son or my brother I would refuse you in the
same way.”

“But what must be done?” said Andrea, disappointed.

“You said just now that you had a hundred friends.”

“Very true, but you introduced me at M. Danglars’.”

“Not at all! Let us recall the exact facts. You met him at a dinner
party at my house, and you introduced yourself at his house; that is a
totally different affair.”

“Yes, but, by my marriage, you have forwarded that.”

“I?—not in the least, I beg you to believe. Recollect what I told you
when you asked me to propose you. ‘Oh, I never make matches, my dear
prince, it is my settled principle.’” Andrea bit his lips.

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“But, at least, you will be there?”

“Will all Paris be there?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Well, like all Paris, I shall be there too,” said the count.

“And will you sign the contract?”

“I see no objection to that; my scruples do not go thus far.”

“Well, since you will grant me no more, I must be content with what you
give me. But one word more, count.”

“What is it?”

“Advice.”

“Be careful; advice is worse than a service.”

“Oh, you can give me this without compromising yourself.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“Is my wife’s fortune five hundred thousand livres?”

“That is the sum M. Danglars himself announced.”

“Must I receive it, or leave it in the hands of the notary?”

“This is the way such affairs are generally arranged when it is wished
to do them stylishly: Your two solicitors appoint a meeting, when the
contract is signed, for the next or the following day; then they
exchange the two portions, for which they each give a receipt; then,
when the marriage is celebrated, they place the amount at your disposal
as the chief member of the alliance.”

“Because,” said Andrea, with a certain ill-concealed uneasiness, “I
thought I heard my father-in-law say that he intended embarking our
property in that famous railway affair of which you spoke just now.”

“Well,” replied Monte Cristo, “it will be the way, everybody says, of
trebling your fortune in twelve months. Baron Danglars is a good
father, and knows how to calculate.”

“In that case,” said Andrea, “everything is all right, excepting your
refusal, which quite grieves me.”

“You must attribute it only to natural scruples under similar
circumstances.”

“Well,” said Andrea, “let it be as you wish. This evening, then, at
nine o’clock.”

“Adieu till then.”

Notwithstanding a slight resistance on the part of Monte Cristo, whose
lips turned pale, but who preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea
seized the count’s hand, pressed it, jumped into his phaeton, and
disappeared.

The four or five remaining hours before nine o’clock arrived, Andrea
employed in riding, paying visits,—designed to induce those of whom he
had spoken to appear at the banker’s in their gayest
equipages,—dazzling them by promises of shares in schemes which have
since turned every brain, and in which Danglars was just taking the
initiative.

In fact, at half-past eight in the evening the grand salon, the gallery
adjoining, and the three other drawing-rooms on the same floor, were
filled with a perfumed crowd, who sympathized but little in the event,
but who all participated in that love of being present wherever there
is anything fresh to be seen. An Academician would say that the
entertainments of the fashionable world are collections of flowers
which attract inconstant butterflies, famished bees, and buzzing
drones.

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No one could deny that the rooms were splendidly illuminated; the light
streamed forth on the gilt mouldings and the silk hangings; and all the
bad taste of decorations, which had only their richness to boast of,
shone in its splendor. Mademoiselle Eugénie was dressed with elegant
simplicity in a figured white silk dress, and a white rose half
concealed in her jet black hair was her only ornament, unaccompanied by
a single jewel. Her eyes, however, betrayed that perfect confidence
which contradicted the girlish simplicity of this modest attire.

Madame Danglars was chatting at a short distance with Debray,
Beauchamp, and Château-Renaud. Debray was admitted to the house for
this grand ceremony, but on the same plane with everyone else, and
without any particular privilege. M. Danglars, surrounded by deputies
and men connected with the revenue, was explaining a new theory of
taxation which he intended to adopt when the course of events had
compelled the government to call him into the ministry. Andrea, on
whose arm hung one of the most consummate dandies of the Opera, was
explaining to him rather cleverly, since he was obliged to be bold to
appear at ease, his future projects, and the new luxuries he meant to
introduce to Parisian fashions with his hundred and seventy-five
thousand livres per annum.

The crowd moved to and fro in the rooms like an ebb and flow of
turquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds. As usual, the oldest
women were the most decorated, and the ugliest the most conspicuous. If
there was a beautiful lily, or a sweet rose, you had to search for it,
concealed in some corner behind a mother with a turban, or an aunt with
a bird-of-paradise.

At each moment, in the midst of the crowd, the buzzing, and the
laughter, the door-keeper’s voice was heard announcing some name well
known in the financial department, respected in the army, or
illustrious in the literary world, and which was acknowledged by a
slight movement in the different groups. But for one whose privilege it
was to agitate that ocean of human waves, how many were received with a
look of indifference or a sneer of disdain!

At the moment when the hand of the massive time-piece, representing
Endymion asleep, pointed to nine on its golden face, and the hammer,
the faithful type of mechanical thought, struck nine times, the name of
the Count of Monte Cristo resounded in its turn, and as if by an
electric shock all the assembly turned towards the door. The count was
dressed in black and with his habitual simplicity; his white waistcoat
displayed his expansive noble chest and his black stock was singularly
noticeable because of its contrast with the deadly paleness of his
face. His only jewellery was a chain, so fine that the slender gold
thread was scarcely perceptible on his white waistcoat.

A circle was immediately formed around the door. The count perceived at
one glance Madame Danglars at one end of the drawing-room, M. Danglars
at the other, and Eugénie in front of him. He first advanced towards
the baroness, who was chatting with Madame de Villefort, who had come
alone, Valentine being still an invalid; and without turning aside, so
clear was the road left for him, he passed from the baroness to
Eugénie, whom he complimented in such rapid and measured terms, that
the proud artist was quite struck. Near her was Mademoiselle Louise
d’Armilly, who thanked the count for the letters of introduction he had
so kindly given her for Italy, which she intended immediately to make
use of. On leaving these ladies he found himself with Danglars, who had
advanced to meet him.

Having accomplished these three social duties, Monte Cristo stopped,
looking around him with that expression peculiar to a certain class,
which seems to say, “I have done my duty, now let others do theirs.”

Andrea, who was in an adjoining room, had shared in the sensation
caused by the arrival of Monte Cristo, and now came forward to pay his
respects to the count. He found him completely surrounded; all were
eager to speak to him, as is always the case with those whose words are
few and weighty. The solicitors arrived at this moment and arranged
their scrawled papers on the velvet cloth embroidered with gold which
covered the table prepared for the signature; it was a gilt table
supported on lions’ claws. One of the notaries sat down, the other
remained standing. They were about to proceed to the reading of the
contract, which half Paris assembled was to sign. All took their
places, or rather the ladies formed a circle, while the gentlemen (more
indifferent to the restraints of what Boileau calls the _style
énergique_) commented on the feverish agitation of Andrea, on M.
Danglars’ riveted attention, Eugénie’s composure, and the light and
sprightly manner in which the baroness treated this important affair.

The contract was read during a profound silence. But as soon as it was
finished, the buzz was redoubled through all the drawing-rooms; the
brilliant sums, the rolling millions which were to be at the command of
the two young people, and which crowned the display of the wedding
presents and the young lady’s diamonds, which had been made in a room
entirely appropriated for that purpose, had exercised to the full their
delusions over the envious assembly.

Mademoiselle Danglars’ charms were heightened in the opinion of the
young men, and for the moment seemed to outvie the sun in splendor. As
for the ladies, it is needless to say that while they coveted the
millions, they thought they did not need them for themselves, as they
were beautiful enough without them. Andrea, surrounded by his friends,
complimented, flattered, beginning to believe in the reality of his
dream, was almost bewildered. The notary solemnly took the pen,
flourished it above his head, and said:

“Gentlemen, we are about to sign the contract.”

The baron was to sign first, then the representative of M. Cavalcanti,
senior, then the baroness, afterwards the “future couple,” as they are
styled in the abominable phraseology of legal documents.

The baron took the pen and signed, then the representative. The
baroness approached, leaning on Madame de Villefort’s arm.

“My dear,” said she, as she took the pen, “is it not vexatious? An
unexpected incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of
Monte Cristo’s, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the
pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort.”

“Indeed?” said M. Danglars, in the same tone in which he would have
said, “Oh, well, what do I care?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Monte Cristo, approaching, “I am much
afraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence.”

“What, you, count?” said Madame Danglars, signing; “if you are, take
care, for I shall never forgive you.”

Andrea pricked up his ears.

“But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove.”

Everyone listened eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely opened his lips,
was about to speak.

“You remember,” said the count, during the most profound silence, “that
the unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the supposition
is that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on attempting to leave it.”

“Yes,” said Danglars.

“In order that his wounds might be examined he was undressed, and his
clothes were thrown into a corner, where the police picked them up,
with the exception of the waistcoat, which they overlooked.”

Andrea turned pale, and drew towards the door; he saw a cloud rising in
the horizon, which appeared to forebode a coming storm.

“Well, this waistcoat was discovered today, covered with blood, and
with a hole over the heart.” The ladies screamed, and two or three
prepared to faint. “It was brought to me. No one could guess what the
dirty rag could be; I alone suspected that it was the waistcoat of the
murdered man. My valet, in examining this mournful relic, felt a paper
in the pocket and drew it out; it was a letter addressed to you,
baron.”

“To me?” cried Danglars.

“Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in deciphering your name under the
blood with which the letter was stained,” replied Monte Cristo, amid
the general outburst of amazement.

“But,” asked Madame Danglars, looking at her husband with uneasiness,
“how could that prevent M. de Villefort——”

“In this simple way, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “the waistcoat and
the letter were both what is termed circumstantial evidence; I
therefore sent them to the king’s attorney. You understand, my dear
baron, that legal methods are the safest in criminal cases; it was,
perhaps, some plot against you.” Andrea looked steadily at Monte Cristo
and disappeared in the second drawing-room.

“Possibly,” said Danglars; “was not this murdered man an old
galley-slave?”

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“Yes,” replied the count; “a felon named Caderousse.” Danglars turned
slightly pale; Andrea reached the anteroom beyond the little
drawing-room.

“But go on signing,” said Monte Cristo; “I perceive that my story has
caused a general emotion, and I beg to apologize to you, baroness, and
to Mademoiselle Danglars.”

The baroness, who had signed, returned the pen to the notary.

“Prince Cavalcanti,” said the latter; “Prince Cavalcanti, where are
you?”

“Andrea, Andrea,” repeated several young people, who were already on
sufficiently intimate terms with him to call him by his Christian name.

“Call the prince; inform him that it is his turn to sign,” cried
Danglars to one of the floorkeepers.

But at the same instant the crowd of guests rushed in alarm into the
principal salon as if some frightful monster had entered the
apartments, _quærens quem devoret_. There was, indeed, reason to
retreat, to be alarmed, and to scream. An officer was placing two
soldiers at the door of each drawing-room, and was advancing towards
Danglars, preceded by a commissary of police, girded with his scarf.
Madame Danglars uttered a scream and fainted. Danglars, who thought
himself threatened (certain consciences are never calm),—Danglars even
before his guests showed a countenance of abject terror.

“What is the matter, sir?” asked Monte Cristo, advancing to meet the
commissioner.

“Which of you gentlemen,” asked the magistrate, without replying to the
count, “answers to the name of Andrea Cavalcanti?”

A cry of astonishment was heard from all parts of the room. They
searched; they questioned.

“But who then is Andrea Cavalcanti?” asked Danglars in amazement.

“A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon.”

“And what crime has he committed?”

“He is accused,” said the commissary with his inflexible voice, “of
having assassinated the man named Caderousse, his former companion in
prison, at the moment he was making his escape from the house of the
Count of Monte Cristo.”

Monte Cristo cast a rapid glance around him. Andrea was gone.



 Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium

A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the salons of M.
Danglars by the unexpected appearance of the brigade of soldiers, and
by the disclosure which had followed, the mansion was deserted with as
much rapidity as if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken
out among the guests.

In a few minutes, through all the doors, down all the staircases, by
every exit, everyone hastened to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a
situation where the ordinary condolences,—which even the best friends
are so eager to offer in great catastrophes,—were seen to be utterly
futile. There remained in the banker’s house only Danglars, closeted in
his study, and making his statement to the officer of gendarmes; Madame
Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are acquainted; and
Eugénie, who with haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her
room with her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.

As for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than usual,
for their number was augmented by cooks and butlers from the Café de
Paris), venting on their employers their anger at what they termed the
insult to which they had been subjected, they collected in groups in
the hall, in the kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of
their duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this
household, only two persons deserve our notice; these are Mademoiselle
Eugénie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.

The betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air, disdainful
lip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen, followed by her companion,
who was paler and more disturbed than herself. On reaching her room
Eugénie locked her door, while Louise fell on a chair.

“Ah, what a dreadful thing,” said the young musician; “who would have
suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer—a galley-slave escaped—a
convict!”

An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugénie. “In truth, I was fated,”
said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.”

“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.”

“Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able
now to do more than detest them—I despise them.”

“What shall we do?” asked Louise.

“What shall we do?”

“Yes.”

“Why, the same we had intended doing three days since—set off.”

“What?—although you are not now going to be married, you intend
still——”

“Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always
ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always
wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and
independent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to
myself. Remain here? What for?—that they may try, a month hence, to
marry me again; and to whom?—M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once
proposed. No, Louise, no! This evening’s adventure will serve for my
excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this,
and I hail it joyfully!”

“How strong and courageous you are!” said the fair, frail girl to her
brunette companion.

“Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our affairs. The
post-chaise——”

“Was happily bought three days since.”

“Have you had it sent where we are to go for it?”

“Yes.”

“Our passport?”

“Here it is.”

And Eugénie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and
read:

“M. Léon d’Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist; hair
black, eyes black; travelling with his sister.”

“Capital! How did you get this passport?”

“When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo for letters to the directors of
the theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed my fears of travelling as
a woman; he perfectly understood them, and undertook to procure for me
a man’s passport, and two days after I received this, to which I have
added with my own hand, ‘travelling with his sister.’”

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“Well,” said Eugénie cheerfully, “we have then only to pack up our
trunks; we shall start the evening of the signing of the contract,
instead of the evening of the wedding—that is all.”

“But consider the matter seriously, Eugénie!”

“Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only of market
reports, of the end of the month, of the rise and fall of Spanish
funds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise—do you
understand?—air, liberty, melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian
canals, Roman palaces, the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise?”

The young girl to whom this question was addressed drew from an inlaid
secretaire a small portfolio with a lock, in which she counted
twenty-three bank-notes.

“Twenty-three thousand francs,” said she.

“And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,” said Eugénie.
“We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs we can live like
princesses for two years, and comfortably for four; but before six
months—you with your music, and I with my voice—we shall double our
capital. Come, you shall take charge of the money, I of the jewel-box;
so that if one of us had the misfortune to lose her treasure, the other
would still have hers left. Now, the portmanteau—let us make haste—the
portmanteau!”

“Stop!” said Louise, going to listen at Madame Danglars’ door.

“What do you fear?”

“That we may be discovered.”

“The door is locked.”

“They may tell us to open it.”

“They may if they like, but we will not.”

“You are a perfect Amazon, Eugénie!” And the two young girls began to
heap into a trunk all the things they thought they should require.

“There now,” said Eugénie, “while I change my costume do you lock the
portmanteau.” Louise pressed with all the strength of her little hands
on the top of the portmanteau.

“But I cannot,” said she; “I am not strong enough; do you shut it.”

“Ah, you do well to ask,” said Eugénie, laughing; “I forgot that I was
Hercules, and you only the pale Omphale!”

And the young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed the two parts of the
portmanteau together, and Mademoiselle d’Armilly passed the bolt of the
padlock through. When this was done, Eugénie opened a drawer, of which
she kept the key, and took from it a wadded violet silk travelling
cloak.

“Here,” said she, “you see I have thought of everything; with this
cloak you will not be cold.”

“But you?”

“Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men’s clothes——”

“Will you dress here?”

“Certainly.”

“Shall you have time?”

“Do not be uneasy, you little coward! All our servants are busy,
discussing the grand affair. Besides, what is there astonishing, when
you think of the grief I ought to be in, that I shut myself up?—tell
me!”

“No, truly—you comfort me.”

“Come and help me.”

From the same drawer she took a man’s complete costume, from the boots
to the coat, and a provision of linen, where there was nothing
superfluous, but every requisite. Then, with a promptitude which
indicated that this was not the first time she had amused herself by
adopting the garb of the opposite sex, Eugénie drew on the boots and
pantaloons, tied her cravat, buttoned her waistcoat up to the throat,
and put on a coat which admirably fitted her beautiful figure.

“Oh, that is very good—indeed, it is very good!” said Louise, looking
at her with admiration; “but that beautiful black hair, those
magnificent braids, which made all the ladies sigh with envy,—will they
go under a man’s hat like the one I see down there?”

“You shall see,” said Eugénie. And with her left hand seizing the thick
mass, which her long fingers could scarcely grasp, she took in her
right hand a pair of long scissors, and soon the steel met through the
rich and splendid hair, which fell in a cluster at her feet as she
leaned back to keep it from her coat. Then she grasped the front hair,
which she also cut off, without expressing the least regret; on the
contrary, her eyes sparkled with greater pleasure than usual under her
ebony eyebrows.

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“Oh, the magnificent hair!” said Louise, with regret.

“And am I not a hundred times better thus?” cried Eugénie, smoothing
the scattered curls of her hair, which had now quite a masculine
appearance; “and do you not think me handsomer so?”

“Oh, you are beautiful—always beautiful!” cried Louise. “Now, where are
you going?”

“To Brussels, if you like; it is the nearest frontier. We can go to
Brussels, Liège, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the Rhine to Strasbourg. We
will cross Switzerland, and go down into Italy by the Saint-Gothard.
Will that do?”

“Yes.”

“What are you looking at?”

“I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One would say
you were carrying me off.”

“And they would be right, _pardieu!_”

“Oh, I think you swore, Eugénie.”

And the two young girls, whom everyone might have thought plunged in
grief, the one on her own account, the other from interest in her
friend, burst out laughing, as they cleared away every visible trace of
the disorder which had naturally accompanied the preparations for their
escape. Then, having blown out the lights, the two fugitives, looking
and listening eagerly, with outstretched necks, opened the door of a
dressing-room which led by a side staircase down to the yard,—Eugénie
going first, and holding with one arm the portmanteau, which by the
opposite handle Mademoiselle d’Armilly scarcely raised with both hands.
The yard was empty; the clock was striking twelve. The porter was not
yet gone to bed. Eugénie approached softly, and saw the old man
sleeping soundly in an armchair in his lodge. She returned to Louise,
took up the portmanteau, which she had placed for a moment on the
ground, and they reached the archway under the shadow of the wall.

Eugénie concealed Louise in an angle of the gateway, so that if the
porter chanced to awake he might see but one person. Then placing
herself in the full light of the lamp which lit the yard:

“Gate!” cried she, with her finest contralto voice, and rapping at the
window.

The porter got up as Eugénie expected, and even advanced some steps to
recognize the person who was going out, but seeing a young man striking
his boot impatiently with his riding-whip, he opened it immediately.
Louise slid through the half-open gate like a snake, and bounded
lightly forward. Eugénie, apparently calm, although in all probability
her heart beat somewhat faster than usual, went out in her turn.

A porter was passing and they gave him the portmanteau; then the two
young girls, having told him to take it to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire,
walked behind this man, whose presence comforted Louise. As for
Eugénie, she was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at
the appointed spot. Eugénie ordered the porter to put down the
portmanteau, gave him some pieces of money, and having rapped at the
shutter sent him away. The shutter where Eugénie had rapped was that of
a little laundress, who had been previously warned, and was not yet
gone to bed. She opened the door.

“Mademoiselle,” said Eugénie, “let the porter get the post-chaise from
the coach-house, and fetch some post-horses from the hotel. Here are
five francs for his trouble.”

“Indeed,” said Louise, “I admire you, and I could almost say respect
you.” The laundress looked on in astonishment, but as she had been
promised twenty louis, she made no remark.

In a quarter of an hour the porter returned with a post-boy and horses,
which were harnessed, and put in the post-chaise in a minute, while the
porter fastened the portmanteau on with the assistance of a cord and
strap.

“Here is the passport,” said the postilion, “which way are we going,
young gentleman?”

“To Fontainebleau,” replied Eugénie with an almost masculine voice.

“What do you say?” said Louise.

“I am giving them the slip,” said Eugénie; “this woman to whom we have
given twenty louis may betray us for forty; we will soon alter our
direction.”

And the young girl jumped into the britzka, which was admirably
arranged for sleeping in, without scarcely touching the step.

“You are always right,” said the music teacher, seating herself by the
side of her friend.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the postilion, having been put in the
right road, passed with a crack of his whip through the gateway of the
Barrière Saint-Martin.

“Ah,” said Louise, breathing freely, “here we are out of Paris.”

“Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,” replied Eugénie.

“Yes, and without violence,” said Louise.

“I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,” replied
Eugénie.

These words were lost in the noise which the carriage made in rolling
over the pavement of La Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a daughter.



 Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern

And now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend pursuing
their way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea Cavalcanti, so
inopportunely interrupted in his rise to fortune. Notwithstanding his
youth, Master Andrea was a very skilful and intelligent boy. We have
seen that on the first rumor which reached the salon he had gradually
approached the door, and crossing two or three rooms at last
disappeared. But we have forgotten to mention one circumstance, which
nevertheless ought not to be omitted; in one of the rooms he crossed,
the _trousseau_ of the bride-elect was on exhibition. There were
caskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes lace, English veils,
and in fact all the tempting things, the bare mention of which makes
the hearts of young girls bound with joy, and which is called the
_corbeille_.22 Now, in passing through this room, Andrea proved himself
not only to be clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he
helped himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him.

Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from
the window, intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall
and well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a
Spartan, he walked for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to
direct his steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the
spot where if he lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having
passed through the Rue du Mont-Blanc, guided by the instinct which
leads thieves always to take the safest path, he found himself at the
end of the Rue La Fayette. There he stopped, breathless and panting. He
was quite alone; on one side was the vast wilderness of the
Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in darkness.

“Am I to be captured?” he cried; “no, not if I can use more activity
than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed.”

At this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg Poissonnière.
The dull driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along toward the limits
of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his
station.

“Ho, friend!” said Benedetto.

“What do you want, sir?” asked the driver.

“Is your horse tired?”

“Tired? oh, yes, tired enough—he has done nothing the whole of this
blessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making in all
seven francs, are all that I have earned, and I ought to take ten to
the owner.”

“Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?”

“With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell me what
I am to do for this.”

“A very easy thing, if your horse isn’t tired.”

“I tell you he’ll go like the wind,—only tell me which way to drive.”

“Towards the Louvres.”

“Ah, I know the way—you get good sweetened rum over there.”

“Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with whom I
am going to hunt tomorrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited
for me here with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and,
tired of waiting, he must have gone on.”

“It is likely.”

“Well, will you try and overtake him?”

“Nothing I should like better.”

“If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall have
twenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty.”

“And if we do overtake him?”

“Forty,” said Andrea, after a moment’s hesitation, at the end of which
he remembered that he might safely promise.

“That’s all right,” said the man; “hop in, and we’re off! Who-o-o-pla!”

Andrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the Faubourg
Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and
threaded its way through the interminable Villette. They never overtook
the chimerical friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot
whom he passed and at the inns which were not yet closed, for a green
cabriolet and bay horse; and as there are a great many cabriolets to be
seen on the road to the Low Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are
green, the inquiries increased at every step. Everyone had just seen it
pass; it was only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in
advance; at length they reached it, but it was not the friend. Once the
cab was also passed by a calash rapidly whirled along by two
post-horses.

“Ah,” said Cavalcanti to himself, “if I only had that britzka, those
two good post-horses, and above all the passport that carries them on!”
And he sighed deeply.

The calash contained Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle d’Armilly.

“Hurry, hurry!” said Andrea, “we must overtake him soon.”

And the poor horse resumed the desperate gallop it had kept up since
leaving the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres.

“Certainly,” said Andrea, “I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall
kill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I
will sleep at the _Cheval Rouge_, and will secure a place in the first
coach. Good-night, friend.”

And Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in the man’s
hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman joyfully pocketed
the sum, and turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended to go
towards the hotel of the _Cheval Rouge_, but after leaning an instant
against the door, and hearing the last sound of the cab, which was
disappearing from view, he went on his road, and with a lusty stride
soon traversed the space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be
near Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended to be going.

It was not fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was that he might form
some resolution, adopt some plan. It would be impossible to make use of
a diligence, equally so to engage post-horses; to travel either way a
passport was necessary. It was still more impossible to remain in the
department of the Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in
France; this was quite out of the question, especially to a man like
Andrea, perfectly conversant with criminal matters.

He sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his hands and
reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his resolution was
made. He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he had found time to
unhook from the antechamber and button over his ball costume, and going
to Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only inn in
the place.

The host opened.

“My friend,” said Andrea, “I was coming from Mortefontaine to Senlis,
when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me.
I must reach Compiègne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my
family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?”

An innkeeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The
host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle _Le Blanc_ then
he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride
before the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the
innkeeper twenty francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a
visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Café de
Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was
convinced that he had let his horse to the Count of Mauléon, 25 Rue
Saint-Dominique, that being the name and address on the card.

_Le Blanc_ was not a fast animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace;
in three hours and a half Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which
separated him from Compiègne, and four o’clock struck as he reached the
place where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern at
Compiègne, well remembered by those who have ever been there. Andrea,
who had often stayed there in his rides about Paris, recollected the
Bell and Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a
reflected lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the
small coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door, very
reasonably concluding that having now three or four hours before him he
had best fortify himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound
sleep and a good supper. A waiter opened the door.

“My friend,” said Andrea, “I have been dining at Saint-Jean-aux-Bois,
and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a
fool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours
in the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which
overlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux.”

The waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he
had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat;
his clothes were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots
irreproachable; he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late,
that was all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess
arose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could
have No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiègne.
Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with
his sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the
hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated
precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting
about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced his
room to be ready.

Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out
upon the court of the Bell Hotel, which with its triple galleries like
those of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis twining round the
light columns, forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you
can imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and
sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to find himself eating with as good
an appetite as though nothing had happened. Then he went to bed and
almost immediately fell into that deep sleep which is sure to visit men
of twenty years of age, even when they are torn with remorse. Now, here
we are obliged to own that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that
he did not.

This was the plan which had appealed to him to afford the best chance
of his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after
rigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would, under
pretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality of some
peasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a hatchet,
casting off the lion’s skin to assume that of the woodman; then, with
his hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means of a leaden
comb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for which one of his
old comrades had given him the recipe, he intended, by following the
wooded districts, to reach the nearest frontier, walking by night and
sleeping in the day in the forests and quarries, and only entering
inhabited regions to buy a loaf from time to time.

Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his diamonds;
and by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always carried about
with him in case of accident, he would then find himself possessor of
about 50,000 livres, which he philosophically considered as no very
deplorable condition after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the
interest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own
misadventures. These were the reasons which, added to the fatigue,
caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he might wake early he
did not close the shutters, but contented himself with bolting the door
and placing on the table an unclasped and long-pointed knife, whose
temper he well knew, and which was never absent from him.

About seven in the morning Andrea was awakened by a ray of sunlight,
which played, warm and brilliant, upon his face. In all well-organized
brains, the predominating idea—and there always is one—is sure to be
the last thought before sleeping, and the first upon waking in the
morning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating
idea presented itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too
long. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was
crossing the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in
the world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a
timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and white
uniform is really very alarming.

“Why is that gendarme there?” asked Andrea of himself.

Then, all at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has,
doubtless, remarked in him, “There is nothing astonishing in seeing a
gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress myself.”
And the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de chambre had
failed to rob him of during the two months of fashionable life he had
led in Paris.

“Now then,” said Andrea, while dressing himself, “I’ll wait till he
leaves, and then I’ll slip away.”

50047m



And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots and cravat,
stole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up the muslin
curtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there, but the young man
now perceived a second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the foot of
the staircase, the only one by which he could descend, while a third,
on horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was posted as a sentinel at
the great street-door which alone afforded the means of egress. The
appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a crowd of
curious loungers was extended before him, effectually blocking the
entrance to the hotel.

“They’re after me!” was Andrea’s first thought. “_Diable!_”

A pallor overspread the young man’s forehead, and he looked around him
with anxiety. His room, like all those on the same floor, had but one
outlet to the gallery in the sight of everybody. “I am lost!” was his
second thought; and, indeed, for a man in Andrea’s situation, an arrest
meant the assizes, trial, and death,—death without mercy or delay.

For a moment he convulsively pressed his head within his hands, and
during that brief period he became nearly mad with terror; but soon a
ray of hope glimmered in the multitude of thoughts which bewildered his
mind, and a faint smile played upon his white lips and pallid cheeks.
He looked around and saw the objects of his search upon the
chimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and paper. With forced composure
he dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the following lines upon a
sheet of paper:

“I have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest man; I leave
behind me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times the amount. I shall be
excused for leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed.”

He then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper. This
done, instead of leaving the door fastened, he drew back the bolts and
even placed the door ajar, as though he had left the room, forgetting
to close it, and slipping into the chimney like a man accustomed to
that kind of gymnastic exercise, after replacing the chimney-board,
which represented Achilles with Deidamia, and effacing the very marks
of his feet upon the ashes, he commenced climbing the hollow tunnel,
which afforded him the only means of escape left.

At this precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked
upstairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by the
second gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself reinforced by
the one stationed at the door.

Andrea was indebted for this visit to the following circumstances. At
daybreak, the telegraphs were set at work in all directions, and almost
immediately the authorities in every district had exerted their utmost
endeavors to arrest the murderer of Caderousse. Compiègne, that royal
residence and fortified town, is well furnished with authorities,
gendarmes, and commissaries of police; they therefore began operations
as soon as the telegraphic despatch arrived, and the Bell and Bottle
being the best-known hotel in the town, they had naturally directed
their first inquiries there.

Now, besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the Hôtel de Ville,
which is next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had been stated by others
that a number of travellers had arrived during the night. The sentinel
who was relieved at six o’clock in the morning, remembered perfectly
that, just as he was taking his post a few minutes past four, a young
man arrived on horseback, with a little boy before him. The young man,
having dismissed the boy and horse, knocked at the door of the hotel,
which was opened, and again closed after his entrance. This late
arrival had attracted much suspicion, and the young man being no other
than Andrea, the commissary and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed
their steps towards his room. They found the door ajar.

“Oh, oh,” said the brigadier, who thoroughly understood the trick; “a
bad sign to find the door open! I would rather find it triply bolted.”

And, indeed, the little note and pin upon the table confirmed, or
rather corroborated, the sad truth. Andrea had fled. We say
corroborated, because the brigadier was too experienced to be convinced
by a single proof. He glanced around, looked in the bed, shook the
curtains, opened the closets, and finally stopped at the chimney.
Andrea had taken the precaution to leave no traces of his feet in the
ashes, but still it was an outlet, and in this light was not to be
passed over without serious investigation.

The brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having filled the
chimney with them, set a light to it. The fire crackled, and the smoke
ascended like the dull vapor from a volcano; but still no prisoner fell
down, as they expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at war with society
ever since his youth, was quite as deep as a gendarme, even though he
were advanced to the rank of brigadier, and quite prepared for the
fire, he had climbed out on the roof and was crouching down against the
chimney-pots.

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At one time he thought he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim
in a loud voice, to the two gendarmes, “He is not here!” But venturing
to peep, he perceived that the latter, instead of retiring, as might
have been reasonably expected upon this announcement, were watching
with increased attention.

It was now his turn to look about him; the Hôtel de Ville, a massive
sixteenth century building, was on his right; anyone could descend from
the openings in the tower, and examine every corner of the roof below,
and Andrea expected momentarily to see the head of a gendarme appear at
one of these openings. If once discovered, he knew he would be lost,
for the roof afforded no chance of escape; he therefore resolved to
descend, not through the same chimney by which he had come up, but by a
similar one conducting to another room.

He looked around for a chimney from which no smoke issued, and having
reached it, he disappeared through the orifice without being seen by
anyone. At the same minute, one of the little windows of the Hôtel de
Ville was thrown open, and the head of a gendarme appeared. For an
instant it remained motionless as one of the stone decorations of the
building, then after a long sigh of disappointment the head
disappeared. The brigadier, calm and dignified as the law he
represented, passed through the crowd, without answering the thousand
questions addressed to him, and re-entered the hotel.

“Well?” asked the two gendarmes.

“Well, my boys,” said the brigadier, “the brigand must really have
escaped early this morning; but we will send to the Villers-Coterets
and Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we shall catch him, no
doubt.”

The honorable functionary had scarcely expressed himself thus, in that
intonation which is peculiar to brigadiers of the gendarmerie, when a
loud scream, accompanied by the violent ringing of a bell, resounded
through the court of the hotel.

“Ah, what is that?” cried the brigadier.

“Some traveller seems impatient,” said the host. “What number was it
that rang?”

“Number 3.”

“Run, waiter!”

At this moment the screams and ringing were redoubled.

“Aha!” said the brigadier, stopping the servant, “the person who is
ringing appears to want something more than amwaiter; we will attend
upon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number 3?”

“The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with his
sister, and who asked for an apartment with two beds.”

The bell here rang for the third time, with another shriek of anguish.

“Follow me, Mr. Commissary!” said the brigadier; “tread in my steps.”

“Wait an instant,” said the host; “Number 3 has two staircases,—inside
and outside.”

“Good,” said the brigadier. “I will take charge of the inside one. Are
the carbines loaded?”

“Yes, brigadier.”

“Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire upon
him; he must be a great criminal, from what the telegraph says.”

The brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by the inside
staircase, accompanied by the noise which his assertions respecting
Andrea had excited in the crowd.

This is what had happened: Andrea had very cleverly managed to descend
two-thirds of the chimney, but then his foot slipped, and
notwithstanding his endeavors, he came into the room with more speed
and noise than he intended. It would have signified little had the room
been empty, but unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in
one bed, were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes upon the
spot whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of these ladies,
the fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks which resounded through
the house, while the other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang with all her
strength. Andrea, as we can see, was surrounded by misfortune.

“For pity’s sake,” he cried, pale and bewildered, without seeing whom
he was addressing,—“for pity’s sake do not call assistance! Save me!—I
will not harm you.”

“Andrea, the murderer!” cried one of the ladies.

“Eugénie! Mademoiselle Danglars!” exclaimed Andrea, stupefied.

“Help, help!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, taking the bell from her
companion’s hand, and ringing it yet more violently.

“Save me, I am pursued!” said Andrea, clasping his hands. “For pity,
for mercy’s sake do not deliver me up!”

“It is too late, they are coming,” said Eugénie.

“Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed;
you can turn their suspicions and save my life!”

50053m



The two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the
bedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this supplicating
voice, repugnance and fear taking possession of their minds.

“Well, be it so,” at length said Eugénie; “return by the same road you
came, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy wretch.”

“Here he is, here he is!” cried a voice from the landing; “here he is!
I see him!”

The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea
in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow from the butt end of the
musket burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and the
broken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading to the
gallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short, and he stood with
his body a little thrown back, pale, and with the useless knife in his
clenched hand.

“Fly, then!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, whose pity returned as her
fears diminished; “fly!”

“Or kill yourself!” said Eugénie (in a tone which a Vestal in the
amphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious gladiator to
finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered, and looked on the
young girl with an expression which proved how little he understood
such ferocious honor.

“Kill myself?” he cried, throwing down his knife; “why should I do so?”

“Why, you said,” answered Mademoiselle Danglars, “that you would be
condemned to die like the worst criminals.”

50055m



“Bah,” said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, “one has friends.”

The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand.

“Come, come,” said Andrea, “sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there
is no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;” and he
held out his hands to be manacled.

The two girls looked with horror upon this shameful metamorphosis, the
man of the world shaking off his covering and appearing as a
galley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an impertinent smile
asked, “Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars,
for in all probability I shall return to Paris?”

Eugénie covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, oh!” said Andrea, “you need not be ashamed, even though you did
post after me. Was I not nearly your husband?”

50056m



And with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a prey to
their own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the crowd. An hour
after they stepped into their calash, both dressed in feminine attire.
The gate of the hotel had been closed to screen them from sight, but
they were forced, when the door was open, to pass through a throng of
curious glances and whispering voices.

Eugénie closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could hear,
and the sneers of the crowd reached her in the carriage.

“Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?” she exclaimed, throwing
herself into the arms of Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her eyes sparkling
with the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the Roman world
had but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow.

The next day they stopped at the Hôtel de Flandre, at Brussels. The
same evening Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie.



 Chapter 99. The Law

We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle
d’Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact being
that everyone was too much occupied in his or her own affairs to think
of theirs.

We will leave the banker contemplating the enormous magnitude of his
debt before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness, who
after being momentarily crushed under the weight of the blow which had
struck her, had gone to seek her usual adviser, Lucien Debray. The
baroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding her
of a guardianship which, over a girl of Eugénie’s character, could not
fail to be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in the tacit relations
which maintain the bond of family union, the mother, to maintain her
ascendancy over her daughter, must never fail to be a model of wisdom
and a type of perfection.

Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugénie’s sagacity and the influence of
Mademoiselle d’Armilly; she had frequently observed the contemptuous
expression with which her daughter looked upon Debray,—an expression
which seemed to imply that she understood all her mother’s amorous and
pecuniary relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she saw
that Eugénie detested Debray, not only because he was a source of
dissension and scandal under the paternal roof, but because she had at
once classed him in that catalogue of bipeds whom Plato endeavors to
withdraw from the appellation of men, and whom Diogenes designated as
animals upon two legs without feathers.

Unfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views things through
a certain medium, and so is prevented from seeing in the same light as
others, and Madame Danglars, therefore, very much regretted that the
marriage of Eugénie had not taken place, not only because the match was
good, and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because it
would also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to Debray, who, after
having, like the rest of Paris, witnessed the contract scene and the
scandal attending it, had retired in haste to his club, where he was
chatting with some friends upon the events which served as a subject of
conversation for three-fourths of that city known as the capital of the
world.

At the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and
concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to Debray’s
apartments, notwithstanding the assurances of the concierge that the
young man was not at home, Debray was occupied in repelling the
insinuations of a friend, who tried to persuade him that after the
terrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a friend of the
family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her two millions. Debray did
not defend himself very warmly, for the idea had sometimes crossed his
mind; still, when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of
Eugénie, he positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the
same thought again continually recurred and found a resting-place in
his heart. Tea, play, and the conversation, which had become
interesting during the discussion of such serious affairs, lasted till
one o’clock in the morning.

Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the return of
Debray in the little green room, seated between two baskets of flowers,
which she had that morning sent, and which, it must be confessed,
Debray had himself arranged and watered with so much care that his
absence was half excused in the eyes of the poor woman.

At twenty minutes to twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting,
returned home. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous grisettes
in one respect, they seldom return home after twelve o’clock. The
baroness returned to the hotel with as much caution as Eugénie used in
leaving it; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered
her apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugénie. She was
fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter’s
innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie’s
door, and hearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place.
Madame Danglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome
with the terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to
sleep. She called the maid and questioned her.

“Mademoiselle Eugénie,” said the maid, “retired to her apartment with
Mademoiselle d’Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they
desired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer.”

Since then the maid had been below, and like everyone else she thought
the young ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore,
went to bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over the
recent events. In proportion as her memory became clearer, the
occurrences of the evening were revealed in their true light; what she
had taken for confusion was a tumult; what she had regarded as
something distressing, was in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness
remembered that she had felt no pity for poor Mercédès, who had been
afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.

“Eugénie,” she said to herself, “is lost, and so are we. The affair, as
it will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such as
ours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that
Eugénie is possessed of that strange character which has so often made
me tremble!”

And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious Providence
disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes
produces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving through space like
a bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a
robber, an assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort
of education, if not a complete one; he had been presented to the world
with the appearance of an immense fortune, supported by an honorable
name. How could she extricate herself from this labyrinth? To whom
would she apply to help her out of this painful situation? Debray, to
whom she had run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man
she loves, and who yet betrays her,—Debray could but give her advice,
she must apply to someone more powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort
who had remorselessly brought misfortune into her family, as though
they had been strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not
a merciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties,
but the friend, the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the
very core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the
surgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from ignominious
association with the disgraced young man they had presented to the
world as their son-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars,
had acted in this way, no one could suppose that he had been previously
acquainted with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea’s intrigues.
Villefort’s conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the
baroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility
of the procureur should stop there; she would see him the next day, and
if she could not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she
would, at least, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would
invoke the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by
the remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle
the affair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea
to fly, and follow up the crime under that shadow of guilt called
contempt of court. And after this reasoning she slept easily.

At nine o’clock next morning she arose, and without ringing for her
maid or giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in
the same simple style as on the previous night; then running
downstairs, she left the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a
cab, and drove to M. de Villefort’s house.

For the last month this wretched house had presented the gloomy
appearance of a lazaretto infected with the plague. Some of the
apartments were closed within and without; the shutters were only
opened to admit a minute’s air, showing the scared face of a footman,
and immediately afterwards the window would be closed, like a
gravestone falling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would say to each
other in a low voice, “Will there be another funeral today at the
procureur’s house?”

Madame Danglars involuntarily shuddered at the desolate aspect of the
mansion; descending from the cab, she approached the door with
trembling knees, and rang the bell. Three times did the bell ring with
a dull, heavy sound, seeming to participate, in the general sadness,
before the concierge appeared and peeped through the door, which he
opened just wide enough to allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady,
a fashionable, elegantly dressed lady, and yet the door remained almost
closed.

“Do you intend opening the door?” said the baroness.

“First, madame, who are you?”

“Who am I? You know me well enough.”

“We no longer know anyone, madame.”

“You must be mad, my friend,” said the baroness.

“Where do you come from?”

“Oh, this is too much!”

“Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name?”

“The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times.”

“Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want?”

“Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort of the
impertinence of his servants.”

“Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters here
without an order from M. d’Avrigny, or without speaking to the
procureur.”

“Well, I have business with the procureur.”

“Is it pressing business?”

“You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my carriage out yet.
But enough of this—here is my card, take it to your master.”

“Madame will await my return?”

“Yes; go.”

The concierge closed the door, leaving Madame Danglars in the street.
She had not long to wait; directly afterwards the door was opened wide
enough to admit her, and when she had passed through, it was again
shut. Without losing sight of her for an instant, the concierge took a
whistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and blew it.
The valet de chambre appeared on the door-steps.

“You will excuse this poor fellow, madame,” he said, as he preceded the
baroness, “but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to
tell you that he could not act otherwise.”

In the court showing his merchandise, was a tradesman who had been
admitted with the same precautions. The baroness ascended the steps;
she felt herself strongly infected with the sadness which seemed to
magnify her own, and still guided by the valet de chambre, who never
lost sight of her for an instant, she was introduced to the
magistrate’s study.

Preoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the object of her visit,
the treatment she had received from these underlings appeared to her so
insulting, that she began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raising
his head, bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile
that her complaints died upon her lips.

“Forgive my servants,” he said, “for a terror I cannot blame them for;
from being suspected they have become suspicious.”

Madame Danglars had often heard of the terror to which the magistrate
alluded, but without the evidence of her own eyesight she could never
have believed that the sentiment had been carried so far.

“You too, then, are unhappy?” she said.

“Yes, madame,” replied the magistrate.

“Then you pity me!”

“Sincerely, madame.”

“And you understand what brings me here?”

“You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has just
happened?”

“Yes, sir,—a fearful misfortune.”

“You mean a mischance.”

“A mischance?” repeated the baroness.

“Alas, madame,” said the procureur with his imperturbable calmness of
manner, “I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable.”

“And do you suppose this will be forgotten?”

“Everything will be forgotten, madame,” said Villefort. “Your daughter
will be married tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; and
I do not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter.”

Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so almost
insultingly calm. “Am I come to a friend?” she asked in a tone full of
mournful dignity.

“You know that you are, madame,” said Villefort, whose pale cheeks
became slightly flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly this
assurance carried him back to different events from those now occupying
the baroness and him.

“Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort,” said the
baroness. “Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I
am in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay.”
Villefort bowed.

“When I hear misfortunes named, madame,” he said, “I have within the
last few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and
then I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That
is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me
mere mischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appear
enviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were
saying, madame——”

“I came to ask you, my friend,” said the baroness, “what will be done
with this impostor?”

“Impostor,” repeated Villefort; “certainly, madame, you appear to
extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed!—M.
Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less
than an assassin!”

“Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the more
severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeply
will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead
of pursuing him, let him go.”

“You are too late, madame; the orders are issued.”

“Well, should he be arrested—do they think they will arrest him?”

“I hope so.”

“If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means
of escape), will you leave him in prison?”

The procureur shook his head.

“At least keep him there till my daughter be married.”

“Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities.”

“What, even for me?” said the baroness, half jesting, half in earnest.

“For all, even for myself among the rest,” replied Villefort.

50063m



“Ah!” exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas which the
exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with that piercing glance
which reads the secrets of the heart.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he said; “you refer to the terrible rumors
spread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me in
mourning for the last three months, and from which Valentine has only
escaped by a miracle, have not happened by natural means.”

“I was not thinking of that,” replied Madame Danglars quickly.

“Yes, you were thinking of it, and with justice. You could not help
thinking of it, and saying to yourself, ‘you, who pursue crime so
vindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in your
dwelling?’” The baroness became pale. “You were saying this, were you
not?”

“Well, I own it.”

“I will answer you.”

Villefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then resting
both hands upon his desk he said in a voice more hollow than usual:

“There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are
unknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but
when the culprits are discovered” (Villefort here extended his hand
toward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk)—“when they are
discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever
they may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and
which I will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch!”

“But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?”

“Listen; this is his description: ‘Benedetto, condemned, at the age of
sixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.’ He promised well,
as you see—first a runaway, then an assassin.”

“And who is this wretch?”

“Who can tell?—a vagabond, a Corsican.”

“Has no one owned him?”

“No one; his parents are unknown.”

“But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?”

“Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice.” The baroness
clasped her hands.

“Villefort,” she exclaimed in her softest and most captivating manner.

“For Heaven’s sake, madame,” said Villefort, with a firmness of
expression not altogether free from harshness—“for Heaven’s sake, do
not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the
law any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by
your sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections
you endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it
commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not
a code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame—look around me. Has
mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared
me? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands?
No, madame, they struck me, always struck me!

50065m



“Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that
fascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it
so; let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps—perhaps for even
more than those! But having sinned myself,—it may be more deeply than
others,—I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my
fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found
them; and more,—I repeat it with joy, with triumph,—I have always found
some proof of human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems
to me living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest.
Alas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at
wickedness!”

Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave
a ferocious eloquence to his words.

“But”’ said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort, “this
young man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody.”

“So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been so
ordained that he may have none to weep his fate.”

“But this is trampling on the weak, sir.”

“The weakness of a murderer!”

“His dishonor reflects upon us.”

“Is not death in my house?”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baroness, “you are without pity for others,
well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you!”

“Be it so!” said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven with a
threatening gesture.

“At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have
six months before us.”

“No, madame,” said Villefort; “instructions have been given. There are
yet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think
that I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, I
sometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the
same sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is better
than suffering.”

“But, sir, he has fled; let him escape—inaction is a pardonable
offence.”

“I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was
employed, and at this very minute——”

“Sir,” said the valet de chambre, entering the room, “a dragoon has
brought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior.”

Villefort seized the letter, and hastily broke the seal. Madame
Danglars trembled with fear; Villefort started with joy.

“Arrested!” he exclaimed; “he was taken at Compiègne, and all is over.”

Madame Danglars rose from her seat, pale and cold.

“Adieu, sir,” she said.

“Adieu, madame,” replied the king’s attorney, as in an almost joyful
manner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he
said, striking the letter with the back of his right hand:

“Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I only
wanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!”



 Chapter 100. The Apparition

As the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not yet
recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed confined to her bed;
and it was in her own room, and from the lips of Madame de Villefort,
that she heard all the strange events we have related; we mean the
flight of Eugénie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather
Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced against
him. But Valentine was so weak that this recital scarcely produced the
same effect it would have done had she been in her usual state of
health. Indeed, her brain was only the seat of vague ideas, and
confused forms, mingled with strange fancies, alone presented
themselves before her eyes.

During the daytime Valentine’s perceptions remained tolerably clear,
owing to the constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused himself to be
carried to his granddaughter’s room, and watched her with his paternal
tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law courts,
frequently passed an hour or two with his father and child.

At six o’clock Villefort retired to his study, at eight M. d’Avrigny
himself arrived, bringing the night draught prepared for the young
girl, and then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse of the doctor’s
choice succeeded them, and never left till about ten or eleven o’clock,
when Valentine was asleep. As she went downstairs she gave the keys of
Valentine’s room to M. de Villefort, so that no one could reach the
sick-room excepting through that of Madame de Villefort and little
Edward.

Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of Valentine,
and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less uneasy.
Certainly, though Valentine still labored under dreadful nervous
excitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had told him
when, half distracted, he had rushed to the count’s house, that if she
were not dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had
elapsed, and Valentine still lived.

The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine even in her
sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking
hours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the dim light shed from
the alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass
and repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the fever with
their trembling wings. First she fancied she saw her stepmother
threatening her, then Morrel stretched his arms towards her; sometimes
mere strangers, like the Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even
the very furniture, in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and
this state lasted till about three o’clock in the morning, when a deep,
heavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did not awake
till daylight.

On the evening of the day on which Valentine had learned of the flight
of Eugénie and the arrest of Benedetto,—Villefort having retired as
well as Noirtier and d’Avrigny,—her thoughts wandered in a confused
maze, alternately reviewing her own situation and the events she had
just heard.

Eleven o’clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the beverage
prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked the
door, was listening with terror to the comments of the servants in the
kitchen, and storing her memory with all the horrible stories which had
for some months past amused the occupants of the antechambers in the
house of the king’s attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene was passing
in the room which had been so carefully locked.

Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine, who for
the last hour had been suffering from the fever which returned nightly,
incapable of controlling her ideas, was forced to yield to the
excitement which exhausted itself in producing and reproducing a
succession and recurrence of the same fancies and images. The
night-lamp threw out countless rays, each resolving itself into some
strange form to her disordered imagination, when suddenly by its
flickering light Valentine thought she saw the door of her library,
which was in the recess by the chimney-piece, open slowly, though she
in vain listened for the sound of the hinges on which it turned.

At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken bell-pull and
summoned assistance, but nothing astonished her in her present
situation. Her reason told her that all the visions she beheld were but
the children of her imagination, and the conviction was strengthened by
the fact that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal
phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight.

From behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl was too
familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and therefore only
stared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The figure advanced towards the bed
and appeared to listen with profound attention. At this moment a ray of
light glanced across the face of the midnight visitor.

“It is not he,” she murmured, and waited, in the assurance that this
was but a dream, for the man to disappear or assume some other form.
Still, she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently she
remembered that the best method of dispelling such illusions was to
drink, for a draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay
her fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a short time
she suffered less. Valentine therefore reached her hand towards the
glass, but as soon as her trembling arm left the bed the apparition
advanced more quickly towards her, and approached the young girl so
closely that she fancied she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of
his hand.

This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed anything
Valentine had before experienced; she began to believe herself really
alive and awake, and the belief that her reason was this time not
deceived made her shudder. The pressure she felt was evidently intended
to arrest her arm, and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from
whom she could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting
than menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the night-light held
it up, as if to test its transparency. This did not seem sufficient;
the man, or rather the ghost—for he trod so softly that no sound was
heard—then poured out about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it.

Valentine witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every
minute she had expected that it would vanish and give place to another
vision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again
approached her, and said in an agitated voice, “Now you may drink.”

Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these visions had
ever addressed her in a living voice, and she was about to utter an
exclamation. The man placed his finger on her lips.

“The Count of Monte Cristo!” she murmured.

It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young girl’s mind
as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror, her hands
trembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes closer to her. Still, the
presence of Monte Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and
extraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might well seem
impossibilities to her shattered reason.

“Do not call anyone—do not be alarmed,” said the count; “do not let a
shade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your breast; the man
standing before you, Valentine (for this time it is no ghost), is
nothing more than the tenderest father and the most respectful friend
you could dream of.”

Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real presence
of a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter a
syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed to inquire, “If your
intentions are pure, why are you here?” The count’s marvellous sagacity
understood all that was passing in the young girl’s mind.

“Listen to me,” he said, “or, rather, look upon me; look at my face,
paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness—for four days I
have not closed them, for I have been constantly watching you, to
protect and preserve you for Maximilian.”

The blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just
announced by the count dispelled all the fear with which his presence
had inspired her.

“Maximilian!” she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to her,
that she repeated it—“Maximilian!—has he then owned all to you?”

“Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised him that
you shall live.”

“You have promised him that I shall live?”

“Yes.”

“But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor?”

“Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe me.”

“But you say you have watched?” said Valentine uneasily; “where have
you been?—I have not seen you.”

The count extended his hand towards the library.

“I was hidden behind that door,” he said, “which leads into the next
house, which I have rented.”

Valentine turned her eyes away, and, with an indignant expression of
pride and modest fear, exclaimed:

“Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and
that what you call protection is more like an insult.”

“Valentine,” he answered, “during my long watch over you, all I have
observed has been what people visited you, what nourishment was
prepared, and what beverage was served; then, when the latter appeared
dangerous to me, I entered, as I have now done, and substituted, in the
place of the poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing
the death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins.”

“Poison—death!” exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself under the
influence of some feverish hallucination; “what are you saying, sir?”

50071m



“Hush, my child,” said Monte Cristo, again placing his finger upon her
lips, “I did say poison and death. But drink some of this;” and the
count took a bottle from his pocket, containing a red liquid, of which
he poured a few drops into the glass. “Drink this, and then take
nothing more tonight.”

Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she touched the
glass when she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass, drank
half its contents, and then presented it to Valentine, who smiled and
swallowed the rest.

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, “I recognize the flavor of my nocturnal
beverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed to ease my aching
brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!”

“This is how you have lived during the last four nights, Valentine,”
said the count. “But, oh, how I passed that time! Oh, the wretched
hours I have endured—the torture to which I have submitted when I saw
the deadly poison poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you
should drink it before I could find time to throw it away!”

“Sir,” said Valentine, at the height of her terror, “you say you
endured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass;
but if you saw this, you must also have seen the person who poured it?”

“Yes.”

Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which
appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with
the cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror.
“You saw the person?” repeated the young girl.

“Yes,” repeated the count.

“What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe
something too dreadful. What?—attempt to murder me in my father’s
house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are
tempting me—you make me doubt the goodness of Providence—it is
impossible, it cannot be!”

“Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not seen M. de
Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, Barrois, all fall? Would not M.
Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the treatment he has been
pursuing for the last three years neutralized the effects of the
poison?”

“Oh, Heaven,” said Valentine; “is this the reason why grandpapa has
made me share all his beverages during the last month?”

“And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that of
dried orange-peel?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“Then that explains all,” said Monte Cristo. “Your grandfather knows,
then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects the person.
He has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against the fatal
effects of the poison, which has failed because your system was already
impregnated with it. But even this would have availed little against a
more deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is generally
but too fatal.”

“But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?”

“Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen anyone enter your
room at night?”

“Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me, approach,
and disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my feverish
imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was under the
influence of delirium.”

“Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?”

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“No,” said Valentine; “who could desire my death?”

“You shall know it now, then,” said Monte Cristo, listening.

“How do you mean?” said Valentine, looking anxiously around.

“Because you are not feverish or delirious tonight, but thoroughly
awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose.”

“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down
her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour seemed to
strike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor girl.

“Valentine,” said the count, “summon up all your courage; still the
beatings of your heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be
asleep; then you will see.”

Valentine seized the count’s hand. “I think I hear a noise,” she said;
“leave me.”

“Good-bye, for the present,” replied the count, walking upon tiptoe
towards the library door, and smiling with an expression so sad and
paternal that the young girl’s heart was filled with gratitude.

Before closing the door he turned around once more, and said, “Not a
movement—not a word; let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be
killed before I have the power of helping you.”

And with this fearful injunction the count disappeared through the
door, which noiselessly closed after him.



 Chapter 101. Locusta

Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of
Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different
directions, and excepting the rumbling of a few carriages all was
silent. Then Valentine’s attention was engrossed by the clock in her
room, which marked the seconds. She began counting them, remarking that
they were much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she
doubted,—the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine that anyone should
desire her death. Why should they? To what end? What had she done to
excite the malice of an enemy?

There was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon
her mind,—that someone existed in the world who had attempted to
assassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again.
Supposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison, should,
as Monte Cristo intimated, have recourse to steel!—What if the count
should have no time to run to her rescue!—What if her last moments were
approaching, and she should never again see Morrel!

When this terrible chain of ideas presented itself, Valentine was
nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help. But through the
door she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the count—that eye which
lived in her memory, and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much
shame that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude could ever
repay his adventurous and devoted friendship.

Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, passed thus, then ten more, and
at last the clock struck the half-hour.

Just then the sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the door
of the library informed Valentine that the count was still watching,
and recommended her to do the same; at the same time, on the opposite
side, that is towards Edward’s room, Valentine fancied that she heard
the creaking of the floor; she listened attentively, holding her breath
till she was nearly suffocated; the lock turned, and the door slowly
opened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow, and had scarcely
time to throw herself down on the bed and shade her eyes with her arm;
then, trembling, agitated, and her heart beating with indescribable
terror, she awaited the event.

Someone approached the bed and drew back the curtains. Valentine
summoned every effort, and breathed with that regular respiration which
announces tranquil sleep.

“Valentine!” said a low voice.

The girl shuddered to the heart but did not reply.

“Valentine,” repeated the same voice.

Still silent: Valentine had promised not to wake. Then everything was
still, excepting that Valentine heard the almost noiseless sound of
some liquid being poured into the glass she had just emptied. Then she
ventured to open her eyelids, and glance over her extended arm. She saw
a woman in a white dressing-gown pouring a liquor from a phial into her
glass. During this short time Valentine must have held her breath, or
moved in some slight degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and
leaned over the bed, in order the better to ascertain whether Valentine
slept: it was Madame de Villefort.

On recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress a shudder,
which caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de Villefort instantly
stepped back close to the wall, and there, shaded by the bed-curtains,
she silently and attentively watched the slightest movement of
Valentine. The latter recollected the terrible caution of Monte Cristo;
she fancied that the hand not holding the phial clasped a long sharp
knife. Then collecting all her remaining strength, she forced herself
to close her eyes; but this simple operation upon the most delicate
organs of our frame, generally so easy to accomplish, became almost
impossible at this moment, so much did curiosity struggle to retain the
eyelid open and learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, however,
reassured by the silence, which was alone disturbed by the regular
breathing of Valentine, again extended her hand, and half hidden by the
curtains succeeded in emptying the contents of the phial into the
glass. Then she retired so gently that Valentine did not know she had
left the room. She only witnessed the withdrawal of the arm—the fair
round arm of a woman but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread
death around her.

50077m



It is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by Valentine
during the minute and a half Madame de Villefort remained in the room.

The grating against the library-door aroused the young girl from the
stupor in which she was plunged, and which almost amounted to
insensibility. She raised her head with an effort. The noiseless door
again turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo reappeared.

“Well,” said he, “do you still doubt?”

“Oh,” murmured the young girl.

“Have you seen?”

“Alas!”

“Did you recognize?” Valentine groaned.

“Oh, yes;” she said, “I saw, but I cannot believe!”

“Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian’s death?”

“Oh,” repeated the young girl, almost bewildered, “can I not leave the
house?—can I not escape?”

“Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you
everywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will be
offered to you disguised in every shape. You will find it in the water
you drink from the spring, in the fruit you pluck from the tree.”

“But did you not say that my kind grandfather’s precaution had
neutralized the poison?”

“Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be changed, and
the quantity increased.” He took the glass and raised it to his lips.
“It is already done,” he said; “brucine is no longer employed, but a
simple narcotic! I can recognize the flavor of the alcohol in which it
has been dissolved. If you had taken what Madame de Villefort has
poured into your glass, Valentine—Valentine—you would have been
doomed!”

“But,” exclaimed the young girl, “why am I thus pursued?”

“Why?—are you so kind—so good—so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot
understand, Valentine?”

“No, I have never injured her.”

“But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a year, and you
prevent her son from enjoying these 200,000 livres.”

“How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from my
relations.”

“Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-Méran have died;
that is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he made you his heir;
that is why you, in your turn, are to die—it is because your father
would inherit your property, and your brother, his only son, succeed to
his.”

“Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his account?”

“Ah, then you at length understand?”

“Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!”

“Valentine, you are an angel!”

“But why is my grandfather allowed to live?”

“It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would naturally revert
to your brother, unless he were disinherited; and besides, the crime
appearing useless, it would be folly to commit it.”

“And is it possible that this frightful combination of crimes has been
invented by a woman?”

“Do you recollect in the arbor of the Hôtel des Postes, at Perugia,
seeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother was questioning
upon _aqua tofana_? Well, ever since then, the infernal project has
been ripening in her brain.”

“Ah, then, indeed, sir,” said the sweet girl, bathed in tears, “I see
that I am condemned to die!”

“No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no, your enemy is
conquered since we know her, and you will live, Valentine—live to be
happy yourself, and to confer happiness upon a noble heart; but to
insure this you must rely on me.”

“Command me, sir—what am I to do?”

“You must blindly take what I give you.”

“Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to die!”

“You must not confide in anyone—not even in your father.”

“My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?” asked
Valentine, clasping her hands.

“No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial accusations,
ought to have known that all these deaths have not happened naturally;
it is he who should have watched over you—he should have occupied my
place—he should have emptied that glass—he should have risen against
the assassin. Spectre against spectre!” he murmured in a low voice, as
he concluded his sentence.

“Sir,” said Valentine, “I will do all I can to live, for there are two
beings who love me and will die if I die—my grandfather and
Maximilian.”

“I will watch over them as I have over you.”

“Well, sir, do as you will with me;” and then she added, in a low
voice, “oh, heavens, what will befall me?”

“Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though you suffer;
though you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, fear nothing; though you
should awake and be ignorant where you are, still do not fear; even
though you should find yourself in a sepulchral vault or coffin.
Reassure yourself, then, and say to yourself: ‘At this moment, a
friend, a father, who lives for my happiness and that of Maximilian,
watches over me!’”

“Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!”

“Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother?”

“I would rather die a hundred times—oh, yes, die!”

“No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever happens, that
you will not complain, but hope?”

“I will think of Maximilian!”

“You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you, and I
will.”

Valentine in the extremity of her terror joined her hands,—for she felt
that the moment had arrived to ask for courage,—and began to pray, and
while uttering little more than incoherent words, she forgot that her
white shoulders had no other covering than her long hair, and that the
pulsations of her heart could be seen through the lace of her
nightdress. Monte Cristo gently laid his hand on the young girl’s arm,
drew the velvet coverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal
smile:

“My child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the goodness
of Providence and the love of Maximilian.” Valentine gave him a look
full of gratitude, and remained as docile as a child.

Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald box, raised
the golden lid, and took from it a pastille about the size of a pea,
which he placed in her hand. She took it, and looked attentively on the
count; there was an expression on the face of her intrepid protector
which commanded her veneration. She evidently interrogated him by her
look.

“Yes,” said he.

Valentine carried the pastille to her mouth, and swallowed it.

“And now, my dear child, adieu for the present. I will try and gain a
little sleep, for you are saved.”

“Go,” said Valentine, “whatever happens, I promise you not to fear.”

Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young girl, who
gradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of the narcotic the
count had given her. Then he took the glass, emptied three parts of the
contents in the fireplace, that it might be supposed Valentine had
taken it, and replaced it on the table; then he disappeared, after
throwing a farewell glance on Valentine, who slept with the confidence
and innocence of an angel at the feet of the Lord.



 Chapter 102. Valentine

The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting the
last drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globe
of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening
before it expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate
object have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human
creature in its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over
the bedclothes and curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in
the streets had ceased, and the silence was frightful.

It was then that the door of Edward’s room opened, and a head we have
before noticed appeared in the glass opposite; it was Madame de
Villefort, who came to witness the effects of the drink she had
prepared. She stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to the
flickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted room, and then
advanced to the table to see if Valentine’s glass were empty. It was
still about a quarter full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort
emptied the contents into the ashes, which she disturbed that they
might the more readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the
glass, and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.

If anyone could have looked into the room just then he would have
noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the
bed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound
silence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more
by her own conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the
poisoner was terrified at the contemplation of her own work.

At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the
pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed,
no breath issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no
longer quivered—the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the
long black lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort
gazed upon the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she
ventured to raise the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl’s
heart. It was cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her
own fingers, and withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging
out of the bed; from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of
Germain Pillon’s “Graces,”23 but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly
distorted by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was
resting with stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed.
The nails, too, were turning blue.

Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over—she had
consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no
more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though
fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she
still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction
always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely
mysterious and does not excite disgust.

The minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain
which she held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was
lost in reverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse.

Just then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de
Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately
afterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful
obscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half-past four.

Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way
to the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear. The darkness
lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept through the
Venetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in the room.

About this time the nurse’s cough was heard on the stairs and the woman
entered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a father
or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine’s
condition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep.

“Good,” she exclaimed, approaching the table, “she has taken part of
her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty.”

Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she had
just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by
Valentine’s sleep, so she threw herself into an armchair to snatch a
little more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the
prolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm
was still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and
for the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the
arm, but it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a
sick-nurse. She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed:

“Help, help!”

50083m



“What is the matter?” asked M. d’Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it
being the hour he usually visited her.

“What is it?” asked Villefort, rushing from his room. “Doctor, do you
hear them call for help?”

“Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine’s room.”

But before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants
who were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and
motionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and
stood transfixed, as though struck by lightening.

“Call Madame de Villefort!—Wake Madame de Villefort!” cried the
procureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he scarcely
dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watching
M. d’Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms.

“What?—this one, too?” he exclaimed. “Oh, where will be the end?”

Villefort rushed into the room.

“What are you saying, doctor?” he exclaimed, raising his hands to
heaven.

“I say that Valentine is dead!” replied d’Avrigny, in a voice terrible
in its solemn calmness.

50085m



M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the
exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all
fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the
stairs and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the
court, afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the
accursed house.

Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on her
dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood
motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while
she endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she
stepped, or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table.
She saw d’Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain
of having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it
was when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of
Valentine rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It
was, indeed, the same color as the draught she had poured into the
glass, and which Valentine had drunk; it was indeed the poison, which
could not deceive M. d’Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it
was doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her
precautions, there should be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal
the crime.

While Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of
terror, and Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw
nothing around him, d’Avrigny approached the window, that he might the
better examine the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his
finger in, tasted it.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see
what it is!”

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine’s room, which had been
transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a
small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,
which immediately changed to a blood-red color.

“Ah,” exclaimed d’Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge
unveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student making a
discovery.

Madame de Villefort was overpowered; her eyes first flashed and then
swam, she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly
afterwards the distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground
was heard, but no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged
in watching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in
grief. M. d’Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his
eyes, and watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over
the entrance to Edward’s room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de
Villefort’s apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor.

“Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort,” he said to the nurse.
“Madame de Villefort is ill.”

50087m



“But Mademoiselle de Villefort——” stammered the nurse.

“Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help,” said d’Avrigny,
“since she is dead.”

“Dead,—dead!” groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which
was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron
heart of that man.

“Dead!” repeated a third voice. “Who said Valentine was dead?”

The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and
terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel
had presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier’s room.
Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring
he entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant
to conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants
having, as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason
for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should
live, and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the
count had given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by
Noirtier. Still this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and
he called a second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined
to go up. Noirtier’s room was opened, like all the rest. The first
thing he saw was the old man sitting in his armchair in his usual
place, but his eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor
which overspread his features.

“How are you, sir?” asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.

“Well,” answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance
manifested increasing uneasiness.

“You are thoughtful, sir,” continued Morrel; “you want something; shall
I call one of the servants?”

“Yes,” replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one
answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed
on his countenance momentarily increased.

“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, “why do they not come? Is anyone ill in the
house?” The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from
their sockets. “What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine?
Valentine?”

“Yes, yes,” signed Noirtier.

Maximilian tried to speak, but he could articulate nothing; he
staggered, and supported himself against the wainscot. Then he pointed
to the door.

“Yes, yes, yes!” continued the old man.

50089m



Maximilian rushed up the little staircase, while Noirtier’s eyes seemed
to say,—“Quicker, quicker!”

In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length
he reached Valentine’s.

There was no occasion to push the door, it was wide open. A sob was the
only sound he heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure
kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible
fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim “Valentine is
dead!” and another voice which, like an echo repeated:

“Dead,—dead!”

50090m




 Chapter 103. Maximilian

Villefort rose, half-ashamed of being surprised in such a paroxysm of
grief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five years had
succeeded in making him more or less than man. His glance, at first
wandering, fixed itself upon Morrel. “Who are you, sir,” he asked,
“that forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with
death? Go, sir, go!”

But Morrel remained motionless; he could not detach his eyes from that
disordered bed, and the pale corpse of the young girl who was lying on
it.

“Go!—do you hear?” said Villefort, while d’Avrigny advanced to lead
Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the corpse, gazed all
around the room, then upon the two men; he opened his mouth to speak,
but finding it impossible to give utterance to the innumerable ideas
that occupied his brain, he went out, thrusting his hands through his
hair in such a manner that Villefort and d’Avrigny, for a moment
diverted from the engrossing topic, exchanged glances, which seemed to
say,—“He is mad!”

But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman
strength, the armchair containing Noirtier upstairs. When he reached
the landing he placed the armchair on the floor and rapidly rolled it
into Valentine’s room. This could only have been accomplished by means
of unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement. But the most
fearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed towards the bed, his face
expressing all his meaning, and his eyes supplying the want of every
other faculty. That pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort
like a frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact
with his father, something terrible had happened.

“See what they have done!” cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the
back of the chair, and the other extended towards Valentine. “See, my
father, see!”

Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who,
almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment
the whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his eyes which became
bloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples
became purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was
wanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued
from his pores, if we may thus speak—a cry frightful in its silence.
D’Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful
restorative.

“Sir,” cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, “they ask
me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell
them, tell them!” And the young man’s voice was choked by sobs.

As for the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One
could have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death.
At length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping,
tears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier.

“Tell them,” said Morrel in a hoarse voice, “tell them that I am her
betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble girl, my only
blessing in the world. Tell them—oh, tell them, that corpse belongs to
me!”

The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell heavily on
his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive
energy. D’Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion,
turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation,
and attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us
towards those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his
hand towards the young man.

But Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and
unable to weep vented his agony in groans as he bit the sheets. For
some time nothing was heard in that chamber but sobs, exclamations, and
prayers. At length Villefort, the most composed of all, spoke:

“Sir,” said he to Maximilian, “you say you loved Valentine, that you
were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of this love,
yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that your grief is real and
deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for anger to find a place
in my heart. But you see that the angel whom you hoped for has left
this earth—she has nothing more to do with the adoration of men. Take a
last farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take the hand you expected to
possess once more within your own, and then separate yourself from her
forever. Valentine now requires only the ministrations of the priest.”

50093m



“You are mistaken, sir,” exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on one knee,
his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had yet felt—“you
are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only requires a priest,
but an avenger. _You_, M. de Villefort, send for the priest; _I_ will
be the avenger.”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Villefort, trembling at the new idea
inspired by the delirium of Morrel.

“I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned
sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office.”

The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d’Avrigny approached.

“Gentlemen,” said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of
the witnesses to the scene, “I know what I am saying, and you know as
well as I do what I am about to say—Valentine has been assassinated!”

Villefort hung his head, d’Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said
“Yes” with his eyes.

“Now, sir,” continued Morrel, “in these days no one can disappear by
violent means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her
disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable
creature like Valentine. Now, M. le Procureur du Roi,” said Morrel with
increasing vehemence, “no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is
your place to seek the assassin.”

The young man’s implacable eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his
side, glanced from Noirtier to d’Avrigny. But instead of finding
sympathy in the eyes of the doctor and his father, he only saw an
expression as inflexible as that of Maximilian.

“Yes,” indicated the old man.

“Assuredly,” said d’Avrigny.

“Sir,” said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple force
and his own emotion,—“sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes
here. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no one
assassinates.”

The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d’Avrigny prepared to
speak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and commanded silence.

“And I say that murders _are_ committed here,” said Morrel, whose
voice, though lower in tone, lost none of its terrible distinctness: “I
tell you that this is the fourth victim within the last four months. I
tell you, Valentine’s life was attempted by poison four days ago,
though she escaped, owing to the precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you
that the dose has been double, the poison changed, and that this time
it has succeeded. I tell you that you know these things as well as I
do, since this gentleman has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a
friend.”

“Oh, you rave, sir,” exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape
the net in which he was taken.

50095m



“I rave?” said Morrel; “well, then, I appeal to M. d’Avrigny himself.
Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of
this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You thought
yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the
fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of
Valentine.” Villefort and d’Avrigny exchanged looks.

“Yes, yes,” continued Morrel; “recall the scene, for the words you
thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears.
Certainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M. de
Villefort towards his own relations, I ought to have denounced him to
the authorities; then I should not have been an accomplice to thy
death, as I now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall
become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent to all, and if thy
father abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that shall
pursue the assassin.”

And this time, as though nature had at least taken compassion on the
vigorous frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of
Morrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so
long rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on
his knees by the side of the bed.

Then d’Avrigny spoke. “And I, too,” he exclaimed in a low voice, “I
unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood boils at
the idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly concession.”

“Oh, merciful Heavens!” murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and
reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with unnatural lustre,—

“Stay,” he said, “M. Noirtier wishes to speak.”

“Yes,” indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible, from
all his faculties being centred in his glance.

“Do you know the assassin?” asked Morrel.

“Yes,” replied Noirtier.

“And will you direct us?” exclaimed the young man. “Listen, M.
d’Avrigny, listen!”

Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those melancholy smiles which
had so often made Valentine happy, and thus fixed his attention. Then,
having riveted the eyes of his interlocutor on his own, he glanced
towards the door.

“Do you wish me to leave?” said Morrel, sadly.

“Yes,” replied Noirtier.

“Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!”

The old man’s eyes remained fixed on the door.

“May I, at least, return?” asked Morrel.

“Yes.”

“Must I leave alone?”

“No.”

“Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?”

“No.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes.”

“You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?”

“Yes.”

“But can he understand you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the
inquiries were to be made by him alone,—“oh, be satisfied, I can
understand my father.” While uttering these words with this expression
of joy, his teeth clashed together violently.

D’Avrigny took the young man’s arm, and led him out of the room. A more
than deathlike silence then reigned in the house. At the end of a
quarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort
appeared at the door of the apartment where d’Avrigny and Morrel had
been staying, one absorbed in meditation, the other in grief.

“You can come,” he said, and led them back to Noirtier.

Morrel looked attentively on Villefort. His face was livid, large drops
rolled down his face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a
quill pen which he had torn to atoms.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a hoarse voice, “give me your word of honor
that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst
ourselves!” The two men drew back.

“I entreat you——” continued Villefort.

“But,” said Morrel, “the culprit—the murderer—the assassin.”

“Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done,” said Villefort. “My
father has revealed the culprit’s name; my father thirsts for revenge
as much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this
secret. Do you not, father?”

“Yes,” resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an exclamation of
horror and surprise to escape him.

“Oh, sir,” said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm, “if my
father, the inflexible man, makes this request, it is because he knows,
be assured, that Valentine will be terribly revenged. Is it not so,
father?”

The old man made a sign in the affirmative. Villefort continued:

“He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him. Rest assured,
gentlemen, that within three days, in a less time than justice would
demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder of my child will
be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;” and as he spoke these
words he ground his teeth, and grasped the old man’s senseless hand.

“Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?” asked Morrel, while
d’Avrigny looked inquiringly.

“Yes,” replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.

“Swear, then,” said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and
d’Avrigny, “swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave
me to avenge my child.”

D’Avrigny turned round and uttered a very feeble “Yes,” but Morrel,
disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after having pressed the
cold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly left, uttering a long,
deep groan of despair and anguish.

We have before stated that all the servants had fled. M. de Villefort
was therefore obliged to request M. d’Avrigny to superintend all the
arrangements consequent upon a death in a large city, more especially a
death under such suspicious circumstances.

It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair
of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks. Villefort
retired to his study, and d’Avrigny left to summon the doctor of the
mayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after decease, and who
is expressly named “the doctor of the dead.” M. Noirtier could not be
persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of an hour M.
d’Avrigny returned with his associate; they found the outer gate
closed, and not a servant remaining in the house; Villefort himself was
obliged to open to them. But he stopped on the landing; he had not the
courage to again visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore,
entered the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless,
and silent as the corpse. The district doctor approached with the
indifference of a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the
dead; he then lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just
unclosed the lips.

“Alas,” said d’Avrigny, “she is indeed dead, poor child!”

50099m



“Yes,” answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he had
raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the old
man’s eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he wished to
behold his child. He therefore approached the bed, and while his
companion was dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of
the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face,
which looked like that of a sleeping angel.

A tear, which appeared in the old man’s eye, expressed his thanks to
the doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner
of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out by
d’Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study; having in a few
words thanked the district doctor, he turned to d’Avrigny, and said:

“And now the priest.”

“Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?” asked
d’Avrigny.

“No.” said Villefort; “fetch the nearest.”

“The nearest,” said the district doctor, “is a good Italian abbé, who
lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass?”

“D’Avrigny,” said Villefort, “be so kind, I beseech you, as to
accompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you can
go in and out as you please; you will bring the priest with you, and
will oblige me by introducing him into my child’s room.”

50101m



“Do you wish to see him?”

“I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not? A priest
can understand a father’s grief.”

And M. de Villefort, giving the key to d’Avrigny, again bade farewell
to the strange doctor, and retired to his study, where he began to
work. For some temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions.

As the doctors entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing
on the threshold of the next door.

“This is the abbé of whom I spoke,” said the doctor to d’Avrigny.
D’Avrigny accosted the priest.

“Sir,” he said, “are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an
unhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de Villefort,
the king’s attorney.”

“Ah,” said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; “yes, I have heard
that death is in that house.”

“Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of you.”

“I was about to offer myself, sir,” said the priest; “it is our mission
to forestall our duties.”

“It is a young girl.”

“I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me. I
also know that her name is Valentine, and I have already prayed for
her.”

“Thank you, sir,” said d’Avrigny; “since you have commenced your sacred
office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead, and all the
wretched family will be grateful to you.”

“I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be
more fervent than mine.”

D’Avrigny took the priest’s hand, and without meeting Villefort, who
was engaged in his study, they reached Valentine’s room, which on the
following night was to be occupied by the undertakers. On entering the
room, Noirtier’s eyes met those of the abbé, and no doubt he read some
particular expression in them, for he remained in the room. D’Avrigny
recommended the attention of the priest to the living as well as to the
dead, and the abbé promised to devote his prayers to Valentine and his
attentions to Noirtier.

In order, doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling
his sacred mission, the priest rose as soon as d’Avrigny departed, and
not only bolted the door through which the doctor had just left, but
also that leading to Madame de Villefort’s room.



 Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature

The next morning dawned dull and cloudy. During the night the
undertakers had executed their melancholy office, and wrapped the
corpse in the winding-sheet, which, whatever may be said about the
equality of death, is at least a last proof of the luxury so pleasing
in life. This winding-sheet was nothing more than a beautiful piece of
cambric, which the young girl had bought a fortnight before.

During the evening two men, engaged for the purpose, had carried
Noirtier from Valentine’s room into his own, and contrary to all
expectation there was no difficulty in withdrawing him from his child.
The Abbé Busoni had watched till daylight, and then left without
calling anyone. D’Avrigny returned about eight o’clock in the morning;
he met Villefort on his way to Noirtier’s room, and accompanied him to
see how the old man had slept. They found him in the large armchair,
which served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, nay, almost a smiling
sleep. They both stood in amazement at the door.

“See,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “nature knows how to alleviate the
deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child,
and yet he sleeps.”

“Yes, you are right,” replied Villefort, surprised; “he sleeps, indeed!
And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him
awake all night.”

“Grief has stunned him,” replied d’Avrigny; and they both returned
thoughtfully to the procureur’s study.

“See, I have not slept,” said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed;
“grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but
then look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and
nights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation
against the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work,—my passion, my joy, my
delight,—it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!” and he convulsively
grasped the hand of d’Avrigny.

“Do you require my services now?” asked d’Avrigny.

“No,” said Villefort; “only return again at eleven o’clock; at twelve
the—the—oh, Heavens, my poor, poor child!” and the procureur again
becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.

“Shall you be present in the reception-room?”

“No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work,
doctor—when I work I forget everything.”

And, indeed, no sooner had the doctor left the room, than he was again
absorbed in work. On the doorsteps d’Avrigny met the cousin whom
Villefort had mentioned, a personage as insignificant in our story as
in the world he occupied—one of those beings designed from their birth
to make themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in black,
with crape around his hat, and presented himself at his cousin’s with a
face made up for the occasion, and which he could alter as might be
required.

At eleven o’clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and
the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré was filled with a crowd of idlers,
equally pleased to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich,
and who rush with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the
marriage of a duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends made
their appearance—we mean Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp,
accompanied by all the leading men of the day at the bar, in
literature, or the army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first
Parisian circles, less owing to his social position than to his
personal merit.

The cousin standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was
rather a relief to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as
themselves, and who did not exact a mournful face or force tears, as
would have been the case with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those
who were acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of them was
made of Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

“Poor girl,” said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute
to the sad event,—“poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could
you have imagined this scene, Château-Renaud, when we saw her, at the
most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?”

“Indeed, no,” said Château-Renaud.”

“Did you know her?”

“I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf’s, among the rest;
she appeared to me charming, though rather melancholy. Where is her
stepmother? Do you know?”

“She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who is
receiving us.”

50105m



“Who is he?”

“Whom do you mean?”

“The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy?”

“Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every day,” said
Beauchamp; “but he is perfectly unknown to me.”

“Have you mentioned this death in your paper?”

“It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed, I doubt if
it will please M. Villefort, for it says that if four successive deaths
had happened anywhere else than in the house of the king’s attorney, he
would have interested himself somewhat more about it.”

“Still,” said Château-Renaud, “Dr. d’Avrigny, who attends my mother,
declares he is in despair about it. But whom are you seeking, Debray?”

“I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo” said the young man.

“I met him on the boulevard, on my way here,” said Beauchamp. “I think
he is about to leave Paris; he was going to his banker.”

“His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?” asked Château-Renaud
of Debray.

“I believe so,” replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. “But
Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel.”

“Morrel? Do they know him?” asked Château-Renaud. “I think he has only
been introduced to Madame de Villefort.”

“Still, he ought to have been here,” said Debray; “I wonder what will
be talked about tonight; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush,
here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some
little speech to the cousin,” and the three young men drew near to
listen.

Beauchamp told the truth when he said that on his way to the funeral he
had met Monte Cristo, who was directing his steps towards the Rue de la
Chaussée d’Antin, to M. Danglars’. The banker saw the carriage of the
count enter the courtyard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though
affable smile.

“Well,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, “I suppose you
have come to sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken
possession of my house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself
whether I had not wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would
have justified the proverb of ‘He who wishes misfortunes to happen to
others experiences them himself.’ Well, on my word of honor, I
answered, ‘No!’ I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud,
perhaps, for a man who like myself has risen from nothing; but we all
have our faults. Do you know, count, that persons of our time of
life—not that you belong to the class, you are still a young man,—but
as I was saying, persons of our time of life have been very unfortunate
this year. For example, look at the puritanical procureur, who has just
lost his daughter, and in fact nearly all his family, in so singular a
manner; Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with
ridicule through the villany of Benedetto; besides——”

“Besides what?” asked the Count.

“Alas, do you not know?”

“What new calamity?”

“My daughter——”

“Mademoiselle Danglars?”

“Eugénie has left us!”

“Good heavens, what are you telling me?”

“The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having
either wife or children!”

“Do you think so?”

“Indeed I do.”

“And so Mademoiselle Danglars——”

“She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she
asked permission to travel.”

“And is she gone?”

“The other night she left.”

“With Madame Danglars?”

“No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugénie;
for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.”

“Still, baron,” said Monte Cristo, “family griefs, or indeed any other
affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure,
are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and
practical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates
many trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you
ought to be very easily consoled—you, the king of finance, the focus of
immeasurable power.”

Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke
seriously.

“Yes,” he answered, “if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be
consoled; I am rich.”

“So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you
wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you
would not dare!”

Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count. “That
reminds me,” he said, “that when you entered I was on the point of
signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me
to do the same to the others?”

“Pray do so.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which the noise of the banker’s
pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on
the ceiling.

“Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo.

“No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France,
payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may be called the
emperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces
of paper of this size, each worth a million?”

The count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly
presented to him, and read:—

“‘To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund
deposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my
account.

“Baron Danglars.’”

“One, two, three, four, five,” said Monte Cristo; “five millions—why
what a Crœsus you are!”

“This is how I transact business,” said Danglars.

“It is really wonderful,” said the count; “above all, if, as I suppose,
it is payable at sight.”

“It is, indeed, said Danglars.

“It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France
these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper!—it
must be seen to be believed.”

“You do not doubt it?”

“No!”

“You say so with an accent—stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk
to the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the
Treasury for the same sum.”

“No,” said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, “most decidedly not;
the thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am
credited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand
francs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand
francs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds,
with your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six
millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in
want of money today.”

And Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while
with the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt
had fallen at the banker’s feet, he could not have experienced greater
terror.

“What,” he stammered, “do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me,
excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund,—a deposit which I
promised to pay this morning.”

“Oh, well, then,” said Monte Cristo, “I am not particular about these
five notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to
take these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or
preparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a
minute’s delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds;
pay me differently;” and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized
them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is
being wrested from its grasp.

Suddenly he rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and
then a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed
countenance.

50109m



“Certainly,” he said, “your receipt is money.”

“Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French
would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than
you have just done.”

“Pardon me, count, pardon me.”

“Then I may keep this money?”

“Yes,” said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of
his hair. “Yes, keep it—keep it.”

Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable
expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is
still time.”

“No,” said Danglars, “no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you
know none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended
this money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I
did not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd—as if one crown
were not as good as another. Excuse me;” and he began to laugh loudly,
but nervously.

“Certainly, I excuse you,” said Monte Cristo graciously, “and pocket
them.” And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book.

“But,” said Danglars, “there is still a sum of one hundred thousand
francs?”

“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Monte Cristo. “The balance would come to
about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits.”

“Count,” said Danglars, “are you speaking seriously?”

“I never joke with bankers,” said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner,
which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the
valet de chambre announced:

“M. de Boville, Receiver-General of the charities.”

“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo; “I think I arrived just in time to
obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me.”

Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out.
Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was
standing in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars’
room as soon as the count had left.

The count’s serious face was illumined by a faint smile, as he noticed
the portfolio which the receiver-general held in his hand. At the door
he found his carriage, and was immediately driven to the bank.
Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the
receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension was
stamped upon his lips.

“Good-morning, creditor,” said he; “for I wager anything it is the
creditor who visits me.”

“You are right, baron,” answered M. de Boville; “the charities present
themselves to you through me; the widows and orphans depute me to
receive alms to the amount of five millions from you.”

“And yet they say orphans are to be pitied,” said Danglars, wishing to
prolong the jest. “Poor things!”

“Here I am in their name,” said M. de Boville; “but did you receive my
letter yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I have brought my receipt.”

50111m



“My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by
waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw
leaving here—you did see him, I think?”

“Yes; well?”

“Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions.”

“How so?”

“The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson
& French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I
paid him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you
can understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will
appear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different
thing,” said Danglars, smiling.

“Come,” said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity, “five millions
to that gentleman who just left, and who bowed to me as though he knew
me?”

“Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo
knows everybody.”

“Five millions!”

“Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes.” M. de Boville took the
paper Danglars presented him, and read:

“Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred
thousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson &
French of Rome.”

“It is really true,” said M. de Boville.

“Do you know the house of Thomson & French?”

“Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000
francs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned.”

“It is one of the best houses in Europe,” said Danglars, carelessly
throwing down the receipt on his desk.

“And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte
Cristo must be a nabob?”

“Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits—one on
me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see,” he added
carelessly, “he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of
100,000 francs.”

M. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration.

“I must visit him,” he said, “and obtain some pious grant from him.”

“Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000
francs a month.”

“It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de
Morcerf and her son.”

“What example?”

“They gave all their fortune to the hospitals.”

“What fortune?”

“Their own—M. de Morcerf’s, who is deceased.”

“For what reason?”

“Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired.”

“And what are they to live upon?”

“The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army.”

50113m



“Well, I must confess, these are scruples.”

“I registered their deed of gift yesterday.”

“And how much did they possess?”

“Oh, not much—from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to
return to our millions.”

“Certainly,” said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world. “Are
you then pressed for this money?”

“Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a
century! At what hour does the examination take place?”

“At two o’clock.”

“Send at twelve,” said Danglars, smiling.

M. de Boville said nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the
portfolio.

“Now I think of it, you can do better,” said Danglars.

“How do you mean?”

“The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to
Rothschild’s or Lafitte’s, and they will take it off your hands at
once.”

“What, though payable at Rome?”

“Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs.”

The receiver started back.

“_Ma foi!_” he said, “I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a
proposition!”

“I thought, perhaps,” said Danglars with supreme impertinence, “that
you had a deficiency to make up?”

“Indeed,” said the receiver.

“And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some
sacrifice.”

“Thank you, no, sir.”

“Then it will be tomorrow.”

“Yes; but without fail.”

“Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank
shall be notified.”

“I will come myself.”

“Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.”
They shook hands.

“By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of
poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?”

“No,” said the banker; “I have appeared rather ridiculous since that
affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background.”

“Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?”

“Listen—when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather
sensitive.”

“Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!”

“Poor Eugénie!” said Danglars; “do you know she is going to embrace a
religious life?”

“No.”

“Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she
decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone
to seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain.”

“Oh, it is terrible!” and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation,
after expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely
left before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone
understand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Frédérick,24
exclaimed:

“Fool!”

Then enclosing Monte Cristo’s receipt in a little pocket-book, he
added:—“Yes, come at twelve o’clock; I shall then be far away.”

Then he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers, collected
about fifty thousand francs in bank-notes, burned several papers, left
others exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which he
addressed:

“To Madame la Baronne Danglars.”

“I will place it on her table myself tonight,” he murmured. Then taking
a passport from his drawer he said,—“Good, it is available for two
months longer.”



 Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise

M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking
Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a
cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the
trees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards.
M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of
Père-Lachaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a
Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be
surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault,
which was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of
the monument was inscribed: “The families of Saint-Méran and
Villefort,” for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renée,
Valentine’s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way
towards Père-Lachaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Having crossed
Paris, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the
exterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private
carriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more
than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.

50117m



These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine’s death had
struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness
of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the
memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the
flower of her youth.

As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was
seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the
carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Château-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting from his _coupé_, joined him;
Beauchamp did the same.

The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was
evidently watching for someone, but his search ended in disappointment.

50119m



“Where is Morrel?” he asked; “do either of these gentlemen know where
he is?”

“We have already asked that question,” said Château-Renaud, “for none
of us has seen him.”

The count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they
arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced
through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all
anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo
recognized him whom he sought.

One funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent
metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white
avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise
made by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments;
then follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then
with a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass
of flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of
Abélard and Héloïse, placed itself close to the heads of the horses
belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker’s men, arrived
with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person’s attention
was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one
else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object
of his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the
procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his
coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively
crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated
on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral
details could escape his observation.

Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least
impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring
this premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father,
and one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had
solicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice
was ready to fall—until at length they exhausted their stores of
metaphor and mournful speeches, elaborate variations on the stanzas of
Malherbe to Du Périer.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose
calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in
his heart.

“See,” said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. “What is he doing
up there?” And they called Château-Renaud’s attention to him.

“How pale he is!” said Château-Renaud, shuddering.

“He is cold,” said Debray.

“Not at all,” said Château-Renaud, slowly; “I think he is violently
agitated. He is very susceptible.”

“Bah,” said Debray; “he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you
said so yourself.”

“True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de
Morcerf’s. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such
an effect?”

50121m



“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or
to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel,
who was holding his breath with emotion.

“The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,” said the count,
unceremoniously.

And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went.

The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud
looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the
departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and
Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the
arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by
spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it
reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet
nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with
outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to
pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till
it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he
murmured:

“Oh, Valentine!”

The count’s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he
stepped forward, and touching the young man’s shoulder, said:

“I was looking for you, my friend.” Monte Cristo expected a burst of
passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly,—

“You see I was praying.” The scrutinizing glance of the count searched
the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.

“Shall I drive you back to Paris?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you wish anything?”

“Leave me to pray.”

The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself
in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at
length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards
Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la
Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a
hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue
Meslay by the boulevards.

Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel’s entrance, it
was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the
garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with
zeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some
Bengal roses. “Ah, count,” she exclaimed, with the delight manifested
by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.

“Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?” asked the count.

50123m



“Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel.”

“Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian’s room this
instant,” replied Monte Cristo, “I have something of the greatest
importance to tell him.”

“Go, then,” she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until
he had disappeared.

Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground floor
to Maximilian’s room; when he reached the landing he listened
attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a
single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was
locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was
passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass.
The count’s anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom
appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.

“What shall I do!” he uttered, and reflected for a moment; “shall I
ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but
accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian’s situation, and then
the bell would be followed by a louder noise.”

Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had
been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes
of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then
withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his
desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.

“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the count, “there is nothing the
matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my
elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your
room; do not disturb yourself—do not disturb yourself!”

And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the
door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less
with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.

“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, “it’s all your
servant’s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on
glass.”

“Are you hurt, sir?” coldly asked Morrel.

“I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing.”

“I?”

“Your fingers are stained with ink.”

“Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am.”

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him
pass, but he followed him.

“You were writing?” said Monte Cristo with a searching look.

“I have already had the honor of telling you I was,” said Morrel.

The count looked around him.

“Your pistols are beside your desk,” said Monte Cristo, pointing with
his finger to the pistols on the table.

“I am on the point of starting on a journey,” replied Morrel
disdainfully.

“My friend,” exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.

“Sir?”

“My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I
entreat you.”

“I make a hasty resolution?” said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; “is
there anything extraordinary in a journey?”

50125m



“Maximilian,” said the count, “let us both lay aside the mask we have
assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose
upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not,
that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have
intruded on the solitude of a friend—you can understand that, to have
done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather
by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!”

“Indeed, count,” said Morrel, shuddering; “what has put this into your
head?”

“I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,” continued the
count, “and here is proof of what I say;” and, approaching the desk, he
removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he
had begun, and took the latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving
his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp.

“You wish to destroy yourself,” said the count; “you have written it.”

“Well,” said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of
violence—“well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself,
who shall prevent me—who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are
blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is
sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices
distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my
reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of
heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my
putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have
the courage to do so?”

“Yes, Morrel,” said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted
strangely with the young man’s excitement; “yes, I would do so.”

“You?” exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach—“you, who
have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with
vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen
her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the
hidden sources of knowledge,—and who enact the part of a guardian angel
upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison
administered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with
pity, were you not hateful in my eyes.”

“Morrel——”

“Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be
satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you—my
heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But
since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture
after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo
my pretended benefactor—then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal
guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;”
and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

“And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide.”

“Prevent me, then!” replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like
the first, failed in releasing him from the count’s iron grasp.

“I will prevent you.”

50127m



“And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right
over free and rational beings?”

“Who am I?” repeated Monte Cristo. “Listen; I am the only man in the
world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall
not die today;’” and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and
sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who,
involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a
step.

“Why do you mention my father?” stammered he; “why do you mingle a
recollection of him with the affairs of today?”

“Because I am he who saved your father’s life when he wished to destroy
himself, as you do today—because I am the man who sent the purse to
your young sister, and the _Pharaon_ to old Morrel—because I am the
Edmond Dantès who nursed you, a child, on my knees.”

Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then
all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte
Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden
revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs,
exclaiming energetically, “Julie, Julie—Emmanuel, Emmanuel!”

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died
rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed
upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in
alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands,
and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs:

“On your knees—on your knees—he is our benefactor—the saviour of our
father! He is——”

He would have added “Edmond Dantès,” but the count seized his arm and
prevented him.

Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him
as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the
ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart
swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the
room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful
hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep
emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor,
ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal
globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allées de
Meilhan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count:

“Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown
benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his
memory,—how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to
us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and—dare I say it?—to you also.”

“Listen, my friends,” said the count—“I may call you so since we have
really been friends for the last eleven years—the discovery of this
secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know.
I wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your
brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now,
I am sure.”

Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had
thrown himself into an armchair, he added in a low voice, pressing
Emmanuel’s hand significantly, “Watch over him.”

“Why so?” asked the young man, surprised.

“I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.” Emmanuel looked around
the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the
weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel
went towards the pistols.

“Leave them,” said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took
his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a
profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands,
while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.

“Here is the relic,” she said; “do not think it will be less dear to us
now we are acquainted with our benefactor!”

“My child,” said Monte Cristo, coloring, “allow me to take back that
purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone
through the affection I hope you will grant me.

“Oh,” said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, “no, no, I beseech
you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you
not?”

“You have guessed rightly, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling; “in
a week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit
the vengeance of Heaven lived happily, while my father perished of
hunger and grief.”

While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and
remarked that the words, “I shall have left this country,” had failed
to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another
struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of
Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the
mild authority of a father:

“My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian.”

Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which
Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door. “Let us
leave them,” she said.

The count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.

“Come,” said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger, “are
you a man again, Maximilian?”

“Yes; for I begin to suffer again.”

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.

“Maximilian, Maximilian,” he said, “the ideas you yield to are unworthy
of a Christian.”

“Oh, do not fear, my friend,” said Morrel, raising his head, and
smiling with a sweet expression on the count; “I shall no longer
attempt my life.”

“Then we are to have no more pistols—no more despair?”

“No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or
a knife.”

“Poor fellow, what is it?”

“My grief will kill me of itself.”

“My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal
to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours,
since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one
day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If
anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to
his head—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the
food I had not tasted for three days—if anyone had said to either of us
then, ‘Live—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless
life!’—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with
the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,—and yet how many
times has your father blessed life while embracing you—how often have I
myself——”

“Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your
liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost
Valentine.”

“Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes
made him so eloquent and persuasive—“look at me. There are no tears in
my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer—you,
Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you
that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to
beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the
conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your
life.”

“Oh, heavens,” said the young man, “oh, heavens—what are you saying,
count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!”

“Child!” replied the count.

“I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I
attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for
none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the appellation of
love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved
her, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all
the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would
have been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too
divine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without
Valentine the earth is desolate.”

“I have told you to hope,” said the count.

“Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you
succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again
behold Valentine.”

The count smiled.

“My friend, my father,” said Morrel with excitement, “have a care, I
again repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your
words before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and
my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in
supernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth
the dead or walk upon the water.”

“Hope, my friend,” repeated the count.

“Ah,” said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss
of despair—“ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather
selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because
their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do
not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it
so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my
friend, adieu!”

“On the contrary,” said the count, “after this time you must live with
me—you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France
behind us.”

“And you still bid me hope?”

“I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you.”

“Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think
the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you
would cure it by an ordinary remedy—change of scene.” And Morrel
dropped his head with disdainful incredulity.

“What can I say more?” asked Monte Cristo. “I have confidence in the
remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its
efficacy.”

“Count, you prolong my agony.”

“Then,” said the count, “your feeble spirit will not even grant me the
trial I request? Come—do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is
capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his
control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the
miracle I hope to accomplish, or——”

“Or?” repeated Morrel.

“Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful.”

“Have pity on me, count!”

“I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that—listen to me
attentively—if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very
hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you,
and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison—a poison more sure and prompt
than that which has killed Valentine.”

“Will you promise me?”

“Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also
contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have
longed for the delights of an eternal sleep.”

“But you are sure you will promise me this?” said Morrel, intoxicated.

“I not only promise, but swear it!” said Monte Cristo extending his
hand.

“In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let me
take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not
call me ungrateful?”

“In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date is a sacred one,
Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of
September; it is ten years today since I saved your father’s life, who
wished to die.”

Morrel seized the count’s hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to
pay the homage he felt due to him.

“In a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then
sitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand,
you must promise me not to attempt your life before that time.”

“Oh, I also swear it!”

Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some
time to his heart. “And now,” he said, “after today, you will come and
live with me; you can occupy Haydée’s apartment, and my daughter will
at least be replaced by my son.”

“Haydée?” said Morrel, “what has become of her?”

“She departed last night.”

“To leave you?”

“To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the
Champs-Élysées, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my
departure.”

Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence.



 Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds

The apartment on the first floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home for
his mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man whose
face the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter his chin
was buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen’s
coachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always
blowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to custom,
this gentleman had not been watched, for as the report ran that he was
a person of high rank, and one who would allow no impertinent
interference, his _incognito_ was strictly respected.

His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared a
little before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and
winter, he took possession of his apartment about four o’clock, though
he never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the
fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence
of the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the
table at the same hour. At four o’clock, as we have already stated, the
mysterious personage arrived.

Twenty minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady
alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly veiled; she
passed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran upstairs without a
sound escaping under the touch of her light foot. No one ever asked her
where she was going. Her face, therefore, like that of the gentleman,
was perfectly unknown to the two concierges, who were perhaps
unequalled throughout the capital for discretion. We need not say she
stopped at the first floor. Then she tapped in a peculiar manner at a
door, which after being opened to admit her was again fastened, and
curiosity penetrated no farther. They used the same precautions in
leaving as in entering the house. The lady always left first, and as
soon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away, sometimes
towards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about twenty
minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his cravat
or concealed by his handkerchief.

The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious
lodger entered at ten o’clock in the morning instead of four in the
afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of
time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily upstairs. The door
opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed:

“Oh, Lucien—oh, my friend!”

The concierge therefore heard for the first time that the lodger’s name
was Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he
made up his mind not to tell his wife.

“Well, what is the matter, my dear?” asked the gentleman whose name the
lady’s agitation revealed; “tell me what is the matter.”

“Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?”

“Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter? Your
note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This
precipitation—this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or
else frighten me at once.”

“Lucien, a great event has happened!” said the lady, glancing
inquiringly at Lucien,—“M. Danglars left last night!”

“Left?—M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?”

“I do not know.”

“What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?”

“Undoubtedly;—at ten o’clock at night his horses took him to the
barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him—he
entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to
Fontainebleau.”

“Then what did you mean——”

“Stay—he left a letter for me.”

“A letter?”

“Yes; read it.”

And the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she gave to
Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying to guess
its contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act, whatever
it might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few minutes,
for he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness in the
heart of the baroness, and which ran as follows:

“‘Madame and most faithful wife.’”

Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face
became covered with blushes.

“Read,” she said.

Debray continued:

“‘When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you
need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your
daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or
forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my
conduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I
will give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions
which I paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the
same sum was presented to me; I put this creditor off till tomorrow and
I intend leaving today, to escape that tomorrow, which would be rather
too unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my
most precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as
conversant with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them
better, since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable
portion of my fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame,
that you know perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they
can even explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have
invented; but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more
than that one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the
rapidity of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden
fusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us
hope you have found some gold among the ashes. With this consoling
idea, I leave you, madame, and most prudent wife, without any
conscientious reproach for abandoning you; you have friends left, and
the ashes I have already mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten
to restore to you. And here, madame, I must add another word of
explanation. So long as I hoped you were working for the good of our
house and for the fortune of our daughter, I philosophically closed my
eyes; but as you have transformed that house into a vast ruin I will
not be the foundation of another man’s fortune. You were rich when I
married you, but little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very
candidly, but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why
I should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and it has
continued to increase during the last fifteen years, till extraordinary
and unexpected catastrophes have suddenly overturned it,—without any
fault of mine, I can honestly declare. You, madame, have only sought to
increase your own, and I am convinced that you have succeeded. I leave
you, therefore, as I took you,—rich, but little respected. Adieu! I
also intend from this time to work on my own account. Accept my
acknowledgments for the example you have set me, and which I intend
following.

“‘Your very devoted husband,

“‘Baron Danglars.’”

The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful
letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color
once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and
resumed his pensive attitude.

“Well?” asked Madame Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be understood.

“Well, madame?” unhesitatingly repeated Debray.

“With what ideas does that letter inspire you?”

“Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M.
Danglars has left suspiciously.”

“Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?”

“I do not understand you,” said Debray with freezing coldness.

“He is gone! Gone, never to return!”

“Oh, madame, do not think that!”

“I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is
inflexible in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could
have made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me
in Paris, as our separation will conduce to his benefit;—therefore he
has gone, and I am free forever,” added Madame Danglars, in the same
supplicating tone.

Debray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude of
nervous inquiry.

“Well?” she said at length, “do you not answer me?”

“I have but one question to ask you,—what do you intend to do?”

“I was going to ask you,” replied the baroness with a beating heart.

“Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?”

“Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,” said Madame Danglars with anxious
expectation.

“Then if you wish to take my advice,” said the young man coldly, “I
would recommend you to travel.”

“To travel!” she murmured.

“Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In
my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the
double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars’ broken contract and M.
Danglars’ disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor,
for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up
an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a
fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the
details of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread
the report. Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and
giving up your jointure, and everyone’s mouth will be filled with
praises of your disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and
think you also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and
am quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner.”

The dread with which the pale and motionless baroness listened to this,
was equalled by the calm indifference with which Debray had spoken.

“Deserted?” she repeated; “ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are
right, sir, and no one can doubt my position.”

These were the only words that this proud and violently enamoured woman
could utter in response to Debray.

50137m



“But then you are rich,—very rich, indeed,” continued Debray, taking
out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table.
Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the
beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to
gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not
entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the
fall of a single tear.

“Madame,” said Debray, “it is nearly six months since we have been
associated. You furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our
partnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced
operations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In
June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000
francs,—it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we
lost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we
made up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the
first day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed a
capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now,
madame,” said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical
manner of a stockbroker, “there are still 80,000 francs, the interest
of this money, in my hands.”

“But,” said the baroness, “I thought you never put the money out to
interest.”

“Excuse me, madame,” said Debray coldly, “I had your permission to do
so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your
share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in
all 1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the
precaution of drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is
not long ago, you see, and I was in continual expectation of being
called on to deliver up my accounts. There is your money,—half in
bank-notes, the other half in checks payable to bearer. I say _there_,
for as I did not consider my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently
discreet, and as landed property carries evidence with it, and moreover
since you have no right to possess anything independent of your
husband, I have kept this sum, now your whole fortune, in a chest
concealed under that closet, and for greater security I myself
concealed it there.

“Now, madame,” continued Debray, first opening the closet, then the
chest;—“now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000 francs each,
resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a
certificate in the funds of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000 francs, here is a check upon my banker,
who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest
assured.”

Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the heap of
bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on the
table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast heaving
with concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put the
certificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale and
mute, awaited one kind word of consolation.

But she waited in vain.

“Now, madame,” said Debray, “you have a splendid fortune, an income of
about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot
keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able to
indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income
insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of
mine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan.”

“Thank you, sir—thank you,” replied the baroness; “you forget that what
you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who
intends for some time, at least, to retire from the world.”

Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering
himself, he bowed with an air which seemed to say, “As you please,
madame.”

Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when
she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was
accompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her
head, and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran
downstairs, disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus
part from her.

“Bah,” said Debray, when she had left, “these are fine projects! She
will remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she can
no longer do so on the Bourse.”

Then taking up his account book, he cancelled with the greatest care
all the entries of the amounts he had just paid away.

“I have 1,060,000 francs remaining,” he said. “What a pity Mademoiselle
de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect, and I would have
married her.”

And he calmly waited until the twenty minutes had elapsed after Madame
Danglars’ departure before he left the house. During this time he
occupied himself in making figures, with his watch by his side.

Asmodeus—that diabolical personage, who would have been created by
every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in
his great masterpiece—would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if he
had lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, while Debray was casting up his figures.

Above the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a
half with Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have
played too prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their
appearance not to create some interest.

Mercédès and Albert were in that room.

Mercédès was much changed within the last few days; not that even in
her days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display
which makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in
a plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state
of depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no,
the change in Mercédès was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips no
longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words
which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.

It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want of
courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercédès, although
deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere
she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly
lighted into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her
palace to a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither
become reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to
place upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her
bed.

The beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud
glance and charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around
her; the walls were hung with one of the gray papers which economical
landlords choose as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was
uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the attention to the poor attempt
at luxury; indeed, everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement
and elegance.

Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the
continual silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert
continually watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings,
she constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone,
which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually
shone from her eyes, seemed like “moonlight on a statue,”—yielding
light without warmth.

Albert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from
sinking into his actual position. If he wished to go out without
gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to walk through the
town, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these two noble and
intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal and
filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one another, and
economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell his mother
without extorting a change of countenance:

“Mother, we have no more money.”

50141m



Mercédès had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of
poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there
is a wide difference.

Amongst the Catalans, Mercédès wished for a thousand things, but still
she never really wanted any. So long as the nets were good, they caught
fish; and so long as they sold their fish, they were able to buy twine
for new nets. And then, shut out from friendship, having but one
affection, which could not be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she
thought of herself—of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned
she lived as well as she could; now there were two to be supported, and
nothing to live upon.

Winter approached. Mercédès had no fire in that cold and naked
room—she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from the
hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower—she whose
apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her
son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the
things of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt
themselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having
exhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual.

“Mother,” exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the
stairs, “let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to
build my plans upon.”

“Capital—nothing!” replied Mercédès with a mournful smile.

“No, mother,—capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs.”

“Child!” sighed Mercédès.

“Alas, dear mother,” said the young man, “I have unhappily spent too
much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs are
enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous
certainty for the future.”

“You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these
3,000 francs?” said Mercédès, coloring.

“I think so,” answered Albert in a firm tone. “We will accept them the
more readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in
the garden of the little house in the Allées de Meilhan, at Marseilles.
With 200 francs we can reach Marseilles.”

“With 200 francs?—are you sure, Albert?”

“Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and
steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in
the _coupé_ to Châlons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for
thirty-five francs.”

Albert then took a pen, and wrote:


                                                         Frs. _Coupé_,
                                                         thirty-five
                                                         francs........
                                                         ..............
                                                         ........ 35.
                                                         From Châlons
                                                         to Lyons you
                                                         will go on by
                                                         the
                                                         steamboat.. 
                                                         6. From Lyons
                                                         to Avignon
                                                         (still by
                                                         steamboat)....
                                                         ......... 16.
                                                         From Avignon
                                                         to Marseilles,
                                                         seven
                                                         francs........
                                                         .......  7.
                                                         Expenses on
                                                         the road,
                                                         about fifty
                                                         francs........
                                                         ....... 50.
                                                         Total.........
                                                         ..............
                                                         ..............
                                                         ............
                                                         114 frs.

“Let us put down 120,” added Albert, smiling. “You see I am generous,
am I not, mother?”

“But you, my poor child?”

“I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man
does not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is.”

“With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?”

“Any way, mother.”

“Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?”

“Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my watch for 100
francs, and the guard and seals for 300. How fortunate that the
ornaments were worth more than the watch. Still the same story of
superfluities! Now I think we are rich, since instead of the 114 francs
we require for the journey we find ourselves in possession of 250.”

“But we owe something in this house?”

“Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs,—that is
understood,—and as I require only eighty francs for my journey, you see
I am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is not all. What do you say to
this, mother?”

And Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden clasps, a
remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender souvenir from one of
the mysterious and veiled ladies who used to knock at his little
door,—Albert took out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000 francs.

“What is this?” asked Mercédès.

“A thousand francs.”

“But whence have you obtained them?”

“Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation.” And
Albert, rising, kissed his mother on both cheeks, then stood looking at
her. “You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think you!” said the
young man, impressed with a profound feeling of filial love. “You are,
indeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw!”

“Dear child!” said Mercédès, endeavoring in vain to restrain a tear
which glistened in the corner of her eye. “Indeed, you only wanted
misfortune to change my love for you to admiration. I am not unhappy
while I possess my son!”

“Ah, just so,” said Albert; “here begins the trial. Do you know the
decision we have come to, mother?”

“Have we come to any?”

“Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and that I am
to leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself the right to use the
name I now bear, instead of the one I have thrown aside.” Mercédès
sighed. “Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the
Spahis,”25 added the young man, lowering his eyes with a certain
feeling of shame, for even he was unconscious of the sublimity of his
self-abasement. “I thought my body was my own, and that I might sell
it. I yesterday took the place of another. I sold myself for more than
I thought I was worth,” he added, attempting to smile; “I fetched 2,000
francs.”

“Then these 1,000 francs——” said Mercédès, shuddering.

“Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a year.”

Mercédès raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it would be
impossible to describe, and tears, which had hitherto been restrained,
now yielded to her emotion, and ran down her cheeks.

“The price of his blood!” she murmured.

“Yes, if I am killed,” said Albert, laughing. “But I assure you,
mother, I have a strong intention of defending my person, and I never
felt half so strong an inclination to live as I do now.”

“Merciful Heavens!”

“Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to be
killed? Has Lamoricière, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has
Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we
know, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me return
with an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look magnificent in
it, and chose that regiment only from vanity.”

Mercédès sighed while endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt
that she ought not to allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to fall
upon her son.

“Well, now you understand, mother!” continued Albert; “here are more
than 4,000 francs settled on you; upon these you can live at least two
years.”

“Do you think so?” said Mercédès.

These words were uttered in so mournful a tone that their real meaning
did not escape Albert; he felt his heart beat, and taking his mother’s
hand within his own he said, tenderly:

“Yes, you will live!”

“I shall live!—then you will not leave me, Albert?”

“Mother, I must go,” said Albert in a firm, calm voice; “you love me
too well to wish me to remain useless and idle with you; besides, I
have signed.”

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“You will obey your own wish and the will of Heaven!”

“Not my own wish, mother, but reason—necessity. Are we not two
despairing creatures? What is life to you?—Nothing. What is life to
me?—Very little without you, mother; for believe me, but for you I
should have ceased to live on the day I doubted my father and renounced
his name. Well, I will live, if you promise me still to hope; and if
you grant me the care of your future prospects, you will redouble my
strength. Then I will go to the governor of Algeria; he has a royal
heart, and is essentially a soldier; I will tell him my gloomy story. I
will beg him to turn his eyes now and then towards me, and if he keep
his word and interest himself for me, in six months I shall be an
officer, or dead. If I am an officer, your fortune is certain, for I
shall have money enough for both, and, moreover, a name we shall both
be proud of, since it will be our own. If I am killed—well then mother,
you can also die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes.”

“It is well,” replied Mercédès, with her eloquent glance; “you are
right, my love; let us prove to those who are watching our actions that
we are worthy of compassion.”

“But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions,” said the young man; “I
assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You are a woman
at once full of spirit and resignation; I have become simple in my
tastes, and am without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be
rich—once in M. Dantès’ house, you will be at rest. Let us strive, I
beseech you,—let us strive to be cheerful.”

“Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy, Albert.”

“And so our division is made, mother,” said the young man, affecting
ease of mind. “We can now part; come, I shall engage your passage.”

“And you, my dear boy?”

“I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom ourselves to
parting. I want recommendations and some information relative to
Africa. I will join you again at Marseilles.”

“Well, be it so—let us part,” said Mercédès, folding around her
shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which accidentally
happened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered up his papers
hastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty francs he owed to the
landlord, and offering his arm to his mother, they descended the
stairs.

Someone was walking down before them, and this person, hearing the
rustling of a silk dress, turned around. “Debray!” muttered Albert.

“You, Morcerf?” replied the secretary, resting on the stairs. Curiosity
had vanquished the desire of preserving his _incognito_, and he was
recognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot to find the
young man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris.

“Morcerf!” repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the still
youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf:

“Pardon me,” he added with a smile, “I leave you, Albert.” Albert
understood his thoughts.

“Mother,” he said, turning towards Mercédès, “this is M. Debray,
secretary of the Minister for the Interior, once a friend of mine.”

“How once?” stammered Debray; “what do you mean?”

“I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought not to
have any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir.” Debray stepped
forward, and cordially pressed the hand of his interlocutor.

“Believe me, dear Albert,” he said, with all the emotion he was capable
of feeling,—“believe me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in
any way I can serve you, I am yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Albert, smiling. “In the midst of our
misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance from
anyone. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid, we shall
have 5,000 francs left.”

The blood mounted to the temples of Debray, who held a million in his
pocket-book, and unimaginative as he was he could not help reflecting
that the same house had contained two women, one of whom, justly
dishonored, had left it poor with 1,500,000 francs under her cloak,
while the other, unjustly stricken, but sublime in her misfortune, was
yet rich with a few deniers. This parallel disturbed his usual
politeness, the philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered a few
words of general civility and ran downstairs.

That day the minister’s clerks and the subordinates had a great deal to
put up with from his ill-humor. But that same night, he found himself
the possessor of a fine house, situated on the Boulevard de la
Madeleine, and an income of 50,000 livres.

The next day, just as Debray was signing the deed, that is about five
o’clock in the afternoon, Madame de Morcerf, after having
affectionately embraced her son, entered the _coupé_ of the diligence,
which closed upon her.

A man was hidden in Lafitte’s banking-house, behind one of the little
arched windows which are placed above each desk; he saw Mercédès enter
the diligence, and he also saw Albert withdraw. Then he passed his hand
across his forehead, which was clouded with doubt.

“Alas,” he exclaimed, “how can I restore the happiness I have taken
away from these poor innocent creatures? God help me!”



 Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den

One division of La Force, in which the most dangerous and desperate
prisoners are confined, is called the court of Saint-Bernard. The
prisoners, in their expressive language, have named it the “Lions’
Den,” probably because the captives possess teeth which frequently gnaw
the bars, and sometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a
prison; the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratings
are every day carefully examined by jailers, whose herculean
proportions and cold pitiless expression prove them to have been chosen
to reign over their subjects for their superior activity and
intelligence.

The courtyard of this quarter is enclosed by enormous walls, over which
the sun glances obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf
of moral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to be
seen,—pacing to and fro from morning till night, pale, careworn, and
haggard, like so many shadows,—the men whom justice holds beneath the
steel she is sharpening. There, crouched against the side of the wall
which attracts and retains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes
talking to one another, but more frequently alone, watching the door,
which sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomy assemblage, or
to throw in another outcast from society.

The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartment for the
reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, divided by two upright
gratings placed at a distance of three feet from one another to prevent
a visitor from shaking hands with or passing anything to the prisoners.
It is a wretched, damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when
we consider the agonizing conferences which have taken place between
those iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is
looked upon as a kind of paradise by the men whose days are numbered;
it is so rare for them to leave the Lions’ Den for any other place than
the barrier Saint-Jacques, the galleys! or solitary confinement.

In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp
vapor was rising, a young man with his hands in his pockets, who had
excited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the “Den,” might be
seen walking. The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an
elegant man, if those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they
did not show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the careful
hands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were
still perfect, for the wearer tried his best to make it assume the
appearance of a new coat. He bestowed the same attention upon the
cambric front of a shirt, which had considerably changed in color since
his entrance into the prison, and he polished his varnished boots with
the corner of a handkerchief embroidered with initials surmounted by a
coronet.

Some of the inmates of the “Lions’ Den” were watching the operations of
the prisoner’s toilet with considerable interest.

“See, the prince is pluming himself,” said one of the thieves.

“He’s a fine looking fellow,” said another; “if he had only a comb and
hair-grease, he’d take the shine off the gentlemen in white kids.”

“His coat looks nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant
to have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved
shamefully. What jealousy; to tear such clothes!”

“He looks like a big-bug,” said another; “dresses in fine style. And,
then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!”

Meanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approached the wicket,
against which one of the keepers was leaning.

“Come, sir,” he said, “lend me twenty francs; you will soon be paid;
you run no risks with me. Remember, I have relations who possess more
millions than you have deniers. Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty
francs, so that I may buy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to
be in a coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of the
Cavalcanti!”

The keeper turned his back, and shrugged his shoulders; he did not even
laugh at what would have caused anyone else to do so; he had heard so
many utter the same things,—indeed, he heard nothing else.

“Come,” said Andrea, “you are a man void of compassion; I’ll have you
turned out.”

This made the keeper turn around, and he burst into a loud laugh. The
prisoners then approached and formed a circle.

“I tell you that with that wretched sum,” continued Andrea, “I could
obtain a coat, and a room in which to receive the illustrious visitor I
am daily expecting.”

“Of course—of course,” said the prisoners;—“anyone can see he’s a
gentleman!”

“Well, then, lend him the twenty francs,” said the keeper, leaning on
the other shoulder; “surely you will not refuse a comrade!”

50151m



“I am no comrade of these people,” said the young man, proudly, “you
have no right to insult me thus.”

The thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a storm
gathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner, raised less by his
own words than by the manner of the keeper. The latter, sure of
quelling the tempest when the waves became too violent, allowed them to
rise to a certain pitch that he might be revenged on the importunate
Andrea, and besides it would afford him some recreation during the long
day.

The thieves had already approached Andrea, some screaming, _“La
savate—La savate!”_26 a cruel operation, which consists in cuffing a
comrade who may have fallen into disgrace, not with an old shoe, but
with an iron-heeled one. Others proposed the _anguille_, another kind
of recreation, in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles,
and two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches beat like
a flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer.

“Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!” said others.

But Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolled his tongue
around his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner equivalent to a
hundred words among the bandits when forced to be silent. It was a
Masonic sign Caderousse had taught him. He was immediately recognized
as one of them; the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled
shoe replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged.

Some voices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; that he
intended to be civil, in his way, and that they would set the example
of liberty of conscience,—and the mob retired. The keeper was so
stupefied at this scene that he took Andrea by the hands and began
examining his person, attributing the sudden submission of the inmates
of the Lions’ Den to something more substantial than mere fascination.

Andrea made no resistance, although he protested against it. Suddenly a
voice was heard at the wicket.

“Benedetto!” exclaimed an inspector. The keeper relaxed his hold.

“I am called,” said Andrea.

“To the visitors’ room!” said the same voice.

“You see someone pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether
a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person!”

And Andrea, gliding through the court like a black shadow, rushed out
through the wicket, leaving his comrades, and even the keeper, lost in
wonder. Certainly a call to the visitors’ room had scarcely astonished
Andrea less than themselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use
of his privilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La Force,
had maintained a rigid silence.

50153m



“Everything,” he said, “proves me to be under the protection of some
powerful person,—this sudden fortune, the facility with which I have
overcome all obstacles, an unexpected family and an illustrious name
awarded to me, gold showered down upon me, and the most splendid
alliances about to be entered into. An unhappy lapse of fortune and the
absence of my protector have cast me down, certainly, but not forever.
The hand which has retreated for a while will be again stretched forth
to save me at the very moment when I shall think myself sinking into
the abyss. Why should I risk an imprudent step? It might alienate my
protector. He has two means of extricating me from this dilemma,—the
one by a mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other by
buying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing until I am
convinced that he has quite abandoned me, and then——”

Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The unfortunate
youth was intrepid in the attack, and rude in the defence. He had borne
with the public prison, and with privations of all sorts; still, by
degrees nature, or rather custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from
being naked, dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort
that the inspector’s voice called him to the visiting-room. Andrea felt
his heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a visit from the examining
magistrate, and too late for one from the director of the prison, or
the doctor; it must, then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the
grating of the room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his
eyes dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M.
Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon the iron
bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which moved behind the other
grating.

“Ah,” said Andrea, deeply affected.

“Good morning, Benedetto,” said Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.

“You—you?” said the young man, looking fearfully around him.

“Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?”

“Silence,—be silent!” said Andrea, who knew the delicate sense of
hearing possessed by the walls; “for Heaven’s sake, do not speak so
loud!”

“You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?” said Bertuccio.

“Oh, yes.”

“That is well.”

And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom he saw
through the window of the wicket.

“Read?” he said.

“What is that?” asked Andrea.

“An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there to talk to
me.”

“Oh,” cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally added,—“Still my
unknown protector! I am not forgotten. They wish for secrecy, since we
are to converse in a private room. I understand, Bertuccio has been
sent by my protector.”

The keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then opened the iron
gates and conducted Andrea to a room on the first floor. The room was
whitewashed, as is the custom in prisons, but it looked quite brilliant
to a prisoner, though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the
whole of its sumptuous furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the chair,
Andrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired.

“Now,” said the steward, “what have you to tell me?”

“And you?” said Andrea.

“You speak first.”

“Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, since you have come to seek
me.”

50155m



“Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany; you have
robbed—you have assassinated.”

“Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private room only to tell
me this, you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know all these
things. But there are some with which, on the contrary, I am not
acquainted. Let us talk of those, if you please. Who sent you?”

“Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto!”

“Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends
you?”

“No one.”

“How did you know I was in prison?”

“I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so
gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs-Élysées.”

“Oh, the Champs-Élysées? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of
pincette. The Champs-Élysées? Come, let us talk a little about my
father.”

“Who, then, am I?”

“You, sir?—you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume,
who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five
months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my
father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me
invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at
this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in
Paris—amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I
did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to
me just now;—it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two
millions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place.
Come, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!”

“What do you wish me to say?”

“I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs-Élysées just now,
worthy foster-father.”

“Well?”

“Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.”

“At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?”

“I believe I did.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo?”

“’Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I to rush
into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, ‘My father, my
father!’ like Monsieur Pixérécourt.”27

“Do not let us jest,” gravely replied Bertuccio, “and dare not to utter
that name again as you have pronounced it.”

“Bah,” said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio’s
manner, “why not?”

“Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by Heaven to be
the father of such a wretch as you.”

“Oh, these are fine words.”

“And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care.”

“Menaces—I do not fear them. I will say——”

“Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?” said
Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that Andrea
was moved to the very soul. “Do you think you have to do with
galley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into
terrible hands; they are ready to open for you—make use of them. Do not
play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which
they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their
movements.”

50157m



“My father—I will know who my father is,” said the obstinate youth; “I
will perish if I must, but I _will_ know it. What does scandal signify
to me? What possessions, what reputation, what ‘pull,’ as Beauchamp
says,—have I? You great people always lose something by scandal,
notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?”

“I came to tell you.”

“Ah,” cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door
opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said:

“Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the
prisoner.”

“And so closes our interview,” said Andrea to the worthy steward; “I
wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!”

“I will return tomorrow,” said Bertuccio.

“Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns
for me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of!”

“It shall be done,” replied Bertuccio.

Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and
merely jingled a few pieces of money.

“That’s what I mean,” said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome
by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio.

“Can I be deceived?” he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and
grated vehicle which they call “the salad basket.”

“Never mind, we shall see! Tomorrow, then!” he added, turning towards
Bertuccio.

“Tomorrow!” replied the steward.



 Chapter 108. The Judge

We remember that the Abbé Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in the
chamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the sole
guardians of the young girl’s body. Perhaps it was the Christian
exhortations of the abbé, perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his
persuasive words, which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for ever
since he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had yielded
to a calm resignation which surprised all who knew his excessive
affection for Valentine.

M. de Villefort had not seen his father since the morning of the death.
The whole establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged for
himself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame de
Villefort’s service,—in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and
coachmen, new faces were presented to the different masters of the
house, thus widening the division which had always existed between the
members of the same family. The assizes, also, were about to begin, and
Villefort, shut up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety
in drawing up the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair,
like all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered,
caused a great sensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not
convincing, since they rested upon a few words written by an escaped
galley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by
hatred or revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the
procureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was guilty, and
he hoped by his skill in conducting this aggravated case to flatter his
self-love, which was about the only vulnerable point left in his frozen
heart.

The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of
Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming
assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to
evade the enormous number of applications presented to him for the
purpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of
trial. And then so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor
Valentine, and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent,
that no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional
duties, which were the only means he had of dissipating his grief.

Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon
which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter
was to learn his father’s name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued,
had descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar
to that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began
knocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the
rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of
the brilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season.

More than once he had reached that part of the garden where the famous
boarded gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returning
by the same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with
the same gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the
house, whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from
school to spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother.

While doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of the open windows,
where the old man had been placed that he might enjoy the last rays of
the sun which yet yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dying
flowers and red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.

The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort could
scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, and
savage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had been
pursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed.

Then he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly
divested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her
hand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon her
son, or to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw from
the drawing-room into the garden.

Villefort became pale; he understood the old man’s meaning.

Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his glance
was transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort himself had
to submit to the searching investigation of eyes, which, while changing
their direction and even their language, had lost none of their
menacing expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions
that exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held her son’s
ball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward
begged for a long while, the maternal kiss probably not offering
sufficient recompense for the trouble he must take to obtain it;
however at length he decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster
of heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead
streaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead,
pressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand
and some bonbons in the other.

Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird
to the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it,
Noirtier’s gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery
brightness that Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart.
In that earnest look might be read a deep reproach, as well as a
terrible menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to
remind his son of a forgotten oath.

“It is well, sir,” replied Villefort from below,—“it is well; have
patience but one day longer; what I have said I will do.”

Noirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with
indifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his
greatcoat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand
across his forehead, entered his study.

The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest but
Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o’clock in the
morning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by
the examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses,
and putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was
one of the most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet
delivered.

The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morning
dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine upon
the lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a
short time while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its
flickerings awoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as
though they had been dipped in blood.

He opened the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and
seemed to divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief
on the horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark
was mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song.
The damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed his
memory.

“Today,” he said with an effort,—“today the man who holds the blade of
justice must strike wherever there is guilt.”

Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier’s room,
where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and
yet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressed
the closed window as though it had been open, and as if through the
opening he had beheld the menacing old man.

“Yes,” he murmured,—“yes, be satisfied.”

His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced his
study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less to
sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degrees
everyone awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noises
which accompany the life of a house,—the opening and shutting of doors,
the ringing of Madame de Villefort’s bell, to summon the waiting-maid,
mingled with the first shouts of the child, who rose full of the
enjoyment of his age. Villefort also rang; his new valet brought him
the papers, and with them a cup of chocolate.

“What are you bringing me?” said he.

“A cup of chocolate.”

“I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?”

“My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal in the
murder case, and that you should take something to keep up your
strength;” and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest to the
sofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers.

The valet then left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with a
gloomy expression, then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion,
he swallowed its contents at one draught. It might have been thought
that he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that he sought for
death to deliver him from a duty which he would rather die than fulfil.
He then rose, and paced his room with a smile it would have been
terrible to witness. The chocolate was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort
felt no effects.

The breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. The
valet re-entered.

“Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir,” he said, “that eleven
o’clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at twelve.”

“Well,” said Villefort, “what then?”

“Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes to know
if she is to accompany you, sir?”

“Where to?”

“To the Palais.”

“What to do?”

“My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, with a startling accent; “does she wish that?”

The servant drew back and said, “If you wish to go alone, sir, I will
go and tell my mistress.”

Villefort remained silent for a moment, and dented his pale cheeks with
his nails.

“Tell your mistress,” he at length answered, “that I wish to speak to
her, and I beg she will wait for me in her own room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then come to dress and shave me.”

“Directly, sir.”

The valet re-appeared almost instantly, and, having shaved his master,
assisted him to dress entirely in black. When he had finished, he said:

“My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you had
finished dressing.”

“I am going to her.”

And Villefort, with his papers under his arm and hat in hand, directed
his steps toward the apartment of his wife.

At the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. He then
entered the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman and
impatiently turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets
which young Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to pieces
before his mother could finish reading them. She was dressed to go out,
her bonnet was placed beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on her
hands.

“Ah, here you are, monsieur,” she said in her naturally calm voice;
“but how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why did you not
come down to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or shall I take
Edward?”

Madame de Villefort had multiplied her questions in order to gain one
answer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and cold
as a statue.

“Edward,” said Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on the child, “go
and play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma.”

Madame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold countenance,
that resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries. Edward
raised his head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that she did
not confirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden
soldiers.

“Edward,” cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child started up
from the floor, “do you hear me?—Go!”

The child, unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling;
it would be difficult to say whether his emotion were caused by fear or
passion. His father went up to him, took him in his arms, and kissed
his forehead.

“Go,” he said: “go, my child.” Edward ran out.

M. de Villefort went to the door, which he closed behind the child, and
bolted.

“Dear me!” said the young woman, endeavoring to read her husband’s
inmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her countenance which froze
the impassibility of Villefort; “what is the matter?”

“Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?” said the
magistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between his wife
and the door.

Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the sensation of
a bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap closing over its
head.

A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from
her, while she became deadly pale.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I—I do not understand you.”

And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from the
sofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell down
again on the cushions.

“I asked you,” continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone, “where
you conceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my
father-in-law, M. de Saint-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de
Saint-Méran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine.”

“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands, “what do
you say?”

“It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer.”

“Is it to the judge or to the husband?” stammered Madame de Villefort.

“To the judge—to the judge, madame!” It was terrible to behold the
frightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the trembling
of her whole frame.

“Ah, sir,” she muttered, “ah, sir,” and this was all.

“You do not answer, madame!” exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Then
he added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger, “It is true,
then; you do not deny it!” She moved forward. “And you cannot deny it!”
added Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her
in the name of justice. “You have accomplished these different crimes
with impudent address, but which could only deceive those whose
affections for you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de
Saint-Méran, I have known that a poisoner lived in my house. M.
d’Avrigny warned me of it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions
were directed towards an angel,—those suspicions which, even when there
is no crime, are always alive in my heart; but after the death of
Valentine, there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in
mine, but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two persons,
suspected by many, will soon become public, and, as I told you just
now, you no longer speak to the husband, but to the judge.”

50165m



The young woman hid her face in her hands.

“Oh, sir,” she stammered, “I beseech you, do not believe appearances.”

“Are you, then, a coward?” cried Villefort, in a contemptuous voice.
“But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can you be a
coward, you, who have had the courage to witness the death of two old
men and a young girl murdered by you?”

“Sir! sir!”

“Can you be a coward?” continued Villefort, with increasing excitement,
“you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four death agonies?
_You_, who have arranged your infernal plans, and removed the beverages
with a talent and precision almost miraculous? Have you, then, who have
calculated everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate
one thing—I mean where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to?
Oh, it is impossible—you must have saved some surer, more subtle and
deadly poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment that
you deserve. You have done this—I hope so, at least.”

Madame de Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.

“I understand,” he said, “you confess; but a confession made to the
judges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the crime
cannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on the
guilty!”

“The punishment?” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, “the punishment,
monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!”

“Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four times
guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you are
the wife of him who pronounces it?—No, madame, no; the scaffold awaits
the poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner
has taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her
deadliest poison.”

Madame de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous and
uncontrollable terror spread over her distorted features.

“Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame,” said the magistrate; “I will
not dishonor you, since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you
have heard me distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die
on the scaffold.”

“No, I do not understand; what do you mean?” stammered the unhappy
woman, completely overwhelmed.

“I mean that the wife of the first magistrate in the capital shall not,
by her infamy, soil an unblemished name; that she shall not, with one
blow, dishonor her husband and her child.”

“No, no—oh, no!”

“Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I will
thank you for it!”

“You will thank me—for what?”

“For what you have just said.”

“What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand anything.
Oh, my God, my God!”

And she rose, with her hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming.

“Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the
room?—where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame?”

Madame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively struck
one hand against the other.

“No, no,” she vociferated, “no, you cannot wish that!”

50169m



“What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold.
Do you understand?” asked Villefort.

“Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!”

“What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish,
madame,” he added, with a flaming glance; “any other woman, were it the
queen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to you I shall be
merciful. To you I will say, ‘Have you not, madame, put aside some of
the surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?’”

50170m



“Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!”

“She is cowardly,” said Villefort.

“Reflect that I am your wife!”

“You are a poisoner.”

“In the name of Heaven!”

“No!”

“In the name of the love you once bore me!”

“No, no!”

“In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live!”

50167m



“No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you will
perhaps kill him, as you have the others!”

“I?—I kill my boy?” cried the distracted mother, rushing toward
Villefort; “I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!” and a frightful, demoniac laugh
finished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle.

Madame de Villefort fell at her husband’s feet. He approached her.

“Think of it, madame,” he said; “if, on my return, justice has not been
satisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with
my own hands!”

She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and
glared horribly.

“Do you understand me?” he said. “I am going down there to pronounce
the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my
return, you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie.”

Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the
carpet. The king’s attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity;
he looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly:

“Farewell, madame, farewell!”

That farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the executioner’s knife.
She fainted. The procureur went out, after having double-locked the
door.



 Chapter 109. The Assizes

The Benedetto affair, as it was called at the Palais, and by people in
general, had produced a tremendous sensation. Frequenting the Café de
Paris, the Boulevard de Gand, and the Bois de Boulogne, during his
brief career of splendor, the false Cavalcanti had formed a host of
acquaintances. The papers had related his various adventures, both as
the man of fashion and the galley-slave; and as everyone who had been
personally acquainted with Prince Andrea Cavalcanti experienced a
lively curiosity in his fate, they all determined to spare no trouble
in endeavoring to witness the trial of M. Benedetto for the murder of
his comrade in chains.

In the eyes of many, Benedetto appeared, if not a victim to, at least
an instance of, the fallibility of the law. M. Cavalcanti, his father,
had been seen in Paris, and it was expected that he would re-appear to
claim the illustrious outcast. Many, also, who were not aware of the
circumstances attending his withdrawal from Paris, were struck with the
worthy appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, and the knowledge of the
world displayed by the old patrician, who certainly played the nobleman
very well, so long as he said nothing, and made no arithmetical
calculations.

As for the accused himself, many remembered him as being so amiable, so
handsome, and so liberal, that they chose to think him the victim of
some conspiracy, since in this world large fortunes frequently excite
the malevolence and jealousy of some unknown enemy.

Everyone, therefore, ran to the court; some to witness the sight,
others to comment upon it. From seven o’clock in the morning a crowd
was stationed at the iron gates, and an hour before the trial commenced
the hall was full of the privileged. Before the entrance of the
magistrates, and indeed frequently afterwards, a court of justice, on
days when some especial trial is to take place, resembles a
drawing-room where many persons recognize each other and converse if
they can do so without losing their seats; or, if they are separated by
too great a number of lawyers, communicate by signs.

It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short
summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had perceived at sunrise had
all disappeared as if by magic, and one of the softest and most
brilliant days of September shone forth in all its splendor.

Beauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore claiming the
right of a throne everywhere, was eying everybody through his monocle.
He perceived Château-Renaud and Debray, who had just gained the good
graces of a sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded the latter to let
them stand before, instead of behind him, as they ought to have done.
The worthy sergeant had recognized the minister’s secretary and the
millionnaire, and, by way of paying extra attention to his noble
neighbors, promised to keep their places while they paid a visit to
Beauchamp.

“Well,” said Beauchamp, “we shall see our friend!”

“Yes, indeed!” replied Debray. “That worthy prince. Deuce take those
Italian princes!”

“A man, too, who could boast of Dante for a genealogist, and could
reckon back to the _Divina Comedia_.”

“A nobility of the rope!” said Château-Renaud phlegmatically.

“He will be condemned, will he not?” asked Debray of Beauchamp.

“My dear fellow, I think we should ask you that question; you know such
news much better than we do. Did you see the president at the
minister’s last night?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Something which will surprise you.”

“Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is a long time since that has
happened.”

“Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is considered a serpent of
subtlety and a giant of cunning, is really but a very commonplace,
silly rascal, and altogether unworthy of the experiments that will be
made on his phrenological organs after his death.”

“Bah,” said Beauchamp, “he played the prince very well.”

“Yes, for you who detest those unhappy princes, Beauchamp, and are
always delighted to find fault with them; but not for me, who discover
a gentleman by instinct, and who scent out an aristocratic family like
a very bloodhound of heraldry.”

“Then you never believed in the principality?”

“Yes.—in the principality, but not in the prince.”

“Not so bad,” said Beauchamp; “still, I assure you, he passed very well
with many people; I saw him at the ministers’ houses.”

“Ah, yes,” said Château-Renaud. “The idea of thinking ministers
understand anything about princes!”

“There is something in what you have just said,” said Beauchamp,
laughing.

“But,” said Debray to Beauchamp, “if I spoke to the president, _you_
must have been with the procureur.”

“It was an impossibility; for the last week M. de Villefort has
secluded himself. It is natural enough; this strange chain of domestic
afflictions, followed by the no less strange death of his daughter——”

“Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?”

“Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this has been unobserved at the
minister’s?” said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in his eye, where he
tried to make it remain.

“My dear sir,” said Château-Renaud, “allow me to tell you that you do
not understand that manœuvre with the eye-glass half so well as Debray.
Give him a lesson, Debray.”

“Stay,” said Beauchamp, “surely I am not deceived.”

“What is it?”

“It is she!”

“Whom do you mean?”

“They said she had left.”

“Mademoiselle Eugénie?” said Château-Renaud; “has she returned?”

“No, but her mother.”

“Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!” said Château-Renaud; “only ten
days after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the
bankruptcy of her husband?”

Debray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the direction of
Beauchamp’s glance.

“Come,” he said, “it is only a veiled lady, some foreign princess,
perhaps the mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking on a very
interesting topic, Beauchamp.”

“I?”

“Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of Valentine.”

“Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort is not
here?”

“Poor, dear woman,” said Debray, “she is no doubt occupied in
distilling balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics for herself
or friends. Do you know she spends two or three thousand crowns a year
in this amusement? But I wonder she is not here. I should have been
pleased to see her, for I like her very much.”

“And I hate her,” said Château-Renaud.

“Why?”

“I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest her, from
antipathy.”

“Or, rather, by instinct.”

“Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying, Beauchamp.”

“Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de
Villefort’s?”

“‘Multitudinously’ is good,” said Château-Renaud.

“My good fellow, you’ll find the word in Saint-Simon.”

“But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort’s; but let’s get back to
the subject.”

“Talking of that,” said Debray, “Madame was making inquiries about that
house, which for the last three months has been hung with black.”

“Who is Madame?” asked Château-Renaud.

“The minister’s wife, _pardieu!_”

“Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to the
princes.”

“Really, you were only before sparkling, but now you are brilliant;
take compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will wither us up.”

“I will not speak again,” said Château-Renaud; “pray have compassion
upon me, and do not take up every word I say.”

“Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story, Beauchamp; I
told you that yesterday Madame made inquiries of me upon the subject;
enlighten me, and I will then communicate my information to her.”

“Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously (I like the
word) at M. de Villefort’s is that there is an assassin in the house!”

The two young men shuddered, for the same idea had more than once
occurred to them.

“And who is the assassin;” they asked together.

“Young Edward!” A burst of laughter from the auditors did not in the
least disconcert the speaker, who continued,—“Yes, gentlemen; Edward,
the infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing.”

“You are jesting.”

“Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M. de
Villefort—I intend sending him away tomorrow, for he eats so
enormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in
that house. Well, now listen.”

“We are listening.”

“It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a bottle
containing some drug, which he every now and then uses against those
who have displeased him. First, M. and Madame de Saint-Méran incurred
his displeasure, so he poured out three drops of his elixir—three drops
were sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier,
who sometimes rebuffed this little wretch—he therefore received the
same quantity of the elixir; the same happened to Valentine, of whom he
was jealous; he gave her the same dose as the others, and all was over
for her as well as the rest.”

“Why, what nonsense are you telling us?” said Château-Renaud.

“Yes, it is an extraordinary story,” said Beauchamp; “is it not?”

“It is absurd,” said Debray.

“Ah,” said Beauchamp, “you doubt me? Well, you can ask my servant, or
rather him who will no longer be my servant tomorrow, it was the talk
of the house.”

“And this elixir, where is it? what is it?”

“The child conceals it.”

“But where did he find it?”

“In his mother’s laboratory.”

“Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory?”

“How can I tell? You are questioning me like a king’s attorney. I only
repeat what I have been told, and like my informant I can do no more.
The poor devil would eat nothing, from fear.”

“It is incredible!”

“No, my dear fellow, it is not at all incredible. You saw the child
pass through the Rue Richelieu last year, who amused himself with
killing his brothers and sisters by sticking pins in their ears while
they slept. The generation who follow us are very precocious.”

“Come, Beauchamp,” said Château-Renaud, “I will bet anything you do not
believe a word of all you have been telling us. But I do not see the
Count of Monte Cristo here.”

“He is worn out,” said Debray; “besides, he could not well appear in
public, since he has been the dupe of the Cavalcanti, who, it appears,
presented themselves to him with false letters of credit, and cheated
him out of 100,000 francs upon the hypothesis of this principality.”

“By the way, M. de Château-Renaud,” asked Beauchamp, “how is Morrel?”

“_Ma foi_, I have called three times without once seeing him. Still,
his sister did not seem uneasy, and told me that though she had not
seen him for two or three days, she was sure he was well.”

“Ah, now I think of it, the Count of Monte Cristo cannot appear in the
hall,” said Beauchamp.

“Why not?”

“Because he is an actor in the drama.”

“Has he assassinated anyone, then?”

“No, on the contrary, they wished to assassinate him. You know that it
was in leaving his house that M. de Caderousse was murdered by his
friend Benedetto. You know that the famous waistcoat was found in his
house, containing the letter which stopped the signature of the
marriage-contract. Do you see the waistcoat? There it is, all
blood-stained, on the desk, as a testimony of the crime.”

“Ah, very good.”

“Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our places.”

A noise was heard in the hall; the sergeant called his two patrons with
an energetic “hem!” and the door-keeper appearing, called out with that
shrill voice peculiar to his order, ever since the days of
Beaumarchais:

“The court, gentlemen!”



 Chapter 110. The Indictment

The judges took their places in the midst of the most profound silence;
the jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, the object of unusual
attention, and we had almost said of general admiration, sat in the
armchair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Everyone looked with
astonishment on that grave and severe face, whose calm expression
personal griefs had been unable to disturb, and the aspect of a man who
was a stranger to all human emotions excited something very like
terror.

“Gendarmes,” said the president, “lead in the accused.”

At these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyes
were turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to enter. The
door soon opened and the accused appeared.

The same impression was experienced by all present, and no one was
deceived by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no
sign of that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and
blanches the cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the
other in the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous;
his eye was calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall
when he glanced at the whole body of magistrates and assistants; his
eye rested longer on the president, and still more so on the king’s
attorney.

By the side of Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct his
defence, and who had been appointed by the court, for Andrea disdained
to pay any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach
no importance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair whose face
expressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized
the prisoner.

50181m



The president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by the
clever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of this,
which was long, the public attention was continually drawn towards
Andrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had
never been so concise and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the most
vivid colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, a
review of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all
the talent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like
that of the procureur. Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public
opinion before the sentence of the law could be pronounced.

Andrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were brought
against him. M. de Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no
doubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was
accustomed to use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes,
notwithstanding the depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the
reading of the indictment was ended.

“Accused,” said the president, “your name and surname?”

Andrea arose.

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, in a clear voice, “but I see you
are going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow
you. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by, of making an
exception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if you
please, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all.”

The astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn looked at
Villefort. The whole assembly manifested great surprise, but Andrea
appeared quite unmoved.

“Your age?” said the president; “will you answer that question?”

“I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr. President, but
in its turn.”

“Your age?” repeated the president.

“I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days, as I
was born the night of the 27th of September, 1817.”

M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head
at the mention of this date.

“Where were you born?” continued the president.

“At Auteuil, near Paris.”

M. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto as
if he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for
Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric
pocket-handkerchief.

“Your profession?”

“First I was a forger,” answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; “then I
became a thief, and lately have become an assassin.”

A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the
assembly. The judges themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the jury
manifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected in a man of
fashion. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at
first pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly arose and
looked around as though he had lost his senses—he wanted air.

50183m



“Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?” asked Benedetto, with
his most ingratiating smile.

M. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself down
again upon his chair.

“And now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name?” said the
president. “The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated and
classified your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the
court, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due to
humanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it may be
for this reason, that you have delayed acknowledging your name. You
wished it to be preceded by all these titles.”

“It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have read my
thoughts,” said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most polite manner.
“This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of the
questions.”

The public astonishment had reached its height. There was no longer any
deceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience felt that
a startling revelation was to follow this ominous prelude.

“Well,” said the president; “your name?”

“I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know my
father’s, and can tell it to you.”

A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat
fell from his face upon the papers which he held in his convulsed hand.

“Repeat your father’s name,” said the president.

Not a whisper, not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly; everyone
waited anxiously.

“My father is king’s attorney,” replied Andrea calmly.

50179m



“King’s attorney?” said the president, stupefied, and without noticing
the agitation which spread over the face of M. de Villefort; “king’s
attorney?”

“Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it,—he is named
Villefort.”

The explosion, which had been so long restrained from a feeling of
respect to the court of justice, now burst forth like thunder from the
breasts of all present; the court itself did not seek to restrain the
feelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults addressed to
Benedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned, the energetic gestures,
the movement of the gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the crowd
always sure to rise to the surface in case of any disturbance—all this
lasted five minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were able
to restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice of
thepresident was heard to exclaim:

“Are you playing with justice, accused, and do you dare set your
fellow-citizens an example of disorder which even in these times has
never been equalled?”

Several persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half bowed over
in his chair, offering him consolation, encouragement, and
protestations of zeal and sympathy. Order was re-established in the
hall, except that a few people still moved about and whispered to one
another. A lady, it was said, had just fainted; they had supplied her
with a smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During the scene of
tumult, Andrea had turned his smiling face towards the assembly; then,
leaning with one hand on the oaken rail of the dock, in the most
graceful attitude possible, he said:

“Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea of insulting the court, or of
making a useless disturbance in the presence of this honorable
assembly. They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I
answer. They ask my name, I cannot give it, since my parents abandoned
me. But though I cannot give my own name, not possessing one, I can
tell them my father’s. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de
Villefort, and I am ready to prove it.”

There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner of the
young man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned for a moment
towards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though a thunderbolt
had changed him into a corpse.

“Gentlemen,” said Andrea, commanding silence by his voice and manner;
“I owe you the proofs and explanations of what I have said.”

“But,” said the irritated president, “you called yourself Benedetto,
declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your country.”

“I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration I have
just made should not be withheld, which otherwise would certainly have
been the case. I now repeat that I was born at Auteuil on the night of
the 27th of September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M.
de Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will give them. I
was born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask;
my father took me in his arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me
in a napkin marked with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden,
where he buried me alive.”

A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the confidence of
the prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of M. de Villefort.

“But how have you become acquainted with all these details?” asked the
president.

“I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance against
my father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill him, had
introduced himself that night into the garden in which my father buried
me. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something in
the ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might contain
some treasure he turned up the ground, and found me still living. The
man carried me to the foundling asylum, where I was registered under
the number 37. Three months afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano
to Paris to fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me
away. Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in
Corsica.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which one could have fancied the
hall empty, so profound was the stillness.

“Proceed,” said the president.

“Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good people, who
adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over the virtues which
my adopted mother endeavored to instil into my heart. I increased in
wickedness till I committed crime. One day when I cursed Providence for
making me so wicked, and ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted father
said to me, ‘Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the crime is that of your
father, not yours,—of your father, who consigned you to hell if you
died, and to misery if a miracle preserved you alive.’ After that I
ceased to blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have uttered
the words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this whole
assembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime, punish
me, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my birth my fate
has been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity me.”

“But your mother?” asked the president.

“My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even wish to
know her name, nor do I know it.”

Just then a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the
crowd, who encircled the lady who had before fainted, and who now fell
into a violent fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, the
thick veil which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars
was recognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing
sensation in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain,
Villefort rose as he perceived her.

“The proofs, the proofs!” said the president; “remember this tissue of
horrors must be supported by the clearest proofs.”

“The proofs?” said Benedetto, laughing; “do you want proofs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for proofs.”

Everyone turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the
universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into the
midst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face indented
with the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of
astonishment.

“Father,” said Benedetto, “I am asked for proofs, do you wish me to
give them?”

“No, no, it is useless,” stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse voice;
“no, it is useless!”

“How useless?” cried the president, “what do you mean?”

“I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this deadly
weight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands of an
avenging God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this young man
is true.”

A dull, gloomy silence, like that which precedes some awful phenomenon
of nature, pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay.

“What, M. de Villefort,” cried the president, “do you yield to an
hallucination? What, are you no longer in possession of your senses?
This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your
reason. Come, recover.”

The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those of a man
under a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly pale.

“I am in possession of all my senses, sir,” he said; “my body alone
suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of all the
young man has brought against me, and from this hour hold myself under
the authority of the procureur who will succeed me.”

And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered
towards the door, which was mechanically opened by a door-keeper. The
whole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the revelation and
confession which had produced a catastrophe so different from that
which had been expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian
world.

“Well,” said Beauchamp, “let them now say that drama is unnatural!”

“_Ma foi!_” said Château-Renaud, “I would rather end my career like M.
de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared with this
catastrophe.”

“And moreover, it kills,” said Beauchamp.

“And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter,” said
Debray. “She did well to die, poor girl!”

“The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen,” said the president; “fresh
inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session by
another magistrate.”

As for Andrea, who was calm and more interesting than ever, he left the
hall, escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention.

“Well, what do you think of this, my fine fellow?” asked Debray of the
sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand.

“There will be extenuating circumstances,” he replied.



 Chapter 111. Expiation

Notwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open
before him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great afflictions
that even in the worst times the first emotion of a crowd has generally
been to sympathize with the sufferer in a great catastrophe. Many
people have been assassinated in a tumult, but even criminals have
rarely been insulted during trial. Thus Villefort passed through the
mass of spectators and officers of the Palais, and withdrew. Though he
had acknowledged his guilt, he was protected by his grief. There are
some situations which men understand by instinct, but which reason is
powerless to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives
utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those
who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an
entire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in
regarding his outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which
Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement,
every nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his
body seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his
agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through
force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of
deference to etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a
veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far
as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping
coachman by opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions,
and pointed towards the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; the carriage drove on.

All the weight of his fallen fortune seemed suddenly to crush him; he
could not foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future
with the indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a
contingency already familiar.



God was still in his heart. “God,” he murmured, not knowing what he
said,—“God—God!” Behind the event that had overwhelmed him he saw the
hand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while
turning restlessly on the cushions, felt something press against him.
He put out his hand to remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de
Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection
which darted through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife.

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“Oh!” he exclaimed, as though a red-hot iron were piercing his heart.

During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his
mind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself.
His wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had
condemned her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with
terror, covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of _his_
irreproachable virtue,—she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the
power of defending herself against his absolute and supreme will,—she
might at that very moment, perhaps, be preparing to die!

An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at that moment, doubtless,
she was recalling all her crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon
for her sins; perhaps she was even writing a letter imploring
forgiveness from her virtuous husband—a forgiveness she was purchasing
with her death! Villefort again groaned with anguish and despair.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that woman became criminal only from associating
with me! I carried the infection of crime with me, and she has caught
it as she would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I
have punished her—I have dared to tell her—_I_ have—‘Repent and die!’
But no, she must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee
from Paris and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the
scaffold; oh, Heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I
pronounce that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her,—I
will tell her daily that I also have committed a crime!—Oh, what an
alliance—the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am! She
_must_ live that my infamy may diminish hers.”

And Villefort dashed open the window in front of the carriage.

“Faster, faster!” he cried, in a tone which electrified the coachman.
The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.

“Yes, yes,” repeated Villefort, as he approached his home—“yes, that
woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son, the sole
survivor, with the exception of the indestructible old man, of the
wreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake she has committed
these crimes. We ought never to despair of softening the heart of a
mother who loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know that
she has been guilty. The events which have taken place in my house,
though they now occupy the public mind, will be forgotten in time, or
if, indeed, a few enemies should persist in remembering them, why then
I will add them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two,
or three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this gulf,
carrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be happy, since
her child, in whom all her love is centred, will be with her. I shall
have performed a good action, and my heart will be lighter.”

And the procureur breathed more freely than he had done for some time.

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The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out of
the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at his early
return; he could read no other expression on their features. Neither of
them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as
usual, nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier’s room, he perceived
two figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity
to know who was visiting his father; anxiety carried him on further.

“Come,” he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife’s room,
“nothing is changed here.”

He then closed the door of the landing.

“No one must disturb us,” he said; “I must speak freely to her, accuse
myself, and say”—he approached the door, touched the crystal handle,
which yielded to his hand. “Not locked,” he cried; “that is well.”

And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the
child went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to
be separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort’s eye
ran through the room.

“Not here,” he said; “doubtless she is in her bedroom.” He rushed
towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering.

“Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of
furniture being removed.

“Héloïse!” he repeated.

“Who is there?” answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that
voice more feeble than usual.

“Open the door!” cried Villefort. “Open; it is I.”

But notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish
in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it
open with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her
boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features
contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly.

“Héloïse, Héloïse!” he said, “what is the matter? Speak!” The young
woman extended her stiff white hands towards him.

“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to
tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on
the floor.

Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a
crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead.
Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshhold of the
door, fixing his eyes on the corpse.

“My son!” he exclaimed suddenly, “where is my son?—Edward, Edward!” and
he rushed out of the room, still crying, “Edward, Edward!” The name was
pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up.

“Where is my son?” asked Villefort; “let him be removed from the house,
that he may not see——”

“Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,” replied the valet.

“Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.”

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“No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went
into her room, and has not been downstairs since.”

A cold perspiration burst out on Villefort’s brow; his legs trembled,
and his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a
disordered watch.

“In Madame de Villefort’s room?” he murmured and slowly returned, with
one hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself
against the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his
unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room
which now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the
silence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

“Edward!” he stammered—“Edward!”

The child did not answer. Where, then, could he be, if he had entered
his mother’s room and not since returned? He stepped forward. The
corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched across the doorway leading
to the room in which Edward must be; those glaring eyes seemed to watch
over the threshold, and the lips bore the stamp of a terrible and
mysterious irony. Through the open door was visible a portion of the
boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch. Villefort
stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his child lying—no doubt
asleep—on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an exclamation of joy; a
ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair and darkness. He
had only to step over the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the child in
his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto
death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,
but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning
brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called
him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the
cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs;
he pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,—the child
was dead.

A folded paper fell from Edward’s breast. Villefort, thunderstruck,
fell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on the
floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper, and,
recognizing his wife’s writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its contents;
it ran as follows:

“You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son’s sake I
became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her son.”

Villefort could not believe his eyes,—he could not believe his reason;
he dragged himself towards the child’s body, and examined it as a
lioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his
breast, and he cried,

“Still the hand of God.”

The presence of the two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude
shared only by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage,
by his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which led the
Titans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He now arose,
his head bowed beneath the weight of grief, and, shaking his damp,
dishevelled hair, he who had never felt compassion for anyone
determined to seek his father, that he might have someone to whom he
could relate his misfortunes,—someone by whose side he might weep.

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He descended the little staircase with which we are acquainted, and
entered Noirtier’s room. The old man appeared to be listening
attentively and as affectionately as his infirmities would allow to the
Abbé Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving
the abbé, passed his hand across his brow. The past came to him like
one of those waves whose wrath foams fiercer than the others.

He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at
Auteuil, and then the visit the abbé had himself paid to his house on
the day of Valentine’s death.

“You here, sir!” he exclaimed; “do you, then, never appear but to act
as an escort to death?”

Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on the
magistrate’s face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood that
the revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this he was
ignorant.

“I came to pray over the body of your daughter.”

“And now why are you here?”

“I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and
that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I do.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully, “surely
that is not the voice of the Abbé Busoni!”

“No!” The abbé threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair, no
longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.

“It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!” exclaimed the procureur,
with a haggard expression.

“You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther back.”

“That voice, that voice!—where did I first hear it?”

“You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago,
the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran. Refer to
your papers.”

“You are not Busoni?—you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens! you are,
then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged
you in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!”

“Yes; you are now on the right path,” said the count, crossing his arms
over his broad chest; “search—search!”

“But what have I done to you?” exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was
balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a
dream nor reality; “what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!”

“You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father;
you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.”

“Who are you, then? Who are you?”

“I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château
d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when
he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds,
and led him to you!”

“Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney;
“you are——”

“I am Edmond Dantès!”

“You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the
wrist; “then come here!”

And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had
happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new
catastrophe.

“There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and
child, “see, are you well avenged?”

Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had
passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say,
“God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish
he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt
its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he
double-locked the door.

“My child,” cried Villefort, “he carries away the body of my child! Oh,
curses, woe, death to you!”

He tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was
transfixed to the spot,—his eyes glared as though they were starting
through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails
were stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as
though they would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain
with living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful
overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed
by a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened,
and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all
the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were
overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had
been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it
reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast.
Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he
asked:

“Where is M. de Villefort?”

The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo
ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld
Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and
digging the earth with fury.

“It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!”

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And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.

Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an
expression almost humble:

“Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——”

Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.

“Oh, I _will_ find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but
I _will_ find him, though I dig forever!”

Monte Cristo drew back in horror.

“Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of
the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street,
for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had
done. “Oh, enough of this,—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the
last.” On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a
ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb.

“Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said with a smile; “we leave Paris
tomorrow.”

“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.

“No,” replied Monte Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much
already.”

The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haydée
had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.



 Chapter 112. The Departure

The recent events formed the theme of conversation throughout all
Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in
their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive,
sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and
Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their
conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed
state of apathy.

“Indeed,” said Julie, “might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those
people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their
prosperity that an evil genius—like the wicked fairies in Perrault’s
stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism—hovered
over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal
neglect?”

“What a dire misfortune!” said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and
Danglars.

“What dreadful sufferings!” said Julie, remembering Valentine, but
whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her
brother.

“If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow,” said Emmanuel, “it
must be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the past
lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment.”

“Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?” said Julie. “When my
father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing
suicide, had anyone then said, ‘This man deserves his misery,’ would
not that person have been deceived?”

“Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned
to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him.”

Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell
was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had
arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count
of Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a
cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again
immediately.

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“Maximilian,” said the count, without appearing to notice the different
impressions which his presence produced on the little circle, “I come
to seek you.”

“To seek me?” repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “has it not been agreed that I should take
you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for
departure?”

“I am ready,” said Maximilian; “I came expressly to wish them
farewell.”

“Whither are you going, count?” asked Julie.

“In the first instance to Marseilles, madame.”

“To Marseilles!” exclaimed the young couple.

“Yes, and I take your brother with me.”

“Oh, count.” said Julie, “will you restore him to us cured of his
melancholy?” Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his
countenance.

“You perceive, then, that he is not happy?” said the count.

“Yes,” replied the young woman; “and fear much that he finds our home
but a dull one.”

“I will undertake to divert him,” replied the count.

“I am ready to accompany you, sir,” said Maximilian. “Adieu, my kind
friends! Emmanuel—Julie—farewell!”

“How farewell?” exclaimed Julie; “do you leave us thus, so suddenly,
without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?”

“Needless delays but increase the grief of parting,” said Monte Cristo,
“and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything
requisite; at least, I advised him to do so.”

“I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed,” said Morrel in
his tranquil but mournful manner.

“Good,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “in these prompt arrangements we
recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier.”

“And you leave us,” said Julie, “at a moment’s warning? you do not give
us a day—no, not even an hour before your departure?”

“My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five
days.”

“But does Maximilian go to Rome?” exclaimed Emmanuel.

“I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,” said Morrel,
with a smile full of grief; “I am under his orders for the next month.”

“Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!” said Julie.

“Maximilian goes with _me_,” said the count, in his kindest and most
persuasive manner; “therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your
brother’s account.”

“Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!” Morrel repeated.

“His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,” said Julie.
“Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something
from us.”

“Pshaw!” said Monte Cristo, “you will see him return to you gay,
smiling, and joyful.”

Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.

“We must leave you,” said Monte Cristo.

50203m



“Before you quit us, count,” said Julie, “will you permit us to express
to you all that the other day——”

“Madame,” interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, “all that
you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes;
the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like
benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you
again, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I
am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances
of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so
far as to say, ‘Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you
will never see me again.’”

“Never see you again?” exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled
down Julie’s cheeks, “never behold you again? It is not a man, then,
but some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of
returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good.”

“Say not so,” quickly returned Monte Cristo—“say not so, my friends;
angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate
is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary,
overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as
unmerited as your words are sacrilegious.”

And pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms,
he extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this
abode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who
followed him passively, with the indifference which had been
perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned
him.

“Restore my brother to peace and happiness,” whispered Julie to Monte
Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done eleven
years before on the staircase leading to Morrel’s study.

“You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?” asked he, smiling.

“Oh, yes,” was the ready answer.

“Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord.”

As we have before said, the post-chaise was waiting; four powerful
horses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali,
apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of
the steps, his face bathed in perspiration.

“Well,” asked the count in Arabic, “have you been to see the old man?”
Ali made a sign in the affirmative.

“And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?”

The slave respectfully signalized that he had.

“And what did he say, or rather do?” Ali placed himself in the light,
so that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his
intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes,
as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying “Yes.”

“Good; he accepts,” said Monte Cristo. “Now let us go.”

50205m



These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way,
and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement.
Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half
an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had
just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali’s
finger. The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door.
It was a lovely starlight night—they had just reached the top of the
hill Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its
millions of phosphoric waves into light—waves indeed more noisy, more
passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of
the tempestuous ocean,—waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do,—waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what
falls within their grasp.

The count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went
on for a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon
the great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern
Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation of the religious
enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,—

“Great city,” murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as
if in prayer, “less than six months have elapsed since first I entered
thy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and
that he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my
presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had
the power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee
without pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows
that the power confided to me has never been made subservient to my
personal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy
palpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient
miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence.
Now my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst
neither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!”

His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the
night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the
door was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the
other side of the hill in a whirlwind of dust and noise.

Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel was
dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.

“Morrel,” said the count to him at length, “do you repent having
followed me?”

“No, count; but to leave Paris——”

“If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have
left you there.”

“Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is
like losing her a second time.”

“Maximilian,” said the count, “the friends that we have lost do not
repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts,
and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by
them. I have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one
who gave me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and
intelligence on me. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when
doubtful, and if I ever do any good, it is due to their beneficent
counsels. Listen to the voice of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether
you ought to preserve this melancholy exterior towards me.”

“My friend,” said Maximilian, “the voice of my heart is very sorrowful,
and promises me nothing but misfortune.”

“It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black
cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and
consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.”

“That may possibly be true,” said Maximilian, and he again subsided
into his thoughtful mood.

The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the
unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like
shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn
seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as
rapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived at
Châlons, where the count’s steamboat waited for them. Without the loss
of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers
embarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two
paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like
a bird.

Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is
generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind
which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the
point of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.

As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost
superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been
taken for an exile about to revisit his native land.

Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view,—Marseilles, white,
fervid, full of life and energy,—Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre
and Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of the
Mediterranean,—Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful memories
were stirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort
Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,28 the port with its
brick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it was with
one accord that they stopped on the Canebière.

A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle
usually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their
relations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful
leave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the
whole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who
witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the
current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian
from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.

“Here,” said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,—“here is
the spot where my father stopped, when the _Pharaon_ entered the port;
it was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and
dishonor, threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my
face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our
meeting wept also.”

Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,—“I was there;” at the same time
pointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the very
direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard,
and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel
about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must
have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Morrel, “I do not deceive myself—that young
man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant,
is Albert de Morcerf!”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I recognized him.”

“How so?—you were looking the other way.”

50209m



The count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want
to make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who
soon disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend:

“Dear Maximilian,” said the count, “have you nothing to do in this
land?”

“I have to weep over the grave of my father,” replied Morrel in a
broken voice.

“Well, then, go,—wait for me there, and I will soon join you.”

“You leave me, then?”

“Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.”

Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to
him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he
quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte
Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he
then walked slowly towards the Allées de Meilhan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of
this story.

It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which
forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,
covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened
branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to
the door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been
painted or varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry
season to close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its
crumbling antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and
picturesque, and was the same that old Dantès formerly inhabited—the
only difference being that the old man occupied merely the garret,
while the whole house was now placed at the command of Mercédès by the
count.

The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret
entered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when
Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and
lost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old
acquaintances of his; he knew better than anyone else how to open that
weather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise
the latch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any other
intimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master of
the place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a little
garden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this
garden Mercédès had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum
of money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as having
been placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden
were easily seen from the steps of the street-door.

Monte Cristo, on stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost
a deep sob; he looked in the direction whence it came, and there under
an arbor of Virginia jessamine,29 with its thick foliage and beautiful
long purple flowers, he saw Mercédès seated, with her head bowed, and
weeping bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by
her hands was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been
so long restrained by the presence of her son.

Monte Cristo advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel.
Mercédès raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a
man before her.

50211m



“Madame,” said the count, “it is no longer in my power to restore you
to happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it
as coming from a friend?”

“I am, indeed, most wretched,” replied Mercédès. “Alone in the world, I
had but my son, and he has left me!”

“He possesses a noble heart, madame,” replied the count, “and he has
acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country;
some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote
their blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he
remained with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor
would he have participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength
and honor by struggling with adversity, which he will convert into
prosperity. Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to
say you will confide it to safe hands.”

“Oh,” replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head, “the
prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart,
I pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup
of adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that
the grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing
me back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to
meet death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own.”

“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “your words sear and embitter my heart, the
more so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of
all your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You
render me still more unhappy——”

“Hate you, blame you—_you_, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has
spared my son’s life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary
intention to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh,
look at me closely, and discover, if you can, even the semblance of a
reproach in me.”

The count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercédès, who arose partly
from her seat and extended both her hands towards him.

“Oh, look at me,” continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy,
“my eyes no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long
fled since I used to smile on Edmond Dantès, who anxiously looked out
for me from the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old
father. Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and the
present. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no,
Edmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable
creature that I am!” cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her
eyes to heaven. “I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three
ingredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am I?”

Monte Cristo approached her, and silently took her hand.

“No,” said she, withdrawing it gently—“no, my friend, touch me not. You
have spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance I
was the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice, and by
self-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted against my
judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am
sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me,
reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See” (and she
exposed her face completely to view)—“see, misfortune has silvered my
hair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rim
of purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary,—you
are still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith;
because you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and
God has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have
denied God and he has abandoned me.”

50213m



Mercédès burst into tears; her woman’s heart was breaking under its
load of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a kiss on
it; but she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth than
he would have bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint.

“It often happens,” continued she, “that a first fault destroys the
prospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you?
What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secret
recesses of my heart?—only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like a
woman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to do
so—why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have
rescued the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he
were? Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not
accessory to his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for
him, not remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my
sake he had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by
accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to
depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base,
cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like all
renegades I am of evil omen to those who surround me!”

“No, Mercédès,” said Monte Cristo, “no; you judge yourself with too
much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief that
disarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible and
offended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I was
destined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I have
prostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would have
sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that were
indissolubly linked with it. But—and I say it with some pride,
Mercédès—God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present,
and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a
divine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful
sufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution
of those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; when
suddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light and
liberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, so
unbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be
conscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own great
designs. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something
confided to me for a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a
life which you once, Mercédès, had the power to render blissful; not
one hour of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an
exterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some
enterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my
weapons, I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my
body to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I
taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and
my mouth to smile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured,
confiding, and forgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning,
and wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the
path that was opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached the
goal; but woe to those who stood in my pathway!”

50215m



“Enough,” said Mercédès; “enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who
alone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had
she crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still,
Edmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and
the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of
mankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you
and other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is
nothing in the world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must
say farewell, Edmond, and let us part.”

“Before I leave you, Mercédès, have you no request to make?” said the
count.

“I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,—the happiness of my
son.”

“Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to
promote his happiness.”

“Thank you, Edmond.”

“But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercédès?”

“For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One
is that of Edmond Dantès, lost to me long, long since. He had my love!
That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my
heart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains.
The other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of
Edmond Dantès. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead.”

“Your son shall be happy, Mercédès,” repeated the count.

“Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly
confer.”

“But what are your intentions?”

Mercédès smiled sadly.

“To say that I shall live here, like the Mercédès of other times,
gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me.
I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days in
prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum
of money buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned,
will be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy
respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living—that will signify
but little, that concerns God, you, and myself.”

“Mercédès,” said the count, “I do not say it to blame you, but you made
an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortune
amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you,
in virtue of your vigilance and economy.”

“I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot
accept it, Edmond—my son would not permit it.”

“Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de
Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will
submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you
oppose them?”

“You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I
have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so
overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am
become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the
talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die.
If succor be sent to me, I will accept it.”

“Ah, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “you should not talk thus! It is not
so we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the
contrary, we are all free agents.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Mercédès, “if it were so, if I possessed free-will,
but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive
me to despair.”

Monte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence of her
grief.

“Will you not even say you will see me again?” he asked.

“On the contrary, we shall meet again,” said Mercédès, pointing to
heaven with solemnity. “I tell you so to prove to you that I still
hope.”

And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count,
Mercédès rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left
the house and turned towards the quay. But Mercédès did not witness his
departure, although she was seated at the little window of the room
which had been occupied by old Dantès. Her eyes were straining to see
the ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her
voice involuntarily murmured softly:

“Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!”



 Chapter 113. The Past

The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left
Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little
Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached
the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an
abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation
which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so
many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat
with them. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in
that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys
superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his
calculations if he now found cause to blame himself.

“I cannot have deceived myself,” he said; “I must look upon the past in
a false light. What!” he continued, “can I have been following a false
path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have
sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded
all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I
cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why
I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the
past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes
indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded
in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he
received it.

“Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou
awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible
millionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation and
wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted,
and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and
splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks
to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy
splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living
body for a corpse!”

As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie.
It was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been
conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smiling
and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.

“And yet they were the same,” murmured Monte Cristo, “only now it is
broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the
place, and makes it appear so cheerful.”

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to
the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat
with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who
immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for
a good fare.

The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red
and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The
sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of
fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in
another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be
seen the fishermen’s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the
merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and
the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of
Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible
voyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory.
The solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the
Château d’If, which told him whither they were leading him; the
struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard;
his despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when
the muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead—all these were brought
before him in vivid and frightful reality.

Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which
after the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did
the count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which
formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting
boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with
black, and the gigantic structure of the Château d’If seemed like the
phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count
instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was
obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice:

“Sir, we are at the landing.”

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he
had been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the
slope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long
to Dantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the
oar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the
flying spray of the sea.

50219m



There had been no prisoners confined in the Château d’If since the
revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for
the prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit
to visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror.

The count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there;
but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other
employment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since
1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly
endeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the
spot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed
the new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had
been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log
of wood.

“Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one
relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?” asked the count; “are there any
traditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult to
believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?”

“Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this
very dungeon.”

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost
forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled
his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing
the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still
seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.

“Would you like to hear the story, sir?”

“Yes; relate it,” said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to
still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.

“This dungeon,” said the concierge, “was, it appears, some time ago
occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of
industry. Another person was confined in the Château at the same time,
but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.”

“Ah, indeed?—mad!” repeated Monte Cristo; “and what was his mania?”

“He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.”

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there
was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there
had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria
offered the treasures.

“Could the prisoners see each other?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance
of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other.”

“And which of them made this passage?”

“Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and
industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was
too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea.”

“Blind fools!” murmured the count.

“However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by
what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet
remaining of his work. Do you see it?” and the man held the torch to
the wall.

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“Ah, yes; I see,” said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.

“The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how
long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died.
Now guess what the young one did?”

“Tell me.”

“He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its
face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the
entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body.
Did you ever hear of such an idea?”

Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the
sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold
dews of death, had touched his face.

The jailer continued:

“Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the
Château d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the
grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his
shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Château
frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the
sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of
the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth
was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what
they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse
was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost
immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.”

The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his
forehead, and his heart was full of anguish.

“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement of
forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts
for vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever
heard of afterwards?”

“Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must
have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,
from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he
must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to
the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!”

“Then you pity him?” said the count.

“_Ma foi_, yes; though he was in his own element.”

“What do you mean?”

“The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined
for plotting with the Bonapartists.”

“Great is truth,” muttered the count, “fire cannot burn, nor water
drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who
narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the
chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit
through the air to be swallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added
aloud, “Was his name ever known?”

“Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.”

“Oh, Villefort, Villefort,” murmured the count, “this scene must often
have haunted thy sleepless hours!”

“Do you wish to see anything more, sir?” said the concierge.

“Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé’s room.”

“Ah! No. 27.”

“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the
abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his
name.

“Come, sir.”

“Wait,” said Monte Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around this
room.”

“This is fortunate,” said the guide; “I have forgotten the other key.”

“Go and fetch it.”

“I will leave you the torch, sir.”

“No, take it away; I can see in the dark.”

“Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness
that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon.”

“He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,” muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.
Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly
as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his
dungeon.

“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is
the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of
my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those
figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the
age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still
living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free.
After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not
reckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped the
count.

He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès.
On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white
letters of which were still visible on the green wall:

“‘_Oh, God!_’” he read, “‘_preserve my memory!_’”

“Oh, yes,” he cried, “that was my only prayer at last; I no longer
begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful.
Oh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!”

At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the
guide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.

“Follow me, sir;” and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted
him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte
Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that
met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which
he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the
poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the
anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with
a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

“This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young
man entered;” and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained
unclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learned
gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated
together for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary
years.”

Dantès took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who
had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them
merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch
revealed their true worth.

“Sir,” he said, “you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.”

“I know it.”

The concierge looked upon the count with surprise.

“Sir,” he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune—“sir, I
cannot understand your generosity!”

“Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your
story touched me more than it would others.”

“Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.”

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“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank
you!”

“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left
in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to
sound the wall.”

“Ah,” cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé’s two hiding-places.

“After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the
head of the bed, and at the hearth.”

“Yes,” said the count, “yes.”

“I raised the stones, and found——”

“A rope-ladder and some tools?”

“How do you know that?” asked the guide in astonishment.

“I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally
found in prisoners’ cells.”

“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.”

“And have you them yet?”

“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great
curiosities; but I have still something left.”

“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently.

“A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.”

“Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do
well.”

“I will run for it, sir;” and the guide went out.

Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had
converted into an altar.

“Oh, second father,” he exclaimed, “thou who hast given me liberty,
knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to
ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the
depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can
respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the
soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then,
noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love
thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me
some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,
if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed
his head, and clasped his hands together.

“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of
cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The
manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of
Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the
epigraph, and he read:

“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions
under foot, saith the Lord.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” And
feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which
contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

“Here,” he said, “take this pocket-book.”

“Do you give it to me?”

“Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;”
and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was
more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the
corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, “To Marseilles!”

Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.

“Woe,” he cried, “to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and
woe to those who forgot that I was there!”

50229m



As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his
head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was
complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in
a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure
of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a
tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions,
had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from
hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had
fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old
wood in the churchyard.

The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his
children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had
preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on
which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a
little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel
was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the
graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.

50231m



“Maximilian,” said the count, “you should not look on the graves, but
there;” and he pointed upwards.

“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me
so as we left Paris?”

“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?”

“I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less
painfully here than anywhere else.”

“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with
me, do I not?”

“Ah, count, I shall forget it.”

“No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,
because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.”

“Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.”

“I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.”

“Impossible!”

“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “it is the infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!”

“What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and
desired in the world?”

“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I
knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a
woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed
bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of
Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those
caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had
dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the
present), and cast him into a dungeon.”

“Ah,” said Morrel, “one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.”

“He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,” said the count, placing his
hand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.

“Fourteen years!” he muttered.

“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had many
moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the
unhappiest of men.”

“Well?” asked Morrel.

“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human
means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of
the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he
miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first
cry was for his father; but that father was dead.”

“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel.

“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and
full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of
Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his
tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father
you so well loved.’”

“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel.

“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not
even find his father’s grave.”

“But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?”

“You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——”

“She was dead?”

“Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the
persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more
unhappy lover than you.”

“And has he found consolation?”

“He has at least found peace.”

“And does he ever expect to be happy?”

“He hopes so, Maximilian.”

The young man’s head fell on his breast.

“You have my promise,” he said, after a minute’s pause, extending his
hand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——”

“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of
Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of
Bastia, it will be called the _Eurus_. You will give your name to the
captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?”

“But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——”

“Child,” replied the count, “not to know the value of a man’s word! I
have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will
assist you. Morrel, farewell!”

“Do you leave me?”

“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with
misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear
aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not
a fable, but an allegory.”

“When do you leave?”

“Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from
you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?”

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“I am entirely yours, count.”

Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was
ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer
soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was
scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.



 Chapter 114. Peppino

At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a
man travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed
the little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover
a great deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed
in a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey,
but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and
brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might
be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with
which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman.

Another proof that he was a native of the universal country was
apparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the
terms used in music, and which like the “goddam” of Figaro, served all
possible linguistic requirements. “_Allegro!_” he called out to the
postilions at every ascent. “_Moderato!_” he cried as they descended.
And heaven knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by
the way of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom
they were addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome
is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic
curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to
catch sight of the dome of Saint Peter’s, which may be seen long before
any other object is distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook
from his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after
having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said:

“Good! I have it still!”

50235m



The carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, and
stopped at the Hôtel d’Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,
received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller
alighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house
of Thomson & French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one
of the most celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi,
near St. Peter’s.

In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event.
Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at
elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully
curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and
the horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the
Papal States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high
water from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of
Rome, more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language,
more especially the French, they heard the traveller order an
apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of
Thomson & French.

The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the
_cicerone_, a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and
without having been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no
attention from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a
Parisian police agent would have used.

The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &
French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left
word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him
at the bankers’ door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The
Frenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately
entered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers
who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,
churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had
followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and
entered the first room; his shadow did the same.

“Messrs. Thomson & French?” inquired the stranger.

An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first
desk.

“Whom shall I announce?” said the attendant.

“Baron Danglars.”

“Follow me,” said the man.

A door opened, through which the attendant and the baron disappeared.
The man who had followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk
continued to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved
profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the pen of
the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and
appearing to be perfectly sure of privacy:

“Ah, ha,” he said, “here you are, Peppino!”

“Yes,” was the laconic reply. “You have found out that there is
something worth having about this large gentleman?”

“There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it.”

“You know his business here, then.”

“_Pardieu_, he has come to draw, but I don’t know how much!”

“You will know presently, my friend.”

“Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other
day.”

“What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who
carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?”

50237m



“No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian
prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000.”

“You must have searched badly.”

“Luigi Vampa himself searched.”

“In that case he must either have paid his debts——”

“A Russian do that?”

“Or spent the money?”

“Possibly, after all.”

“Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman
will transact his business without my knowing the sum.”

Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a
few prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by which
Danglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten
minutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance.

“Well?” asked Peppino of his friend.

“Joy, joy—the sum is large!”

“Five or six millions, is it not?”

“Yes, you know the amount.”

“On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?”

“Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?”

“I told you we were informed beforehand.”

“Then why do you apply to me?”

“That I may be sure I have the right man.”

“Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?”

“Hush—here is our man!” The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his
beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.
Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the
door. Peppino followed Danglars.

According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door.
The guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn
their hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young
man of twenty. The _cicerone_ reclosed the door, and sprang up by the
side of the coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.

“Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?” asked the _cicerone_.

“I did not come to Rome to see,” said Danglars aloud; then he added
softly, with an avaricious smile, “I came to touch!” and he rapped his
pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.

“Then your excellency is going——”

“To the hotel.”

“Casa Pastrini!” said the _cicerone_ to the coachman, and the carriage
drove rapidly on.

50239m



Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his apartment, and Peppino
stationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, after
having whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants of
Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter,
who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullest
speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing
his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he
had a game of _morra_ with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to
console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.

The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early;
he had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at
all. He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the
beauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars
had not reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of
the posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o’clock, and the
_cicerone_ did not bring the passport till three.

All these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the door
of Signor Pastrini’s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were
also not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, who
for the sake of gain styled him “your excellency.” As Danglars had
hitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather
flattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen silver
coins among the beggars, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him
“your highness.”

“Which road?” asked the postilion in Italian.

“The Ancona road,” replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the
question and answer, and the horses galloped off.

Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he would receive one part
of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he would find the
rest, he meant to take up his residence in the latter town, which he
had been told was a city of pleasure.

He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began
to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would
have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long it
would be before they reached the next town. “_Non capisco_” (do not
understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to
imply, “Very well.” The carriage again moved on.

“I will stop at the first posting-house,” said Danglars to himself.

He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the
previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night’s rest. He
was luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double
springs; he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the
relay to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation
could present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?

Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten
minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d’Armilly; the
same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which he
intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for
contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt
more violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt
that he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same
country, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like
granite giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold,
dull, and rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to
remain in the warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to
make inquiries of a postilion whose only answer was “_Non capisco_.”

50241m



Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would
be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars
fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his
eyes and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the
midst of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what
seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.

Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand
payment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage
of the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but
the horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without
anyone claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened
the door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled
on. The baron was completely roused.

“Eh?” he said to the postilion, “eh, _mio caro?_”

This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from
hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But _mio caro_
did not reply. Danglars then opened the window.

“Come, my friend,” he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,
“where are we going?”

“_Dentro la testa!_” answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied
by a menacing gesture.

Danglars thought _dentro la testa_ meant, “Put in your head!” He was
making rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without some
uneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead of
being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with
ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially
one in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality
which in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see
distinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed.
Before we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see
double; and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble.
Danglars observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the
carriage.

“Some gendarme!” he exclaimed. “Can I have been intercepted by French
telegrams to the pontifical authorities?”

He resolved to end his anxiety. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“_Dentro la testa_,” replied the same voice, with the same menacing
accent.

Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping on
that side.

“Decidedly,” said Danglars, with the perspiration on his forehead, “I
must be under arrest.” And he threw himself back in the calash, not
this time to sleep, but to think.

Directly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts,
those stone phantoms which he had before remarked, only then they were
on the right hand, now they were on the left. He understood that they
had described a circle, and were bringing him back to Rome.

“Oh, unfortunate!” he cried, “they must have obtained my arrest.”

The carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed. An hour of
terror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed that they were on the
road back. At length he saw a dark mass, against which it seemed as if
the carriage was about to dash; but the vehicle turned to one side,
leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw that it was one of the
ramparts encircling Rome.

50243m



“_Mon dieu!_” cried Danglars, “we are not returning to Rome; then it is
not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea
presents itself—what if they should be——”

His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so
little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the
adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that
he should marry Mademoiselle Eugénie. “They are robbers, perhaps,” he
muttered.

Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel road.
Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived
monuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details
Morcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he felt
sure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of
valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla’s circus.
On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it
stopped. At the same time the door was opened. “_Scendi!_” exclaimed a
commanding voice.

Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak Italian, he
understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked around him.
Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion.

“_Di quà_,” said one of the men, descending a little path leading out
of the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and
had no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were
following him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal
distances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten
minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his
guide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;
three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the
centre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move.

“_Avanti!_” said the same sharp and imperative voice.

This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word and
gesture had not explained the speaker’s meaning, it was clearly
expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that
he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who
dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but
lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road.

Peppino stopped before a rock overhung by thick hedges; the rock, half
open, afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the
evil spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who
followed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer any
doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars
acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions,
and who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,
certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he
slid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he
touched the ground, he opened his eyes.

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The path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared little for being
recognized now that he was in his own territories, struck a light and
lit a torch. Two other men descended after Danglars forming the
rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he happened to stop, they came
by a gentle declivity to the intersection of two corridors. The walls
were hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemed
in contrast with the white stones to open their large dark eyes, like
those which we see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the
rings of his carbine against his left hand.

“Who comes there?” he cried.

“A friend, a friend!” said Peppino; “but where is the captain?”

“There,” said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious
crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the
passage through the large arched openings.

“Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!” said Peppino in Italian, and taking
Danglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an opening
resembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which the
captain appeared to have made his dwelling-place.

“Is this the man?” asked the captain, who was attentively reading
Plutarch’s _Life of Alexander_.

“Himself, captain—himself.”

“Very well, show him to me.”

At this rather impertinent order, Peppino raised his torch to the face
of Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes
burnt. His agitated features presented the appearance of pale and
hideous terror.

“The man is tired,” said the captain, “conduct him to his bed.”

“Oh,” murmured Danglars, “that bed is probably one of the coffins
hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from
one of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness.”

From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the
chamber now arose the companions of the man who had been found by
Albert de Morcerf reading _Cæsar’s Commentaries_, and by Danglars
studying the _Life of Alexander_. The banker uttered a groan and
followed his guide; he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer
possessed strength, will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led
him. At length he found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he
mechanically lifted his foot five or six times. Then a low door was
opened before him, and bending his head to avoid striking his forehead
he entered a small room cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though
empty, and dry, though situated at an immeasurable distance under the
earth. A bed of dried grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one
corner. Danglars brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave
some promise of safety.

“Oh, God be praised,” he said; “it is a real bed!”

This was the second time within the hour that he had invoked the name
of God. He had not done so for ten years before.

“_Ecco!_” said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closed
the door upon him.

A bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there had been no bolt,
it would have been impossible for him to pass through the midst of the
garrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round a
master whom our readers must have recognized as the famous Luigi Vampa.

Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose existence he would not
believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in Paris; and not only did
he recognize him, but the cell in which Albert had been confined, and
which was probably kept for the accommodation of strangers. These
recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure by Danglars, and
restored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the bandits had not
despatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill him at all.
They had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he had only a
few louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed.

He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as he
considered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed his
own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000
livres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum
he could manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably
secure in being able to extricate himself from his position, provided
he were not rated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he
stretched himself on his bed, and after turning over two or three
times, fell asleep with the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi
Vampa was studying.



 Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare

We awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke.
To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet
drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which
diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of
the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like
the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation a
single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, “I am in the hands of the brigands of whom
Albert de Morcerf spoke.” His first idea was to breathe, that he might
know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from _Don Quixote_, the
only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered.

“No,” he cried, “they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed
me!” and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the
hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were
in his trousers pocket, and in that of his greatcoat he found the
little note-case containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs.

“Singular bandits!” he exclaimed; “they have left me my purse and
pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed.
Hello, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is.”

Danglars’ watch, one of Breguet’s repeaters, which he had carefully
wound up on the previous night, struck half past five. Without this,
Danglars would have been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did
not reach his cell. Should he demand an explanation from the bandits,
or should he wait patiently for them to propose it? The last
alternative seemed the most prudent, so he waited until twelve o’clock.
During all this time a sentinel, who had been relieved at eight
o’clock, had been watching his door.

50249m



Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the person who kept
watch over him. He had noticed that a few rays, not of daylight, but
from a lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined planks of the door; he
approached just as the brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful
of brandy, which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent
forth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars. “Faugh!” he
exclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of his cell.

At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and Danglars,
wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached the door again.

He was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a
flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around
his shoulders.

“Ah, ha,” cried Danglars, “this fellow is more like an ogre than
anything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good
eating!”

We see that Danglars was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as
though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black
bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring
voraciously.

“May I be hanged,” said Danglars, glancing at the bandit’s dinner
through the crevices of the door,—“may I be hanged if I can understand
how people can eat such filth!” and he withdrew to seat himself upon
his goat-skin, which reminded him of the smell of the brandy.

But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are certain
invitations contained in even the coarsest food which appeal very
irresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his own not to be very
well supplied just then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the
bread less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful
vulgar onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and side-dishes,
which his cook prepared in a very superior manner whenever he said,
“Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee today.” He got
up and knocked on the door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew
that he was heard, so he redoubled his blows.

“_Che cosa?_” asked the bandit.

“Come, come,” said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door, “I
think it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat!”

But whether he did not understand him, or whether he had received no
orders respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without
answering, went on with his dinner. Danglars’ feelings were hurt, and
not wishing to put himself under obligations to the brute, the banker
threw himself down again on his goat-skin and did not breathe another
word.

Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another bandit.
Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the
stomach, arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door,
and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was,
indeed, Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as
possible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between
his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-peas stewed with bacon. Near
the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of Villetri grapes and a
flask of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched
these preparations and his mouth watered.

“Come,” he said to himself, “let me try if he will be more tractable
than the other;” and he tapped gently at the door.

“_On y va_,” (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting the house
of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its idioms.

Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in
such a furious manner, “Put in your head!” But this was not the time
for recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said
with a gracious smile:

“Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner?”

“Does your excellency happen to be hungry?”

“Happen to be hungry,—that’s pretty good, when I haven’t eaten for
twenty-four hours!” muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud, “Yes, sir,
I am hungry—very hungry.”

“And your excellency wants something to eat?”

“At once, if possible”

“Nothing easier,” said Peppino. “Here you can get anything you want; by
paying for it, of course, as among honest folk.”

“Of course!” cried Danglars. “Although, in justice, the people who
arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you.”

“That is not the custom, excellency,” said Peppino.

“A bad reason,” replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his
keeper; “but I am content. Let me have some dinner!”

“At once! What would your excellency like?”

And Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so that the steam rose
directly under the nostrils of Danglars. “Give your orders.”

“Have you kitchens here?”

“Kitchens?—of course—complete ones.”

“And cooks?”

“Excellent!”

“Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat.”

“As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?”

“Yes, a fowl.”

Peppino, turning around, shouted, “A fowl for his excellency!” His
voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome, graceful, and
half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his
head, without the assistance of his hands.

“I could almost believe myself at the Café de Paris,” murmured
Danglars.

“Here, your excellency,” said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young
bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool and
the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars
asked for a knife and fork.

“Here, excellency,” said Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and
a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the
other, and was about to cut up the fowl.

“Pardon me, excellency,” said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker’s
shoulder; “people pay here before they eat. They might not be
satisfied, and——”

“Ah, ha,” thought Danglars, “this is not so much like Paris, except
that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I’ll fix that all right.
I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a
fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There,” he said, throwing a
louis down.

Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve the
fowl.

“Stay a moment, your excellency,” said Peppino, rising; “you still owe
me something.”

“I said they would skin me,” thought Danglars; but resolving to resist
the extortion, he said, “Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl?”

“Your excellency has given me a louis on account.”

“A louis on account for a fowl?”

“Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis.”

Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke.

“Very droll,” he muttered, “very droll indeed,” and he again began to
carve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron’s right hand with his
left, and held out his other hand.

“Come, now,” he said.

“Is it not a joke?” said Danglars.

“We never joke,” replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker.

“What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl!”

“Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in
these horrible caves!”

“Come, come, this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very
hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you.”

“Then that will make only 4,998 louis more,” said Peppino with the same
indifference. “I shall get them all in time.”

“Oh, as for that,” said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the
jest,—“as for that you won’t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do
not know with whom you have to deal!”

50253m



Peppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars
threw himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door,
again began eating his peas and bacon. Though Danglars could not see
Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation.
He was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man.
“Brute!” said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him, and without
even turning his head continued to eat slowly. Danglars’ stomach felt
so empty, that it seemed as if it would be impossible ever to fill it
again; still he had patience for another half-hour, which appeared to
him like a century. He again arose and went to the door.

“Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what
they want.”

“Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give
your orders, and we will execute them.”

“Then open the door directly.” Peppino obeyed. “Now look here, I want
something to eat! To eat—do you hear?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Come, you understand me.”

“What would your excellency like to eat?”

“A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this
accursed place.”

“Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!” he called. The youth
brought a small loaf. “How much?” asked Danglars.

“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You
have paid two louis in advance.”

50255m



“What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?”

“One hundred thousand francs,” repeated Peppino.

“But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!”

“We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing
whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it is
always the same price.”

“What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is
perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you
intend starving me to death.”

“Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide.
Pay and eat.”

“And what am I to pay with, brute?” said Danglars, enraged. “Do you
suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?”

“Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be
fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000.”

Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood
the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just
before.

“Come,” he said, “if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be
satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?”

“Certainly,” said Peppino.

“But how can I pay them?”

“Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson &
French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these
gentlemen, and our banker shall take it.”

Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took the
pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and signed
it.

“Here,” he said, “here is a draft at sight.”

“And here is your fowl.”

Danglars sighed while he carved the fowl; it appeared very thin for the
price it had cost. As for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively,
put it into his pocket, and continued eating his peas.



 Chapter 116. The Pardon

The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that
dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that he
would be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had
concealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of
his cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had
forgotten that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave
to the roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called
out. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it
would be better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he
sent for Peppino.

“Here I am, your excellency,” said Peppino, with an eagerness which
Danglars thought favorable to him. “What do you want?”

“Something to drink.”

“Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near Rome.”

“Then give me water,” cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry the blow.

“Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency,—there has
been such a drought.”

“Come,” thought Danglars, “it is the same old story.” And while he
smiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a joke, he felt his
temples get moist with perspiration.

“Come, my friend,” said Danglars, seeing that he made no impression on
Peppino, “you will not refuse me a glass of wine?”

“I have already told you that we do not sell at retail.”

“Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive.”

“They are all the same price.”

“And what is that?”

“Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle.”

“Tell me,” cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness Harpagon30 alone
has been capable of revealing—“tell me that you wish to despoil me of
all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal.”

“It is possible such may be the master’s intention.”

“The master?—who is he?”

“The person to whom you were conducted yesterday.”

“Where is he?”

“Here.”

“Let me see him.”

“Certainly.”

And the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before Danglars.

“You sent for me?” he said to the prisoner.

“Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here?”

“Yes, your excellency. What then?”

“How much do you require for my ransom?”

“Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you.” Danglars felt a dreadful
spasm dart through his heart.

“But this is all I have left in the world,” he said, “out of an immense
fortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also.”

“We are forbidden to shed your blood.”

“And by whom are you forbidden?”

“By him we obey.”

“You do, then, obey someone?”

“Yes, a chief.”

“I thought you said you were the chief?”

“So I am of these men; but there is another over me.”

“And did your superior order you to treat me in this way?”

“Yes.”

“But my purse will be exhausted.”

“Probably.”

“Come,” said Danglars, “will you take a million?”

“No.”

“Two millions?—three?—four? Come, four? I will give them to you on
condition that you let me go.”

“Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000? This is a
kind of usury, banker, that I do not understand.”

“Take all, then—take all, I tell you, and kill me!”

“Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and that would
produce an appetite it would require a million a day to satisfy. Be
more economical.”

“But when I have no more money left to pay you?” asked the infuriated
Danglars.

“Then you must suffer hunger.”

“Suffer hunger?” said Danglars, becoming pale.

“Most likely,” replied Vampa coolly.

“But you say you do not wish to kill me?”

“No.”

“And yet you will let me perish with hunger?”

“Ah, that is a different thing.”

“Well, then, wretches,” cried Danglars, “I will defy your infamous
calculations—I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill
me, but you shall not have my signature again!”

“As your excellency pleases,” said Vampa, as he left the cell.

Danglars, raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who could these men
be? Who was the invisible chief? What could be his intentions towards
him? And why, when everyone else was allowed to be ransomed, might he
not also be? Oh, yes; certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine
means of deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue
him with such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For the first
time in his life, Danglars contemplated death with a mixture of dread
and desire; the time had come when the implacable spectre, which exists
in the mind of every human creature, arrested his attention and called
out with every pulsation of his heart, “Thou shalt die!”

Danglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase; first it flies,
then despairs, and at last, by the very force of desperation, sometimes
succeeds in eluding its pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the
walls were solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to
the cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns continually
passed. His resolution not to sign lasted two days, after which he
offered a million for some food. They sent him a magnificent supper,
and took his million.

From this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer, but to have
everything he wanted. At the end of twelve days, after having made a
splendid dinner, he reckoned his accounts, and found that he had only
50,000 francs left. Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just
abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he had left,
and sooner than give them up he resolved to enter again upon a life of
privation—he was deluded by the hopefulness that is a premonition of
madness.

He, who for so long a time had forgotten God, began to think that
miracles were possible—that the accursed cavern might be discovered by
the officers of the Papal States, who would release him; that then he
would have 50,000 remaining, which would be sufficient to save him from
starvation; and finally he prayed that this sum might be preserved to
him, and as he prayed he wept. Three days passed thus, during which his
prayers were frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he was delirious,
and fancied he saw an old man stretched on a pallet; he, also, was
dying of hunger.

On the fourth, he was no longer a man, but a living corpse. He had
picked up every crumb that had been left from his former meals, and was
beginning to eat the matting which covered the floor of his cell. Then
he entreated Peppino, as he would a guardian angel, to give him food;
he offered him 1,000 francs for a mouthful of bread. But Peppino did
not answer. On the fifth day he dragged himself to the door of the
cell.

“Are you not a Christian?” he said, falling on his knees. “Do you wish
to assassinate a man who, in the eyes of Heaven, is a brother? Oh, my
former friends, my former friends!” he murmured, and fell with his face
to the ground. Then rising in despair, he exclaimed, “The chief, the
chief!”

“Here I am,” said Vampa, instantly appearing; “what do you want?”

“Take my last gold,” muttered Danglars, holding out his pocket-book,
“and let me live here; I ask no more for liberty—I only ask to live!”

“Then you suffer a great deal?”

“Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!”

“Still, there have been men who suffered more than you.”

“I do not think so.”

“Yes; those who have died of hunger.”

Danglars thought of the old man whom, in his hours of delirium, he had
seen groaning on his bed. He struck his forehead on the ground and
groaned. “Yes,” he said, “there have been some who have suffered more
than I have, but then they must have been martyrs at least.”

“Do you repent?” asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars’
hair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish
objects, and behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half
lost in the shadow of a stone column.

“Of what must I repent?” stammered Danglars.

“Of the evil you have done,” said the voice.

“Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent.” And he struck his breast with
his emaciated fist.

“Then I forgive you,” said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing
to the light.

“The Count of Monte Cristo!” said Danglars, more pale from terror than
he had been just before from hunger and misery.

“You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Then who are you?”

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“I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you
prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise
yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of
hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet
forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantès!”

Danglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate.

“Rise,” said the count, “your life is safe; the same good fortune has
not happened to your accomplices—one is mad, the other dead. Keep the
50,000 francs you have left—I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole
from the hospitals has been restored to them by an unknown hand. And
now eat and drink; I will entertain you tonight. Vampa, when this man
is satisfied, let him be free.”

Danglars remained prostrate while the count withdrew; when he raised
his head he saw disappearing down the passage nothing but a shadow,
before which the bandits bowed.

According to the count’s directions, Danglars was waited on by Vampa,
who brought him the best wine and fruits of Italy; then, having
conducted him to the road, and pointed to the post-chaise, left him
leaning against a tree. He remained there all night, not knowing where
he was. When daylight dawned he saw that he was near a stream; he was
thirsty, and dragged himself towards it. As he stooped down to drink,
he saw that his hair had become entirely white.



 Chapter 117. The Fifth of October

It was about six o’clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through
which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue
ocean. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze
arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the
burning siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts
of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume
of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the
first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to
the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan
with its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It
advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch
of foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but
as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen
mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave,
as if the god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who
in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.

The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be
sufficient wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl.
Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with
dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the
shape of a cone, which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of
a Catalan.

“Is that Monte Cristo?” asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht
was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.

“Yes, your excellency,” said the captain, “we have reached it.”

“We have reached it!” repeated the traveller in an accent of
indescribable sadness.

Then he added, in a low tone, “Yes; that is the haven.”

And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of
which was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by
tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was
extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms
reached the yacht.

“Your excellency,” said the captain, “that was the land signal, will
you answer yourself?”

“What signal?”

The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a
volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if awaking from a dream. “Give it to me.”

The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it,
and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled,
and they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor.
The gig was already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a
coxswain. The traveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the
stern of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his
accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their
oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.

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“Give way,” said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea
simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat,
yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found
themselves in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat
grounded on the fine sand.

“Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of
our men, they will carry you ashore?” The young man answered this
invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat;
the sea immediately rose to his waist.

“Ah, your excellency,” murmured the pilot, “you should not have done
so; our master will scold us for it.”

The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a
firm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man
stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for
someone to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned,
a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder
exclaimed:

“Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!”

“Ah, is it you, count?” said the young man, in an almost joyful accent,
pressing Monte Cristo’s hand with both his own.

“Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear
fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus.
Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon
forget fatigue and cold.”

Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed,
Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left
without being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars
might be heard as they returned to the yacht.

“Oh, yes,” said the count, “you are looking for the sailors.”

“Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone.”

“Never mind that, Maximilian,” said Monte Cristo, smiling. “I have made
an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free
of all charge. I have made a bargain.”

Morrel looked at the count with surprise. “Count,” he said, “you are
not the same here as in Paris.”

“How so?”

“Here you laugh.” The count’s brow became clouded.

“You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,” he said; “I was
delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all
happiness is fleeting.”

“Oh, no, no, count,” cried Maximilian, seizing the count’s hands, “pray
laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is
endurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you
affect this gayety to inspire me with courage.”

“You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy.”

“Then you forget me, so much the better.”

“How so?”

“Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the
arena, ‘He who is about to die salutes you.’”

“Then you are not consoled?” asked the count, surprised.

“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, “do you
think it possible that I could be?”

“Listen,” said the count. “Do you understand the meaning of my words?
You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a
vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak
to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel,
let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the
same feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded
lion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased
in the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the
living to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the
prostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss
of memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend,
if this be the case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be
dead, if you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are
consoled—do not complain.”

“Count,” said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice,
“listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though
he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly,
there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her
husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last
moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not
bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand,
and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than
mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you
not?”

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“My friend,” said the count, “I have still one doubt,—are you weak
enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?”

“No, indeed,—I am calm,” said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; “my
pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have
reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and
hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month,
or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched
creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell,—something wonderful, an
absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled
with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait—yes, I did
hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking
together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every
word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count,
I shall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death.”

Morrel uttered these words with an energy which made the count shudder.

“My friend,” continued Morrel, “you named the fifth of October as the
end of the period of waiting,—today is the fifth of October,” he took
out his watch, “it is now nine o’clock,—I have yet three hours to
live.”

“Be it so,” said the count, “come.” Morrel mechanically followed the
count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt
a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a
brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he
dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew him
in gently.

“Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life,
like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor
and heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided
into death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?”

Morrel smiled. “As you please,” he said; “death is always death,—that
is forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from
grief.”

He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were
in the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had
baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel
had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.

“Let us talk like men,” he said, looking at the count.

“Go on!”

“Count,” said Morrel, “you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and
you seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world
than ours.”

“There is something true in what you say,” said the count, with that
smile which made him so handsome; “I have descended from a planet
called grief.”

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“I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for
instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and
I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had
experienced death, ‘is it painful to die?’”

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,”
he said, “yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the
outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger
into your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the
least shock disorders,—then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you
will repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a
price.”

“Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as
well as in life; the only thing is to understand it.”

“You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow
upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an
enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the
world is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the
destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of
humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the
secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous
as a slumber in the arms of your beloved.”

“And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?”

“Yes.”

Morrel extended his hand. “Now I understand,” he said, “why you had me
brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this
subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It
was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet
means of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a
death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name
and pressing your hand.”

“Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,” said the count, “that is what
I intended.”

“Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to
my heart.”

“Do you then regret nothing?”

“No,” replied Morrel.

“Not even me?” asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye
was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a
large tear rolled down his cheek.

“What,” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and
yet die?”

“Oh, I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speak
another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”

The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the
horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If.

“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon
this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil
I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has
not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of
me who can only atone for evil by doing good?”

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Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but
still you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.

“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”

“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have
accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son,
I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all
the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I
possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a
fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is
open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad
ideas, be even criminal—but live.”

“Count, I have your word,” said Morrel coldly; then taking out his
watch, he added, “It is half-past eleven.”

“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?”

“Then let me go,” said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love
me for my own sake, but for yours;” and he arose.

“It is well,” said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these
words; “you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are
indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and
wait.”

Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key
suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket,
beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four
bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols
of the angels aspiring to heaven.

He placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little
golden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring.
This box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it was
impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the
polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box.
It was a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold.

The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and
offered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was
then observable that the substance was greenish.

“This is what you asked for,” he said, “and what I promised to give
you.”

“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” said the young man, taking
the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon,
and again dipped it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, my
friend?” asked Morrel, arresting his hand.

“Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life,
and since an opportunity presents itself——”

“Stay!” said the young man. “You who love, and are beloved; you, who
have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it
would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go
and tell Valentine what you have done for me.”

And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the
count’s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered
by Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive,
brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of
the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held
them, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated
opposite to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw
nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took
possession of the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects
in the room gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed
vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.

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“Friend,” he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!”

He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside
him. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the
strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the
secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for
a child. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature,
his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against
the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the
attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in
the armchair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of
ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the
kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became
unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague
delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count’s
hand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a last
farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a
stone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes
closed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to
move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.

The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from
the next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room
in which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman
of marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the
two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy
conjuring the angel of vengeance.

“Is it heaven that opens before me?” thought the dying man; “that angel
resembles the one I have lost.”

Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced
towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.

“Valentine, Valentine!” he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no
sound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internal
emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him;
his lips again moved.

“He is calling you,” said the count; “he to whom you have confided your
destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him.
Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never
again be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find
you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement
in the preservation of these two existences!”

Valentine seized the count’s hand, and in her irresistible impulse of
joy carried it to her lips.

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“Oh, thank me again!” said the count; “tell me till you are weary, that
I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require
this assurance.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,” said Valentine; “and if
you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask my
beloved sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, has
caused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of
you.”

“You then love Haydée?” asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain
endeavored to dissimulate.

“Oh, yes, with all my soul.”

“Well, then, listen, Valentine,” said the count; “I have a favor to ask
of you.”

“Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?”

“Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed,
Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me;
protect her, for” (the count’s voice was thick with emotion)
“henceforth she will be alone in the world.”

“Alone in the world!” repeated a voice behind the count, “and why?”

Monte Cristo turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless,
looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.

“Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your
proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to
overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and
name of your father.”

Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,
exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?”

“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and
be happy.”

“It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I
will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to
retire.

“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of
Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see
how she suffers?”

Haydée answered with a heartrending expression,

“Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am
his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.”

The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost
recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he
could not bear their brilliancy.

“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct?
Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?”

“I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so
sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.”

“You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——”

“I should die; yes, my lord.”

“Do you then love me?”

“Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love
Maximilian.”

The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and
Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them.

“Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,
brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the
noblest of created beings!”

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“Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my
struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let
me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has
pardoned me. Love me then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love will
make me forget all that I do not wish to remember.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty
years of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through
you I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you
rejoice.”

“Do you hear him, Valentine?” exclaimed Haydée; “he says that through
me he will suffer—through _me_, who would yield my life for his.”

The count withdrew for a moment. “Have I discovered the truth?” he
said; “but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my
fate. Come, Haydée, come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s
waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.

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An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and
motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his
heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder,
announcing the return of life, passed through the young man’s frame. At
length his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and
expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief.

“Oh,” he cried, in an accent of despair, “the count has deceived me; I
am yet living;” and extending his hand towards the table, he seized a
knife.

“Dearest,” exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, “awake, and
look at me!” Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful,
dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.

The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking
arm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had
appeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and,
finally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate death.

They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the
azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars.

Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently
awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine.

“Ah, it is Jacopo,” she said, “the captain of the yacht;” and she
beckoned him towards them.

“Do you wish to speak to us?” asked Morrel.

“I have a letter to give you from the count.”

“From the count!” murmured the two young people.

“Yes; read it.”

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Morrel opened the letter, and read:

“My Dear Maximilian,

“There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to
Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he
wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this
grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs-Élysées, and my château at
Tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son
of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them
with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune
reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who
died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over
your future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like
Satan, thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now
acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme
power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse
he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my
conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the
world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing
more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience
supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we
may appreciate the enjoyments of living.

“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never
forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to
man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—‘_Wait and
hope_.’—Your friend,

“Edmond Dantès, _Count of Monte Cristo_.”

50282m



During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the
first time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother,
she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not
the less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her
happiness cost her very dear.

Morrel looked around uneasily.

“But,” he said, “the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine
will be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend?
Lead me to him.”

Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.

“What do you mean?” asked Valentine. “Where is the count?—where is
Haydée?”

“Look!” said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and
on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they
perceived a large white sail.

“Gone,” said Morrel; “gone!—adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!”

“Gone,” murmured Valentine; “adieu, my sweet Haydée—adieu, my sister!”

“Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?” said Morrel with
tearful eyes.

“Darling,” replied Valentine, “has not the count just told us that all
human wisdom is summed up in two words:

“‘_Wait and hope_ (Fac et spera)!’”




FOOTNOTES:


[1] “The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the flood proved once
for all.”

[2] $2,600,000 in 1894.

[3] Knocked on the head.

[4] Beheaded.

[5] Scott, of course: “The son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of
a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks that cast of
inauspicious melancholy by which the physiognomists of that time
pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and
unhappy death.”—The Abbot, ch. xxii.

[6] Guillotine.

[7] Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from witnessing an
execution in Italy.

[8] Brucea ferruginea.

[9] ‘Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.’

[10] Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the famous
women of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known as “La Belle
Provençale.” She was the widow of the Marquis de Castellane when she
married de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of
her new brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and they
finished her off with pistol and dagger.—Ed.

[11] Magistrate and orator of great eloquence—chancellor of France
under Louis XV.

[12] Jacques-Louis David, a famous French painter (1748-1825).

[13] Ali Pasha, “The Lion,” was born at Tepelini, an Albanian village
at the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By diplomacy and
success in arms he became almost supreme ruler of Albania, Epirus, and
adjacent territory. Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan, he was
proscribed and put to death by treachery in 1822, at the age of
eighty.—Ed.

[14] Greek militiamen in the war for independence.—Ed.

[15] A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of a province.—Ed.

[16] The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete he was
supposed to be slain in winter with the decay of vegetation and to
revive in the spring. Haydée’s learned reference is to the behavior of
an actor in the Dionysian festivals.—Ed.

[17] The Genoese conspirator.

[18] Lake Maggiore.

[19] In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of Atreus, were
doomed to punishment because of the abominable crime of their father.
The _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus is based on this legend.

[20] The performance of the civil marriage.

[21] In Molière’s comedy, _Le Misanthrope_.

[22] Literally, “the basket,” because wedding gifts were originally
brought in such a receptacle.

[23] Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598). His best
known work is “The Three Graces,” now in the Louvre.

[24] Frédérick Lemaître—French actor (1800-1876). Robert Macaire is the
hero of two favorite melodramas—“Chien de Montargis” and “Chien
d’Aubry”—and the name is applied to bold criminals as a term of
derision.

[25] The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in Africa.

[26] _Savate_: an old shoe.

[27] Guilbert de Pixérécourt, French dramatist (1773-1844).

[28] Gaspard Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles in
1615.

[29] The Carolina—not Virginia—jessamine, _gelsemium sempervirens_
(properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has yellow blossoms. The
reference is no doubt to the _Wistaria frutescens_.—Ed.

[30] The miser in Molière’s comedy of _L’Avare_.—Ed.




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