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The Count of Monte Cristo
by Alexander Dumas

Chapter 1
Marseilles -- The Arrival

On the 24th of February, 1810, 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
Chateau d'If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion
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 Pomegue, 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 Reserve 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, Dantes?" 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.

"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 Dantes,
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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 any one."

"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 any one,
and he caused us to lose a day and a half at the Island of
Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct."

"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."

"Dantes," said the shipowner, turning towards the young man,
"come this way!"

"In a moment, sir," answered Dantes, "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. Dantes continued at his post in spite
of the presence of the pilot, until this manoeuvre 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 Dantes, 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. Dantes, 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,
Dantes, 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."

"How could that bring me into trouble, sir?" asked Dantes;
"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."

"Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes."

"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 Dantes on the subject.
I may have been mistaken."

At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.

"Well, my dear Dantes, 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."

"Right, Dantes, quite right. I always knew you were a good
son."

"And," inquired Dantes, 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."

Dantes 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, Dantes, I forgot that there was at the Catalans some
one who expects you no less impatiently than your father --
the lovely Mercedes."

Dantes 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 Dantes.

"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, Dantes. 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 Dantes, 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
Dantes, 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 Mercedes."

"That's all right, Edmond. There's a providence that watches
over the deserving. Go to your father: go and see Mercedes,
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, Dantes, 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, Dantes! 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
Canebiere. 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'Orleans.

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
Canebiere, -- a street of which the modern Phocaeans 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 Canebiere, 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 Dantes.



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 Dantes,
who, after having traversed La Canebiere, took the Rue de
Noailles, and entering a small house, on the left of the
Allees de Meillan, 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes, "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."

"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 Dantes
brightened.

"Whom does this belong to?" he inquired.

"To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be
happy, and to-morrow 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 to-morrow. 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 Dantes, 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." Dantes 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 Dantes'
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."

"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 Dantes 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 Dantes, "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 Dantes.

"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
Dantes.

"Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him."

"What, did you refuse to dine with him?" said old Dantes;
"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
Dantes, "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 Dantes.

"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."

"Mercedes?" 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 Dantes: "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 Dantes; she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me."

"So, 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 Mercedes 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.

"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 Dantes, 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 Mercedes 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
Dantes, 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. Dantes 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."

"Explain yourself."

"Why should I?"

"It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not
like Dantes?"

"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 Mercedes 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 Dantes has gone to the Catalans?"

"He went before I came down."

"Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Reserve, 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.

Pere Pamphile had seen Dantes 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 Provencal, 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, Mercedes," 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, Mercedes,
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 Mercedes; "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, Mercedes," 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?"

"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, Mercedes, 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 Mercedes, 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, Mercedes, 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, Mercedes. 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 Mercedes, with an angry glance, --
"what do you mean? I do not understand you?"

"I mean, Mercedes, that you are thus harsh and cruel with
me, because you are expecting some one 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 Mercedes, "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 Mercedes, 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
Mercedes, with his eyes glowing and his hands clinched, --
"Say, Mercedes," he said, "once for all, is this your final
determination?"

"I love Edmond Dantes," 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 clinched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,
-- "But if he is dead" --

"If he is dead, I shall die too."

"If he has forgotten you" --

"Mercedes!" called a joyous voice from without, --
"Mercedes!"

"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 Mercedes 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 Dantes, frowning in his turn; "I did
not perceive that there were three of us." Then, turning to
Mercedes, he inquired, "Who is this gentleman?"

"One who will be your best friend, Dantes, 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 Dantes, and without relinquishing Mercedes 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 Mercedes, 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 Mercedes, 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 Morgion 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 Mercedes exercised over him. Scarcely,
however, had he touched Edmond's hand than 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 Dantes 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, clinching 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
Mercedes; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine girl
is in love with the mate of the Pharaon; and as the Pharaon
arrived to-day -- 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 some one
on whom to vent his anger; "Mercedes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes;
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 Mercedes -- the lovely
Mercedes -- 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 Dantes
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 Dantes, 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
Mercedes!"

"Ah, see there, now!" said Caderousse; "and I did not
recognize them! Hallo, Dantes! 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!"

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
Mercedes, 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 Dantes, "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 Dantes?"

Mercedes 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 Mercedes, if you please."

"We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse," said
Dantes, "he is so easily mistaken."

"So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M.
Dantes," said Danglars, bowing to the young couple.

"As soon as possible, M. Danglars; to-day all preliminaries
will be arranged at my father's, and to-morrow, or next day
at latest, the wedding festival here at La Reserve. 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,
Mercedes 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.

"To-day the preliminaries, to-morrow or next day the
ceremony! You are in a hurry, captain!"

"Danglars," said Edmond, smiling, "I will say to you as
Mercedes 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, Dantes?"

"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; Dantes, 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes?"

"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 Mercedes; 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 Mercedes; what she threatens she will do."

"Idiot!" muttered Danglars; "whether she kill herself or
not, what matter, provided Dantes is not captain?"

"Before Mercedes 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. Pere Pamphile, more wine!" and Caderousse
rattled his glass upon the table.

"You were saving, 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 mechants sont beuveurs d'eau;
C'est bien prouve par le deluge.'*

* "The wicked are great drinkers of water
As the flood proved once for all."

"You said, sir, you would like to help me, but" --

"Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that
Dantes did not marry her you love; and the marriage may
easily be thwarted, methinks, and yet Dantes 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
Dantes should die; it would, indeed, be a pity he should.
Dantes is a good fellow; I like Dantes. Dantes, 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 Mercedes they
would be as effectually separated as if he lay under a
tombstone."

"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 Dantes, one seeks revenge" --

"What matters that?" muttered Fernand.

"And why, I should like to know," persisted Caderousse,
"should they put Dantes in prison? he has not robbed or
killed or murdered."

"Hold your tongue!" said Danglars.

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

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 Dantes 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 Dantes, for he who himself hates is never mistaken
in the sentiments of others."

"I! -- motives of hatred against Dantes? 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 Dantes. 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 Mercedes
has declared she will kill herself if Dantes 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 Dantes! who talks of killing Dantes?
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 Dantes 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, Dantes' 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.

"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 Dantes has just made, in
which he touched at the Island of Elba, some one 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes! Mercedes, 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 Dantes, 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
Dantes -- the worthy Dantes -- 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. "Dantes 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
Mercedes."

"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 to-morrow --
to-day 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!"

"Oh, you don't see straight," said Danglars; "he's gone
right enough."

"Well," said Caderousse, "I should have said not -- 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
Reserve, 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 bride-groom, 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 Reserve.

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 Dantes 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 bride-groom 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 Dantes' father; the whole brought up by
Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.

Neither Mercedes 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 Dantes,
-- 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 Tuileries and Luxembourg. 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 Dantes, 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.

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.

Dantes 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, Mercedes
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 Reserve, 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes, 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, Dantes, 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, -- 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
bride-groom, 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 Mercedes 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 Dantes, "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
Dantes. "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 Mercedes."

"Nay, nay!" cried Caderousse, smiling, "you have not
attained that honor yet. Mercedes 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 worth
while to contradict me for such a trifle as that. 'Tis true
that Mercedes 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 Dantes, whose laugh displayed the
still perfect beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes
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 Dantes. "Thanks to the influence
of M. Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every
blessing I enjoy, every difficulty his 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
Mercedes will have become Madame Dantes."

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 to-day 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 Dantes, laughingly, "it didn't take
long to fix that. Mercedes 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 Dantes; "don't imagine I am going to put
you off in that shabby manner. To-morrow morning I start for
Paris; four days to go, and the same to return, with one day
to discharge the commission intrusted 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 Dantes, 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
bride-groom.

Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father,
responded by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercedes
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 Dantes, united with the effect of the
excellent wine he had partaken of, had effaced every feeling
of envy or jealousy at Dantes' good fortune, -- "upon my
word, Dantes 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
Mercedes; "two o'clock has just struck, and you know we are
expected in a quarter of an hour."

"To be sure! -- to be sure!" cried Dantes, 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 Dantes?" 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 Dantes," 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 Dantes, 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.

"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, Dantes, 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."

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

Dantes 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 Mercedes, 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-by, Mercedes -- 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes had fallen half fainting, when released
from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantes.
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 Dantes 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 Dantes'
hidden treasures."

Mercedes, 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!"

Mercedes 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
Mercedes.

"That I believe!" answered M. Morrel; "but still he is
charged" --

"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.

"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 Mercedes; 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes, led the girl to her home,
while the friends of Dantes conducted the now half-fainting
man back to his abode.

The rumor of Edmond 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 Dantes, 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?"

"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 Dantes 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 owner would have his preference
also."

"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.

"Poor Dantes!" 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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
ambitions, 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.

"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 Dantes 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 Allees
de Meillan, 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 Dantes 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 Dantes. 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 Conde; 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 Napoleons" 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-Meran. 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 a l'Anglais, 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-Meran, 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 his 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, Renee," 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 ambitions 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."

"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 Vendome. 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 stanchest
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 Renee, "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-Meran'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 stanch
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 any one
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."

"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-Meran'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-Meran; "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. Tbe 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-Meran, "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 Renee, 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 Renee, 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." Renee 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 Renee, "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, Renee, 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 Renee; "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 togae," said Villefort with a bow.

"I cannot speak Latin," responded the marquise.

"Well," said Renee, "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 Renee," 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 Conde; 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-Meran. 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."

"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 Renee, "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. Renee
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 -- 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-Meran, with an air of deep interest.

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

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, 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 Bonaparte
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 religions institutions of his country, that one
named Edmond Dantes, 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes on board the Pharaon.'"

"But," said Renee, "this letter, which, after all, is but an
anonymous scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the
king's attorney."

"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 Renee.

"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."

"O Villefort!" cried Renee, 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 Renee, 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." Renee
shuddered.

"Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort," said the
marquise. "She will soon get over these things." So saying,
Madame de Saint-Meran extended her dry bony hand to
Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law's respectful
salute on it, looked at Renee, 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 Renee.

"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!"

"O mother!" murmured Renee.

"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
quitted the room.



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 mobility 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, Gerard 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-Meran'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 Dantes, 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 Dantes, 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, --

"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
Dantes had told him of his interview with the grand-marshal,
and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He
replied, however, --

"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 Dantes 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."

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 ante-chamber was
full of police agents and gendarmes, in the midst of whom,
carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the prisoner.
Villefort traversed the ante-chamber, cast a side glance at
Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 Dantes," replied the young man calmly; "I
am mate of the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son."

"Your age?" continued Villefort.

"Nineteen," returned Dantes.

"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
Mercedes.

"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 Dantes, 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-Meran's;" and he arranged mentally,
while Dantes awaited further questions, the antithesis by
which orators often create a reputation for eloquence. When
this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantes.

"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 Dantes. "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
sentiment, -- I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I
adore Mercedes. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you
see how uninteresting it is." As Dantes spoke, Villefort
gazed at his ingenuous and open countenance, and recollected
the words of Renee, 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. Dantes seemed full
of kindness.

"Pardieu," said Villefort, "he is a noble fellow. I hope I
shall gain Renee'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 Dantes, 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 Dantes; "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 some one."

"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 Dantes. Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes, by the life of
my father" --

"Speak, monsieur," said Villefort. Then, internally, "If
Renee 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 Dantes,' 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 every one 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 to-morrow 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 Dantes 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 Dantes took his hat and
gloves. "To whom is it addressed?"

"To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, 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-Heron, No. 13," murmured he, growing
still paler.

"Yes," said Dantes; "do you know him?"

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

"It is a conspiracy, then?" asked Dantes, 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 any one?" 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
clinched teeth filled Dantes with apprehension. After
reading the letter, Villefort covered his face with his
hands.

"Oh," said Dantes 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes proudly, "it was only to summon
assistance for you."

"I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to
yourself; answer me." Dantes 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 Dantes, "you have been rather a friend
than a judge."

"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 Dantes, "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 any one 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 Dantes. Dantes 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.



Chapter 8
The Chateau D'If

The commissary of police, as he traversed the ante-chamber,
made a sign to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on
Dantes' 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,
Dantes saw a door with an iron wicket. The commissary took
up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow seeming to
Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes
sank again into his seat. At last, about ten o'clock, and
just as Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes.

"It is for you," replied a gendarme.

Dantes 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, Dantes saw
they were passing through the Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue
Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the port. 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; Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes 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
Dantes 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 Reserve, where he had that morning been
so happy, and now through the open windows came the laughter
and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his hands, raised his
eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.

The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tete de
Morte, were now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double
the battery. This manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantes.

"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.

"You will soon know."

"But still" --

"We are forbidden to give you any explanation." Dantes,
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 Mercedes dwelt.
How was it that a presentiment did not warn Mercedes that
her lover was within three hundred yards of her?

One light alone was visible; and Dantes saw that it came
from Mercedes' chamber. Mercedes 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 Mercedes. An
intervening elevation of land hid the light. Dantes 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, Dantes
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 Dantes,
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." Dantes rose and looked forward, when
he saw rise within a hundred yards of him the black and
frowning rock on which stands the Chateau d'If. This gloomy
fortress, which has for more than three hundred years
furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes
like a scaffold to a malefactor.

"The Chateau d'If?" cried he, "what are we going there for?"
The gendarme smiled.

"I am not going there to be imprisoned," said Dantes; "it is
only used for political prisoners. I have committed no
crime. Are there any magistrates or judges at the Chateau
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." Dantes pressed
the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it.

"You think, then," said he, "that I am taken to the Chateau
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 Chateau d'If.
But what are you doing? Help, comrades, help!"

By a rapid movement, which the gendarme's practiced eye had
perceived, Dantes 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;
"believe soft-spoken gentlemen again! Harkye, 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes the
features of his conductor, an under-jailer, ill-clothed, and
of sullen appearance.

"Here is your chamber for to-night," said he. "It is late,
and the governor is asleep. To-morrow, 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes 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; Dantes 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 Dantes. 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.

Dantes 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 Mercedes
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 Mercedes and his
father, whereas he was now confined in the Chateau d'If,
that impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of
his father and Mercedes; and all this because he had trusted
to Villefort's promise. The thought was maddening, and
Dantes 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 to-day?"
Dantes 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 Dantes, "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
abbe became mad, who was in this chamber before you."

"How long has he left it?"

"Two years."

"Was he liberated, then?"

"No; he was put in a dungeon."

"Listen!" said Dantes. "I am not an abbe, 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 Mercedes,
at the Catalans, and give her two lines from me."

"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 Dantes, "mark this; if you refuse at least to
tell Mercedes 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 abbe
began like you, and in three days you will be like him, mad
enough to tie up; but, fortunately, there are dungeons
here." Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes, who followed passively.

He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was
opened, and he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantes
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; Dantes
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-Meran'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. Renee 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 Renee, "judge for yourself if it
be not important."

"You are going to leave us?" cried Renee, 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
to-night, 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."

"But how can I sell out here?"

"You have it 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 Renee, 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 Mercedes, who, hearing no news of her lover, had
come unobserved to inquire after him.

As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him.
Dantes had spoken of Mercedes, 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."
Mercedes 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.

"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 Renee had sounded in his ears
pleading for mercy, or the fair Mercedes 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-Meran's. The
hapless Dantes was doomed.

As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise
and Renee in waiting. He started when he saw Renee, for he
fancied she was again about to plead for Dantes. 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 Renee, far from pleading for Dantes,
hated the man whose crime separated her from her lover.

Meanwhile what of Mercedes? 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 Mercedes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes, 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' letter,
embraced Renee, kissed the marquise's hand, and shaken that
of the marquis, started for Paris along the Aix road.

Old Dantes 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 Dauphine, trusty men, who will bring you back
a faithful report as to the feeling in these three
provinces?"

"Caninus 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?"

"l 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. Dandre
himself;" and M. Dandre, 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. Dandre 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. Dandre 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, Dandre," 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 Dandre, 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. -- this is the 4th 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."

"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 ambitions, 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 ante-chamber 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
Breze, 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."

"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-Meran?"

"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 Piomoino; 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. Dandre!" 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 to-day, the
4th 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. Dandre 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 Dauphine, 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 Dauphine 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.

"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
Dandre 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 Dantes 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 to-day
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 mustache. 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-Heron." Villefort leaned on the back of an arm-chair,
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.

"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 some one speak his
name.

"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.

"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 Gerard, 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
ante-chamber, 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 ante-chamber door, then that
of the bed-chamber, and then extended his hand to Villefort,
who had followed all his motions with surprise which he
could not conceal.

"Well, now, my dear Gerard," 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 Gerard, 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."

"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 him, 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; to-morrow, 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
Gerard, 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-Heron."

"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, Gerard; 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 Gerard, 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 Gerard, 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. Every one 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 Dantes 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.

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 Dantes.

Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off
until a more favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained
on the throne, Gerard required a different alliance to aid
his career; if Louis XVIII. returned, the influence of M. de
Saint-Meran, 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.

Any one 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 ante-chamber,
although he had no one with him, for the simple reason that
the king's procureur always makes every one 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 to-day a title to favor. You
then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor --
it was your duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you ought
to protect him -- it is equally your duty; I come,
therefore, to ask what has become of him?"

Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself.
"What is his name?" said he. "Tell me his name."

"Edmond Dantes."

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.

"Dantes," repeated he, "Edmond Dantes."

"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 to-day 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-Marguerite 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. Dantes 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. Dantes must be crushed to
gratify Villefort's ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent
intention, no doubt, Dantes' 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?"

"To-day."

"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 Dantes that he would soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully
preserved the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantes,
in the hopes of an event that seemed not unlikely, -- that
is, a second restoration. Dantes 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-Meran, whose father now stood higher at court than
ever.

And so Dantes, 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 Dantes; 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes 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
Dantes, 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 Mercedes. Had
Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so
when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion, and the
compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the
effect they always produce on noble minds -- Mercedes 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 Dantes not return,
Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes 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 Dantes, 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 Mercedes' 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
Dantes, 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. Dantes 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 plash 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 his 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 abbe, 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, Dantes, 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, Dantes, 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. Dantes 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 to-day," 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 his always
been very good to me, but I was mad."

"And you are not so any longer?"

"No; captivity his 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."

"To-day is the 30th of July, 1816, -- why it is but
seventeen months."

"Only seventeen months," replied Dantes. "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 Dantes, "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 Dantes, "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 Dantes,
"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." Dantes fell on his
knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but this time
a fresh inmate was left with Dantes -- hope.

"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 Abbe 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 abbe."

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 abbe 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 abbe; "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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Caesar 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 abbe, "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.

"But," said the abbe, "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 any one 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 abbe, "that you are like those
of Holy Writ, who having ears hear not, and having eyes see
not."

"My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your
treasures," replied the inspector; "keep them until you are
liberated." The abbe'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
abbe'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 abbe. "You will not accept my
gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty;
God will give it me." And the abbe, casting away his
coverlet, resumed his place, and continued his calculations.

"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 Abbe
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 Abbe Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him
to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with Dantes; he examined the
register, and found the following note concerning him: --

Edmond Dantes:

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 Dantes; 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 -- Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes'
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 Dantes -- he was now number 34.



Chapter 15
Number 34 and Number 27

Dantes 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.

Dantes asked to be removed from his present dungeon into
another; 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. Dantes
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, Dantes, 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 abbe.

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 Dantes wished to conspire or attempt an escape, and
refused his request. Dantes 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, Dantes remained a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes 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. Dantes 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 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. Dantes 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."

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.
Dantes 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. Nearly
four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had
ceased to mark the lapse of time.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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 Dantes 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 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 every one 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. 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, Dantes, 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.

Dantes 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.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes 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?

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.

Dantes 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, he paused.

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 Dantes' soup in an iron saucepan;
this saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantes
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; Dantes would have
given ten years of his life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the
saucepan into Dantes' plate, and Dantes, after eating his
soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus
served for every day. Now when evening came Dantes 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 Dantes. 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; Dantes' entire dinner
service consisted of one plate -- there was no alternative.

"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "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.

Dantes 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes 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
Dantes.

"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."

Dantes 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, Dantes
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 Dantes
long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the
turnkey retired. Dantes 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. Dantes
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; Dantes touched it, and found that it was a beam.
This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantes had
made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.
The unhappy young man had not thought of this. "O 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!"

"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
any one 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 Dantes, "speak again, though
the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?"

"Who are you?" said the voice.

"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, who made no
hesitation in answering.

"Of what country?"

"A Frenchman."

"Your name?"

"Edmond Dantes."

"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."

Dantes 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 Dantes.

"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 Dantes. Edmond fancied he
heard a bitter laugh resounding from the depths.

"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, 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 Dantes. "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 Mercedes. 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; "to-morrow."

These few words were uttered with an accent that left no
doubt of his sincerity; Dantes 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 Dantes 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. Dantes 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?"

Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his
voice would betray him. The jailer went away shaking his
head. Night came; Dantes 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes 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.



Chapter 16
A Learned Italian

Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired,
Dantes 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 Dantes, 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."

"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
Dantes.

"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 Dantes, 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes. 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 Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 Dantes.

"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. Dantes 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. "l am the Abbe Faria, and have been imprisoned as you
know in this Chateau 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 XVII.! 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?"

Dantes, 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 abbe,
turning towards Dantes, 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 Caesar 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.

Dantes 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 Chateau
d'If is generally thought to be -- ill?"

"Mad, you mean, don't you?"

"I did not like to say so," answered Dantes, 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 Chateau 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."

Dantes 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."

Dantes 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 abbe's plans.

The abbe 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 Dantes 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 Dantes? Faria had dug his way through fifty
feet, Dantes 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
sailer, 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 Dantes 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?"

"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 abbe; "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 Dantes 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 Dantes.

"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 Dantes.

"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" --

Dantes 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.

"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 Chateau de Vincennes, that of the Abbe
Dubuquoi from For l'Eveque; 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 Dantes, "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 abbe; "I had none but what I made for
myself."

"You made paper, pens and ink?"

"Yes."

Dantes 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 Coloseum 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 Chateau
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, Shakspeare, 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, "may I see all this?"

"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.

"Oh, then let it be directly!" exclaimed the young man.

"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he re-entered the
subterranean passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed
by Dantes.



Chapter 17
The Abbe'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 abbe'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 abbe's cell was paved, and it had
been by raising one of the stones in the most obscure corner
that Faria had to been able to commence the laborious task
of which Dantes had witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantes 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 abbe; "we have some hours before us
-- it is now just a quarter past twelve o'clock."
Instinctively Dantes turned round to observe by what watch
or clock the abbe had been able so accurately to specify the
hour.

"Look at this ray of light which enters by my window," said
the abbe, "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 Dantes, 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 abbe, "I am anxious to see your
treasures."

The abbe 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 Dantes.

"What do you wish to see first?" asked the abbe.

"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
Dantes could easily read it, as well as make out the sense
-- it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provencal,
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 Dantes. "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 abbe had before spoken to Dantes; it was pointed, and
divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes, "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 his 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."

"l separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it,
and so made oil -- here is my lamp." So saying, the abbe
exhibited a sort of torch very similar to those used in
public illuminations.

"But light?"

"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." Dantes
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.

"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 abbe 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. Dantes
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 Chateau 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 abbe, as, opening his ragged
vestments, he showed Dantes 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 Dantes was, in fact,
busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent,
ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbe 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 abbe 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 Dantes,
"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 Dantes. "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 abbe 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 Mercedes."

"Come," said the abbe, closing his hiding-place, and pushing
the bed back to its original situation, "let me hear your
story."

Dantes 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 Mercedes, and their nuptual feast -- his
arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention
at the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the
Chateau d'If. From this point everything was a blank to
Dantes -- he knew nothing more, not even the length of time
he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbe
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.
Every one, 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 any one 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 any one 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 any one?"

"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 abbe; "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."

Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 abbe 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 abbe smiled. "Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbe, 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. Dantes drew back, and gazed
on the abbe 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 Mercedes?"

"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 Dantes, "the various circumstances mentioned
in the letter were wholly unknown to him."

"You had never spoken of them yourself to any one?"

"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 Pere 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 Dantes, 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 abbe with
a laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantes 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 abbe. "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 abbe. "Old enough to be ambitions, 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 Dantes, "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, No. 13 Coq-Heron, 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 any one, 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 abbe; "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 abbe burst into a fit of laughter, while
Dantes 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? Noirtier was his father."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantes, 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 abbe; "his right name was
Noirtier de Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot
through the mind of Dantes, 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 abbe'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.

Dantes was at length roused from his revery 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 abbe 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 abbe had come to ask his young companion to share
the luxuries with him. Dantes followed; 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 Dantes.

"Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart --
that of vengeance."

Dantes smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he.

Again the abbe looked at him, then mournfully shook his
head; but in accordance with Dantes' 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. Dantes 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
abbe'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
Dantes, "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 abbe 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, "What shall you teach me first? I
am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbe. And that very evening the
prisoners sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon
the following day. Dantes 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 mouths he began to speak Spanish, English,
and German. In strict accordance with the promise made to
the abbe, Dantes 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 Dantes was a new man. Dantes
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 Dantes, 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 abbe, "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 abbe.

"And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom,
have you not?" asked Dantes 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 abbe; "impossible!" Dantes endeavored to
renew the subject; the abbe shook his head in token of
disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three
months passed away.

"Are you strong?" the abbe asked one day of Dantes. 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 abbe, "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 Dantes.

"Do you consider the last twelve months to have been
wasted?" asked the abbe.

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbe, "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 abbe then showed
Dantes the sketch he had made for their escape. It consisted
of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 abbe's ladder of cords. Dantes' 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 Dantes'
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 Dantes 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 abbe 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 Dantes, 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. Dantes 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. Dantes
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 clinched tightly together.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Dantes, "what is the matter?
what has happened?"

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbe, "listen to what I have to
say." Dantes 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 Dantes,
letting his chisel fall to the floor.

"Alas," faltered out the abbe, "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, Dantes 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 abbe's chamber,
when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbe, 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 containted in the phial down my throat,
and I may perhaps revive."

"Perhaps!" exclaimed Dantes in grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbe, "I -- I -- die -- I" --

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, Dantes
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. Dantes 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 Dantes in a paroxysm of
delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with
evident anxiety towards the door. Dantes 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, Dantes, whose restless anxiety
concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food
brought him, hurried back to the abbe'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.

"I did not expect to see you again," said he feebly, to
Dantes.

"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 Dantes.

"Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?"

"At least," said the abbe, "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 Dantes; "your strength will
return." And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed
beside Faria, and took his hands. The abbe 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 Dantes; "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 abbe, "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
abbe. "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."

"The physician may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantes. "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 abbe, "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 Dantes. "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 to-morrow
till after the jailer his visited me. I shall have something
of the greatest importance to communicate to you."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe 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 Dantes 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 Dantes.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.

"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said
Dantes, "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 Dantes brow. Until this day and
for how long a time! -- he had refrained from talking of the
treasure, which had brought upon the abbe 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 Dantes. 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, Dantes, 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? To-morrow, if you
will, I will hear your narrative; but to-day 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 to-morrow, 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 any
one."

"To-morrow, 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 to-morrow."

"Then we will not talk of it until to-morrow; but read this
paper to-day."

"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, l49"

"Well!" said Faria, when the young man had finished reading
it.

"Why," replied Dantes, "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 Dantes. "Steps approach -- I go --
adieu."

And Dantes, 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?

Dantes 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 abbe 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
Dantes' 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 abbe, "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; Caesar 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 Caesar Borgia first found the two
future cardinals; they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held
four of the highest dignities of the Holy See, and Caesar
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 Caesar 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.

"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 Caesar Borgia invited
the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of dispute
between the holy father and his son. Caesar 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 Caesar 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. Caesar
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, Caesar, an indigestion declares itself
immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a
day or two.' Caesar 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, `Caesar wills that you die.' but it was a
legate a 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 Caesar
Borgia paying him most marked attentions. Spada turned pale,
as Caesar 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 Caesar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the
heritage, under presence 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.
Caesar 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. Caesar, 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 Caesar, 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 Dantes, "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 Caesar 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. 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, Dantes, and then I will complete for you the
incomplete words and unconnected sense."

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantes,
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.
"Caes...

"And now," said the abbe, "read this other paper;" and he
presented to Dantes 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 Dantes had read the last line, "put the two
fragments together, and judge for yourself." Dantes obeyed,
and the conjointed pieces gave the following: --

"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...ssed 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.
"Caes...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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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."*

* $2,600,000 in 1894.

"Impossible!" said Dantes, 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, Dantes,
you do not thank me?"

"This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend," replied
Dantes, "and to you only. I have no right to it. I am no
relation of yours."

"You are my son, Dantes," 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 abbe'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 Dantes all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in
these days to his friends; and then Dantes' 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 abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes
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.
Dantes drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave
Dantes advice as to the means he should employ to recover
the treasure. But Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes had
partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be
remembered, the abbe 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 Caesar 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 Dantes to learn it by heart; and Dantes
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 Dantes, -- 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;
Dantes, 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
some one 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, Dantes 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, 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 abbe, 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. Dantes 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, Dantes!
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.

Dantes 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.

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, Dantes 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 Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he went
on to Faria's dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some
linen. Nothing betokened that the man know anything of what
had occurred. He went on his way.

Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Chateau d'If
are not dear!"

"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 every one 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 Dantes indignant, for he felt that all the world should
have for the poor abbe 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 Dantes,
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
Dantes 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 Dantes 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.

"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 abbe.

"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."

"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
Dantes' 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 chateau came to me yesterday to beg for leave of
absence, in order to take a trip to Hyeres for a week. I
told him I would attend to the prisoners in his absence. If
the poor abbe 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 Dantes. Then he raised the flag-stone
cautiously with his head, and looked carefully around the
chamber. It was empty, and Dantes emerged from the tunnel.



Chapter 20
The Cemetery of the Chateau 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 Dantes 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 revery.

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
abbe'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. Dantes 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 wore
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.
Dantes 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, Dantes 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.

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. Dantes 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 Dantes 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, Dantes 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
Dantes, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed,
and thus discover all.

When seven o'clock came, Dantes' 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes.

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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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. Dantes'
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 chateau is built,
reached Dantes' 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 abbe runs a chance of being wet," said the
other; and then there was a burst of brutal laughter. Dantes
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 Dantes 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 Dantes
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.

Dantes 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 Chateau d'If.



Chapter 21
The Island of Tiboulen

Dantes, 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.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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 Pomegue are the
nearest islands of all those that surround the Chateau d'If,
but Ratonneau and Pomegue are inhabited, as is also the
islet of Daume, Tiboulen and Lemaire were therefore the
safest for Dantes' venture. The islands of Tiboulen and
Lemaire are a league from the Chateau d'If; Dantes,
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 Chateau d'If to this island. Often
in prison Faria had said to him, when he saw him idle and
inactive, "Dantes, 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes' 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 chateau,
but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already
the terrible chateau had disappeared in the darkness. He
could not see it, but he felt its presence. An hour passed,
during which Dantes, 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.
Dantes 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.

Dantes 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, Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Dantes from
his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the
fragments the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then
all was dark again.

Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Chateau 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 Dantes, "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 every one 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. O my God, I have suffered enough
surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what I am unable to
do for myself."

As Dantes (his eyes turned in the direction of the Chateau
d'If) uttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of
the Island of Pomegue 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, Dantes 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. It an instant Dantes' 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 Chateau 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.
Dantes 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.

Dantes, 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 sailers. 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. Dantes 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 Dantes found himself on the deck of
the tartan. His first care was to see what course they were
taking. They were rapidly leaving the Chateau d'If behind.
Dantes 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
sailer, 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 to-morrow.

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 Dantes, in bad Italian, "a Maltese sailor.
We were coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of
last night overtook us at Cape Morgion, 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 Dantes. "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 Dantes, 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." Dantes
recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the
time he was at the Chateau 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 to-day 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 Dantes, "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 Dantes.

"We shall see," returned the other, smiling.

"Where are you going?" asked Dantes.

"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 sailer,
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 Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes.

"That's not fair," said the seaman who had saved Dantes;
"for you know more than we do."

"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned the Captain. "Every
one 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 Dantes. 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.
Dantes 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 Chateau d'If?" said the
captain.

A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantes' attention,
crowned the summit of the bastion of the Chateau 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 Chateau d'If, and they are
firing the alarm gun," replied Dantes. 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.

"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be, so much the better,
for I have made a rare acquisition." Under pretence of being
fatigued, Dantes 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.
Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes' arrest. He was nineteen when he
entered the Chateau d'If; he was thirty-three when he
escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked
himself what had become of Mercedes, 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 sailer 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

Dantes 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 Abbe Faria, the
worthy master of The Young Amelia (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 Provencal, 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
Dantes was on board a smuggler.

At first the captain had received Dantes 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 Dantes 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
Dantes had handled the lugger had entirely reassured him;
and then, when he saw the light plume of smoke floating
above the bastion of the Chateau 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 hand-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. Dantes had entered the Chateau 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.

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 The Young Amelia, 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 Dantes; but Dantes, who had his own projects,
would not agree for a longer time than three months.

The Young Amelia 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
Dantes 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.
The Young Amelia left it three-quarters of a league to the
larboard, and kept on for Corsica.

Dantes 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, Dantes 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 Abbe Faria, had they not
died with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada
was singularly circumstantial, and Dantes repeated it to
himself, from one end to the other, for he had not forgotten
a word.

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. Dantes noticed that the
captain of The Young Amelia 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 The Young Amelia and on
terra firma. The same night, such a man of regularity was
the patron of The Young Amelia, 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, The Young
Amelia 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 The Young Amelia. A customs officer was laid
low, and two sailors wounded; Dantes was one of the latter,
a ball having touched him in the left shoulder. Dantes 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. Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Abbe
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 The
Young Amelia 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes 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 The Young Amelia 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 Dantes 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.



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, Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 be 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 Dantes
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 Dantes' 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 Dantes 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. Dantes told them that all hands might turn in, and he
would take the helm. When the Maltese (for so they called
Dantes) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went to
their bunks contentedly. This frequently happened. Dantes,
cast from solitude into the world, frequently experienced an
imperious desire for solitude; and what solitude is more
complete, or more poetical, then 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. Dantes 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 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. The Young Amelia was first at the rendezvous. In
spite of his usual command over himself, Dantes 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 The Young Amelia, --
it was one of her regular haunts. As to Dantes, 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 Dantes' brow.

"What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?" he asked.

"None."

For a moment Dantes 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 Dantes
therefore delayed all investigation until the morning.
Besides, a signal made half a league out at sea, and to
which The Young Amelia 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. Dantes 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
pre-occupation, 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, Dantes 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 Dantes 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.
Dantes 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 to-morrow
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 Dantes, who but three
months before had no desire but liberty had now not liberty
enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in Dantes,
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, Dantes 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?

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 Dantes 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, Dantes' 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 Frejus,
urged Dantes 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." Dantes 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. Dantes 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 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 Dantes.

"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 Dantes, "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 any one 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes
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.

Dantes, 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 Abbe
Faria, had been so skilfully used to guide him through the
Daedalian 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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 any one man, were he Hercules himself. Dantes 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,
Dantes, 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
Dantes had previously formed, and a huge snake, like the
guardian demon of the treasure, rolled himself along in
darkening coils, and disappeared.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of joy.
Dantes 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, Caesar
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 band, 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."

"But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his
secret?" asked Dantes of himself.

"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried
Alaric."

"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "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, Dantes 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,
Dantes' 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 abbe, 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. Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Caesar 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. Dantes
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.

Dantes 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, Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes' 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
Dantes' 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 Dantes 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;
Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes
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, pale, on an oval shield, like all the Italian
armorial bearings, and surmounted by a cardinal's hat;
Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Dantes
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.

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?

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.
Dantes 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 Dantes had so eagerly and impatiently waited
with open eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantes
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 richs 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
Dantes recognized the rig and handling of The Young Amelia,
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 Dantes,
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 Dantes had not been an equal
sharer with themselves in the profits, which amounted to no
less a sum than fifty piastres each.

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 The Young Amelia
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.
Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes,
residing in the Allees de Meillan, and also a young woman
called Mercedes, an inhabitant of the Catalan village.
Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this
magnificent present, which Dantes 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 Dantes 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 The Young Amelia having expired, Dantes 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 Dantes to join him at
the Island of Monte Cristo.

Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantes
proceeded to make his final adieus on board The Young
Amelia, 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 Dantes 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. Dantes,
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. Dantes 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 Dantes
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, Dantes furnishing the dimensions
and plan in accordance with which they were to be
constructed.

The following day Dantes sailed with his yacht from 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 Dantes
handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated
with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the
slightest touch; and Dantes 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 Dantes guided his vessel, and at
Monte Cristo he arrived at the close of the second day; his
boat had proved herself a first-class sailer, and had come
the distance from Genoa in thirty-five hours. Dantes 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. Dantes employed it in manoeuvring 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 Dantes 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 newcomer lay at anchor beside the
yacht. A mournful answer awaited each of Edmond's eager
inquiries as to the information Jacopo had obtained. Old
Dantes was dead, and Mercedes had disappeared. Dantes
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 Mercedes.

Without divulging his secret, Dantes 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 Chateau d'If, he had been put on board the
boat destined to convey him thither. Still Dantes 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, Dantes 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 Dantes, as he
landed on the Canebiere, 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, Dantes proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone
many steps he heard the man loudly calling him to stop.
Dantes 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.

Dantes, 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 Allees de Meillan 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, Dantes 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, Dantes
sighed heavily. Nothing in the two small chambers forming
the apartments remained as it had been in the time of the
elder Dantes; 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. 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 Allees de Meillan belonged, Dantes 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
Dantes, 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 Allees de Meillan, 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 Allees de
Meillan 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 Rhone. 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.

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 inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was fast
accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhone 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 inn-keeper 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 inn-keeper 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.

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 scarfs, 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 mid-day. 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, mine
host of the Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter.

"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 abbe
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
inn-keeper; 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 Allees de Meillan, on the fourth floor?"

"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 abbe 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 abbe fixed on
him a searching, penetrating glance.

"Yes, honest -- I can certainly say that much for myself,"
continued the inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of
the abbe'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 every one
can say nowadays."

"So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,"
said the abbe; "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 abbe; "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 Dantes?"

"Dantes? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantes and
myself were intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse, whose
countenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze
of the abbe 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 Dantes,"
observed the abbe, 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 abbe was employed in scrutinizing the agitated
features of the inn-keeper.

"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.

"But the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbe,
"that Dantes, 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 abbe, 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 abbe, "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 Dantes upon himself
quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the
kindness and brotherly care with which Dantes 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, Dantes 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 abbe. "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 abbe, "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 abbe
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 abbe, 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 inn-keeper.

"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 inn-keeper shivered.

"`Another of the number,'" continued the abbe, 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 abbe'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 abbe, "I have
forgotten what he called her."

"Mercedes," said Caderousse eagerly.

"True," said the abbe, with a stifled sigh, "Mercedes it
was."

"Go on," urged Caderousse.

"Bring me a carafe of water," said the abbe.

Caderousse quickly performed the stranger's bidding; and
after pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its
contents, the abbe, 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 Mercedes."

"To be sure. `You will go to Marseilles,' said Dantes, --
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 abbe, making
a strong effort to appear indifferent; "but from the length
of time that has elapsed since the death of the elder
Dantes, 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 abbe, 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 abbe, "that my
intentions are good; and that you 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 abbe 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 every one. 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 Mercedes 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 Dantes' faithful and attached friends."

"And was he not so?" asked the abbe.

"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 abbe, said, "Can a man
be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for
himself? But Dantes 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 Dantes?"
inquired the abbe 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 abbe.

"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 abbe, "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 abbe. "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 abbe, 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 abbe again draw 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 Dantes, to be
sold, and the money divided between his father, Mercedes,
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 abbe; "with the addition of an equal
division of that part intended for the elder Dantes, 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 abbe 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 abbe
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.

"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 arm-chair, into which she fell as though
exhausted.

"Well," asked the abbe, 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 abbe.

"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 abbe 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 clinched 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 abbe.

"Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give
you, that you will never let any one 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 abbe. "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 abbe;
"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 abbe; "Edmond related to me everything
until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret
close to Marseilles."

"At La Reserve! 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 Dantes was arrested."

"Yes, and up to this point I know all," said the priest.
"Dantes 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 any one of them."

"Well, when Dantes 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 Mercedes 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
Mercedes 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 up-stairs and try to console the poor
old man?" asked the abbe.

"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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes, 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
Dantes 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
Mercedes. 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 abbe uttered a kind of groan. "The story
interests you, does it not, sir?" inquired Caderousse.

"Yes," replied the abbe, "it is very affecting."

"Mercedes 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. Mercedes 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 Mercedes, `If you ever see my Edmond
again, tell him I die blessing him.'" The abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe, "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 Reserve, the day before the betrothal feast."

"'Twas so, then -- 'twas so, then," murmured the abbe. "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 abbe suddenly, "you were there
yourself."

"I!" said Caderousse, astonished; "who told you I was
there?"

The abbe 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
abbe; "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 Dantes 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."

"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 abbe, "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 abbe.

"But he knows it all now," interrupted Caderousse; "they say
the dead know everything." There was a brief silence; the
abbe 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 Dantes."

"And what part did he play in this sad drama?" inquired the
abbe.

"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 Dantes' 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 any one. I have the purse still by me
-- a large one, made of red silk."

"And," asked the abbe, "is M. Morrel still alive?"

"Yes," replied Caderousse.

"In that case," replied the abbe, "he should be rich,
happy."

Caderousse smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy as myself," said he.

"What! M. Morrel unhappy?" exclaimed the abbe.

"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 Dantes
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
abbe.

"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
Dantes 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 de
Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in
his ante-chamber, and I know not how many millions in his
strongbox."

"Ah!" said the abbe, 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 troop, 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 abbe.

"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. 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 abbe.

"So that now," continued Caderousse, "he owns a magnificent
house -- No. 27, Rue du Helder, Paris." The abbe opened his
mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an effort at
self-control, he said, "And Mercedes -- 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 abbe, with an
ironical smile.

"Mercedes is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in
Paris," replied Caderousse.

"Go on," said the abbe; "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."

"Mercedes 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 Dantes. 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 Mercedes 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. Mercedes
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 Mercedes' heart; that other was absent, had
disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought Mercedes
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 Dantes 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,
Mercedes, 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 Mercedes; at the second he
reminded her that he loved her. Mercedes begged for six
months more in which to await and mourn for Edmond."

"So that," said the abbe, 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
bride-grooms."

"Well, Mercedes was married," proceeded Caderousse; "but
although in the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she
nearly fainted as she passed La Reserve, 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 Mercedes 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 abbe started. "Her son?" said he.

"Yes," replied Caderousse, "little Albert."

"But, then, to be able to instruct her child," continued the
abbe, "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? Mercedes 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 abbe.

"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
Mercedes, who at once shut the blind."

"And M. de Villefort?" asked the abbe.

"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-Meran, 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 abbe; "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 abbe 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."

"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
abbe smiled. "In exchange," he continued, "give me the red
silk purse that M. Morrel left on old Dantes' 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 abbe a long purse of faded
red silk, round which were two copper runners that had once
been gilt. The abbe 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 abbe to himself, "you would have done."
The abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe 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?"

"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."



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." 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 home by a poor devil of an
abbe, who disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he
was confined in the Chateau d'If, and I should like to learn
some particulars of his death."

"What was his name?"

"The Abbe 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 abbe'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!" 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 Dantes" --

"This dangerous man's name was" --

"Edmond Dantes. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantes 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 Abbe
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 Dantes saw a means of
accelerating his escape. He, no doubt, thought that
prisoners who died in the Chateau 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 Chateau 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."

"But some official document was drawn up as to this affair,
I suppose?" inquired the Englishman.

"Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantes'
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 abbe, 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 arm-chair, and placed
before him the register and documents relative to the
Chateau 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 Abbe 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 Dantes. 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 Dantes had rendered to
the imperial cause -- services which Villefort's
certificates rendered indispensable. 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 Dantes.

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 some writing as the certificate -- that
is to say, was in Villefort's handwriting. 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 Dantes' 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 Abbe 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 Reserve, and which had the postmark,
"Marseilles, 27th Feb., 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

Any one 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 any one 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 10th 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.

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 ante-chamber, 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.

"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 belvidere 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 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 February; she ought to have been here
a month ago."

"What is that?" said the Englishman. "What is the meaning of
that noise?"

"Oh, oh!" 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 than 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 tarpaulin 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."

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-sl's 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 mains'l!' Five minutes after, it was down; and we
sailed under mizzen-tops'ls and to'gall'nt 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 tops'ls,' cried the
captain; `let go the bowlin's, haul the brace, lower the
to'gall'nt sails, haul out the reef-tackles on the yards.'"

"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 every one
start. Penelon put his hand over his eyes, and then stared
at the man who thus criticized the manoeuvres 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 tops'ls 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.' `That's 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.

"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-by 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 be, "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."

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."
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 his 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. To-day 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 he 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!"

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 Nimes,
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 53d 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 up-stairs 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
Phocaean club, 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 court-yard, 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 to-morrow 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.

"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 Allees de Meillan, 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 any one 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 de Musee, 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; "to-day is the 5th of September, is it
not?"

"Yes."

"To-day, 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 to-day 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 up-stairs, 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
bed-chamber, 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 affair's.
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. 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 his 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 secretary 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 was 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 ante-chamber. 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.

"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 Allees de Meillan, 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 de Musee, 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."

"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 Cannebiere. 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."

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 Vicomte Albert
de Morcerf and the Baron Franz d'Epinay, 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 Hotel 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
charge 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 every one'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?"

"l 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 manoeuvre 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. Every one 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.

Every one 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, -- 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, every one 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 Moliere'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."

"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 any one
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 any one."

"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 mustache 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.'"

"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?"

"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 little man in the 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."

"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 revery. 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 Philip Augustus?"

"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
assafoetida, 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 revery, 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."

"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 his 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."

"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 Eternal
City 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 inn-keepers with
their houses full, that there was no room for him at the
Hotel 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 onto 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.

"To-morrow morning," answered the inn-keeper.

"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 last three days of the carnival."

"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; "to-day 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 lawyer's 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 to-day,
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 Hotel 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 excellencics 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 he 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 Cafe 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 frequenters. 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?"

"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?"

"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 the veiled
Horatius, 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."

"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 inn-keeper 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 Bugaboo John
or Lara, we may recognize him."

"You could not apply to any one 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 Breguet,
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, Caesar, 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.

"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
Breschia, 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.

"One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood hear 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 Gasperone, 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.

"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
to-morrow 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 clinched convulsively.

"`Now, then,' said Cucumetto, advancing towards the other
bandits, `are you coming?' -- `I follow you.'

"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 Diovolaccio. 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. Diovalaccio, 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.' Every one
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 every one 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 every one
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. Every one 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 any one 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.' 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 kissed 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, every one 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 every one, 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.

"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'Epinay 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 Dejanira. 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 clinched 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.'

"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 Leopold 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 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."

"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, Guanouti,
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.



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
Hotel de Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island
friend was playing his philanthropic part on the shores of
Piombino, Civita-Vecchio, Ostia, and Gaeta, 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 he 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 Caesars, 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. Albert 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 an eastern clime. Scarcely, therefore,
had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps beneath the
interior porticoes of the ruin, than, 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, and finishing with
Caesar'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 vomitarium 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 some one, 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.

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 his just struck on the 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 glean?"

"That two executions of considerable interest will take
place the day after to-morrow at two o'clock, as is
customary at Rome at the commencement of all great
festivals. One of the culprits will be mazzolato;* 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;** and he, your excellency, is
poor Peppino."

* Knocked on the head.
** Beheaded.

"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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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 de Spagni, 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."

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 Argentino; 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 Argentino, 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 a talk about than
the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a
chance, the living should be my theme."

"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 time this first act takes. 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 choregraphic 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 it's 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 call 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?"

"Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a
living form." This fresh allusion to Byron* 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."

* 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.

"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 to-night; and if to-morrow your curiosity still
continues as great, pursue your researches if you will; but
to-night 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
to-night, 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 to-night. 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 to-morrow 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
to-morrow."

"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 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, Sir 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 Leopold 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, 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 to-morrow it might
be too late."

"Then he will be able to give us an answer to-night."

"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, mine 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 some one 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 Viscomte Albert de
Morcerf and M. Franz d'Epinay. 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 Argentino, 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 to-day?"

"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 to-day'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 23d,
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 Rondola, and Peppino,
otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former found guilty of
the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named Don
Cesare 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 subjected to the mazzuola,
the second culprit beheaded. 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?"

"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 portieres. 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
Argentino, but also his extraordinary host of Monte Cristo.



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; but 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 to-day, the 23d of February,
will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of murder on the
person of the respected and venerated Don Cesare 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 mazzuola 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 mandaia* 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."

* Guillotine.

"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 his promised to every
one 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 fete."

"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-fight? 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 Strada 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 Cafe 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 de Spagni 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
mandaia. 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. "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
mandaia is formed on almost the same model as the French
instrument.* 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 Carcere Nuovo 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. 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.

* Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from
witnessing an execution in Italy.

"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 mandaia, 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 clinched
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 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 any one, because his
hands are bound, wishes to see his companion in captivity
perish. No, no -- look, look!"

The command was needless. Franz was fascinated by the
horribly 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
square -- 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 his 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."

"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.

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 below
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
every one 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 to-morrow; 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 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
Maratte; the coachman, without saying a word, drove up it,
passed along the Piazza di Spagni 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 to-morrow two Roman peasant
costumes," returned Albert. The host shook his head. "To
make you two costumes between now and to-morrow? 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
to-morrow, 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 `The Algerian Captive.'"

"Agreed," returned Albert; "but remember, Signor Pastrini,
that both my friend and myself attach the greatest
importance to having to-morrow 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. 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 any one 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 Hotel 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?"

"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 baiocco."

"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
fete-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.

"Gentlemen," said he, "although a companion is agreeable,
perfect freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to
say that to-day, 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 changed his 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
archaeology."

"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 to-night 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 he 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
fete, 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 fetes 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. Every one 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 Piazzo del
Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the fete 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, every one
blowing, extinguishing, relighting. Had old AEolus 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 every one. 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.



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 Hotel 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 fetes 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 -- 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 to-day," 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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'Epinay."

"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 up-stairs 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 inn-keeper 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
secretary; 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 mile piastre non sono
nelle mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avra 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
secretary, 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 mile piastre non sono
nelle mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avra 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
secretary, opened it, and pulling out a drawer filled with
gold, said to Franz, -- "I hope you will not offend me by
applying to any one 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."

"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 Paola; 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 any one 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 shall we wait
awhile?"

"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 newcomers 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."

"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
Vicomte 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!"

"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 to-morrow
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.

"l 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."

"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."

"Caesar'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 Compact

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, "to-day 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 court-yard, 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?"

"To-morrow 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 to-morrow?"

"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. "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?"

"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'Epinay 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
Vicomte Albert de Morcerf, he had written in pencil -- "27,
Rue du Helder, on the 21st 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 hotel, 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 ante-chamber, 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 ante-chamber; these
three rooms were a salon, a boudoir, and a bedroom. The
salon down-stairs was only an Algerian divan, for the use of
smokers. The boudoir up-stairs communicated with the
bed-chamber 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 preeminence. 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, Cook, 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 faience, and Palissy platters; of
old arm-chairs, in which perhaps had sat Henry IV. or Sully,
Louis XIII. or Richelieu -- for two of these arm-chairs,
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'oeuvre of Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Gretry,
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 down-stairs. 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, pueros,
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?"

"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 some one 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 be 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 Chateau-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. Eugenie 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 mesalliance. 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 Rapee."

"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 Chateau-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
Beranger, what shall we come to next?"

"M. de Chateau-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 Chateau-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
mustache, 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 Chateau-Renaud knew how much pleasure this
introduction would give me; you are his friend, be ours
also."

"Well said," interrupted Chateau-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
Chateau-Renaud exaggerates."

"Not worth speaking of?" cried Chateau-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, "Chateau-Renaud can tell us while we eat our
breakfast."

"Gentlemen," said Morcerf, "it is only a quarter past ten,
and I expect some one 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 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'Epinay."

"Ah, true," said Debray, "you did fight some time ago; about
what?"

"The devil take me, if I remember," returned Chateau-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
Chateau-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" --

"Heroic action," interrupted Chateau-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 Chateau-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
Chateau-Renaud, "is an admirable one, which he will tell you
some day when you are better acquainted with him; to-day 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 any one 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 some one 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 Chateau-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
Chateau-Renaud. "A man whose name is Franz d'Epinay 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 Chateau-Renaud, with the air of a
man who knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.

"Does any one 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, every one exists."

"Doubtless, but not in the same way; every one 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 that 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 Chateau-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."

"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 every one
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 ante-chamber; 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
Chateau-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 every one
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 to-day 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. "Why should he doubt it?"
said Beauchamp to Chateau-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 every one took
his place. "Gentleman," 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
Chateau-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 Spagni. 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 maccaroni at
Naples, polenta at Milan, olla podrida at Valencia, pilau at
Constantinople, karrick in India, and swallows' nests in
China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I eat but
little; and to-day, 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 Nimes, 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'Epinay; 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 Chateau-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." Every one 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 cafe 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 some one 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."

"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 Poppoea, 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 Caesar'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'Epinay'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 Chateau-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 to-day 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 Valerien,
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 any one 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 Eugenie Danglars."

"Eugenie 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?"

"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, "a 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 Chateau-Renaud. "The count
will find there a charming hotel, with a court and garden."

"Bah, Chateau-Renaud," returned Debray, "you only know your
dull and gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any
attention to him, count -- live in the Chaussee d'Antin,
that's the real centre of Paris."

"Boulevard de l'Opera," 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 Chateau-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."

"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 any one of these gentlemen, since my
habitation is already prepared."

"What," cried Morcerf; "you are, then, going to an 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 to-day at ten o'clock; he was waiting for me
at nine at the Barriere 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 Chateau-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 any one'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 Chateau-Renaud, "since you have an
establishment, a steward, and a hotel in the Champs Elysees,
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 Varietes;
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. Every one who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when
they leave me will no longer have any need of me or any one
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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 archaeology, 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 Dupre,
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
Muller, 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 bed-chamber; it was a
model of taste and simple elegance. A single portrait,
signed by Leopold 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 Leopold
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."

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 blase 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 ante-chamber, 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
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 Oedipus
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 mustache
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 Metidja, 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 manoeuvre 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." 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 Mercedes. "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 Mercedes 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 coupe 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 ante-chamber, 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 coupe 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
arm-chair, 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 ante-chamber. 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 Mercedes eagerly.

"No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the
fact to you?"

"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 to-day, 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 entree amongst us by
striking every man of us with amazement, not even excepting
Chateau-Renaud."

"And what do you suppose is the count's age?" inquired
Mercedes, evidently attaching great importance to this
question.

"Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother."

"So young, -- it is impossible," said Mercedes, 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'Epinay, 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 revery 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 Elysees.
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 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 Chaussee
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 ante-chamber," 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. "`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 ante-chamber, 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." 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. Any one 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-Meran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold
the house for what he gave for it."

"The Marquis of Saint-Meran!" returned the count. "The name
is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Meran!" and he
appeared to meditate.

"An old gentleman," continued the concierge, "a stanch
follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who
married M. de Villefort, who had been the king's attorney at
Nimes, 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 second
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 clinched 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."

"My dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte Cristo, laughing,
"control yourself; we are not at Sartena or at Corte. This
is not a Corsican arbor, 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 Abbe 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 abbe; I shall hold him
responsible for his protege'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 Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison
at Nimes, 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-Meran, I think, the
concierge said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis de
Saint-Meran?"

"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 Abbe
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 any one 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 Abbe 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 Nimes?"

"Yes."

"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Meran'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.



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 Abbe 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
Cape Corso. This letter was from my brother. He told us that
the army was disbanded, and that he should return by
Chateauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nimes; and, if I
had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nimes,
with an inn-keeper with whom I had dealings."

"In the smuggling line?" said Monte Cristo.

"Eh, your excellency? Every one 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 Nimes. 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 Rhone. At last, however, we
succeeded, and worked up to Arles. I left the boat between
Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the road to Nimes."

"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 Nimes, 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 inn-keeper. My misgivings had been but too true. My
brother had arrived the previous evening at Nimes, 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 Nimes, 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
to-day, 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 Nimes, 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-Meran, Villefort's father-in-law.
M. de Saint-Meran 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."

"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 Sevres. 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.

"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.'"

"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 any one 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 Abbe Busoni came to visit you
at your request in the prison at Nimes."

"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, Nimes, or Uzes. We
profited by this respite on the part of the government to
make friends everywhere. Since my brother's assassination in
the streets of Nimes, I had never entered the town; the
result was that the inn-keeper 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 Vasilio, 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.'

"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.

"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 Rhone 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 inn-keeper 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 Rhone, 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 Rhone 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 inn-keeper from
Nimes 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 3d."

"Ah," said Monte Cristo "the evening of the 3d 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 Rhone, 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 Dantes. 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 Dantes took the same care of him as
if he had been his brother, the Englishman, when he was set
free, gave this stone to Dantes, who, less fortunate, died,
and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent
abbe, 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 abbe told us it was worth 50,000
without the setting.'

"`What was the abbe's name?' asked the indefatigable
questioner. -- `The Abbe 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 Dantes, of whom they
spoke?"

"No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and
never but once afterwards, and that was from the Abbe Busoni
himself, when I saw him in the prison at Nimes."

"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, `some one else will purchase it.' -- `Yes,'
continued the jeweller; `but some one 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 Abbe Busoni; and abbes 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 Abbe 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 abbe 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
Abbe 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.

"`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.

"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 to-night?' -- `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.

"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 to-night. 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 doubled-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 to-morrow 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 inn-keeper 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.

"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 blood. Having obtained the light, he
hurried up-stairs 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 any one
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 Nimes. 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 Nimes.

"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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 abbe 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 Abbe Busoni?"

"It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbe 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?"

"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 that he had demanded
money, threatening her with the severest consequences if she
did not supply him with what he desired, he 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, Vasilio, 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 Vasilio'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
Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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
Elysees, 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; Haidee
will soon he 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 to-night," 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 new-comer, 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 to-day."

"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 how 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 any one 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 seen 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 Chaussee
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 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
Fecamp, must she not?"

"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 Chalons?"

"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 Elysees 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 Chaussee 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 arm-chair, covered with white satin embroidered with
gold. The count sat down. "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 Danglers, "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 arm-chair, 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. Laffitte. 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 to-morrow. 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
to-morrow 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'Epinay.

"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 Servieres, 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, ha, 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 fetes are over; the Italian opera is in London; the
French opera everywhere except in Paris. As for the Theatre
Francais, 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 some one 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 to-morrow 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
Eugenie 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.

"Excellent," murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came
away. "All his 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 Eugenie 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?"

"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 Heloise 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 any one, 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."

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 Elysees; 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 St. Honore.

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 to-day. 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 to-morrow. 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, his
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. 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 Eugenie. I embrace you with all my heart.

Heloise 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; Chateau-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
Heloise 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-Elysees.



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 Mole. 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.

He 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 dispised
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; "l 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 expeditions 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; Haidee, 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.'"

"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 every one 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."

"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 Renee de Saint-Meran -- 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 madam's chamber -- have the
carriage ready at one o'clock."



Chapter 49
Haidee

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 Haidee, 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. Haidee and 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 Haidee 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. Haidee 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 scarfs, 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, Haidee was in the very
springtide and fulness of youthful charms -- she had not yet
numbered more than twenty summers.

Monte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her
inquire whether it would be agreeable to her mistress to
receive his visit. Haidee'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. "Haidee,"
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."

"Haidee," 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 any one I preferred to you, and I have
never loved any one 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, Haidee?" 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, Haidee," 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, Haidee, 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 Haidee, "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, Haidee, 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, Haidee, 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, the Presse and the Debats, 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.

"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. `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 Chateau-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 every one, 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 every one 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 some
one who, grateful for a kindness your father had shown him,
and which he himself had forgotten, has taken this method of
requiting the obligation?"

"Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle."

"What was his name?" asked Monte Cristo.

"He gave no other name," answered Julie, looking earnestly
at the count, "than that at the end of his letter -- `Sinbad
the Sailor.'"

"Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious
one."

Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his
voice, --

"Tell me," continued he, "was he not about my height,
perhaps a little taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it
were, in a high cravat; his coat closely buttoned up, and
constantly taking out his pencil?"

"Oh, do you then know him?" cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled
with joy.

"No," returned Monte Cristo "I only guessed. I knew a Lord
Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind."

"Without revealing himself?"

"He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the
existence of gratitude."

"Oh, heaven," exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, "in what
did he believe, then?"

"He did not credit it at the period which I knew him," said
Monte Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie's
voice; "but, perhaps, since then he has had proofs that
gratitude does exist."

"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 some one, 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
Dantes!'" 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-Honore,
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 XII. 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
court-yard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honore, 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-Honore itself, one of the most important
thoroughfares in the city of Paris.

In matters of speculation, however, though "man proposes,"
"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 any one 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, pease, and melons had once flourished, a scanty
crop of lucerne 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
mustache, 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
to-day? It is almost dinner-time, and I had to use no little
diplomacy to get rid of my watchful mother-in-law, 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."

"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 lucerne. 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'Epinay, 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 mother-in-law, 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."

"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
mother-in-law, 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'Epinay, 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 mother-in-law 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 any one to do that?"

"Alas," replied the weeping girl, "I am obliged to own that
my mother-in-law'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-Meran, 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 mother-in-law 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."

"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 every one 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 powder,' 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; "some one is coming!"
Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucerne,
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 some one 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 parroquet 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 daughter-in-law,"
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 fete; 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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.

"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 Raffaelle, of manners,
customs, of the famous aquatofana, 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."

"Moliere 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 arm-chair, 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 angostura* 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."

* Brucoea ferruginea.

"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."

"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, brucaea,
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 aquatofana 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
Abbe 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 Renes,
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 Abbe 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 Abbe
Adelmonte. He then took the cabbage to the room where he had
rabbits -- for the Abbe Adelmonte had a collection of
rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as fine as his
collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the Abbe
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 Abbe 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 his 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."

"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 Shakspeare 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" --

"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 Abbe
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 abbe 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."

"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 Academie 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 Academie Royale. Levasseur,
who had been suffering under severe illness, made his
reappearance in the character of Bertrand, and, as usual,
the announcement of the most admired production of the
favorite composer of the day had attracteda 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.
Chateau-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
mother's rejection of it, 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 Eugenie 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.

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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud.

"To-day?"

"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 Chateau-Renaud, "here comes 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 Eugenie, 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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Actaeon."

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 Eugenie's person was in perfect keeping with
the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana,
as Chateau-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 Hotel 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 Chateau-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 Eugenie, 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. "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 Chateau-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." Chateau-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
Argentino!"

"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
Chateau-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 Chateau-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 any one during the first act?" asked
Chateau-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
Haidee. 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 Eugenie 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."

"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 Eugenie.

"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 Eugenie;
"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, every one 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 Eugenie; "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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie; "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 Eugenie.

"What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you
really no desire to meet him?"

"None whatever," replied Eugenie.

"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 fluttering 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 Brack 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 to-night."

"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?"

"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 Haidee'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. Haidee, whose soul seemed centred in the
business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures,
delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.

The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet,
Julie, 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."

"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. Eugenie," 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 to-night, count," said Eugenie. "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?"

"Haidee," 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 Haidee, 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 Eugenie, "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. Haidee'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 Haidee 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 Haidee, 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, Haidee
arose, and wrapping herself in her burnoose of white
cashmire 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 Elysees,
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,
nee 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 Chaussee 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 Eugenie 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."

"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 Eugenie is only
seventeen; but the two months expire next week. It must be
done. My dear count, you cannot imagine now 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, --

"`Danaro e santita,
Meta della meta.'*

* "Money and sanctity,
Each in a moiety.

"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 ecarte 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 ecarte -- it
is not only a game, it is a hors-d'oeuvre! M. Danglars sold
yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but
waited till to-day, 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 know
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."

"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, to-morrow evening we leave, and
the day after we shall be at Treport. 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 to-morrow. 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 Treport."

"Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on
my mother before to-morrow?"

"Before to-morrow? -- 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 to-day 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-by, 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'Epinay?"

"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?"

"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-Elysees 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 mustaches, 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 to-day 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."

"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 to-day 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 Abbe Busoni?"

"Exactly so," said the delighted major.

"And you have a letter?"

"Yes, there it is."

"Give it 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 abbe
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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 arm-chair towards him,
and proceeded to seat himself.

"Now," said the count, "what will you take -- a glass of
port, sherry, 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.

"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, per Bacco,
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 Abbe 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 curate 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 curate 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" --

"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.

"Some one 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Hotel
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 heard, 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 Chambery, from Chambery to
Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."

"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 every one 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 6,000
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."

"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.

"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 Abbe 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 Elysees, 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)

"Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe
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?'"

"Ma foi," 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 Genes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin,
Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte
Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, 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 blindfold."

"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.

"Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots,
white waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long
cravat. Go to Blin or Veronique 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."



Chapter 57
In the Lucerne 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 Eugenie, 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 any one 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'Epinay."

"Dear Valentine!"

"That will account to you for the unreserved manner which
you observed between me and Eugenie, 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."

"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
Eugenie."

"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 any
one else!"

"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'Epinay, 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-Meran, 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 any one
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
mustache 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 griefed
you. But, indeed, I am not prejudiced beyond the power of
conviction. Tell me what this Count of Monte Cristo has done
for you."

"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 his
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 every one, 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."

"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 to-day."

"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."

"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 Medeah. 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
Chateau-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. Medeah 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
Elysees. 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 arm-chair, 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
newcomers 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'Epinay."

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'Epinay, 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."

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'Epinay 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 any one 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'Epinay 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'Epinay." 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
odd 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. "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.

"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.

"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 every one
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. "Five hundred thousand?"
The same expression continued. "Six hundred thousand --
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 every one.

"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.

"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'Epinay?" 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'Epinay -- 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."

"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 not 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'Epinay 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.
"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 his
reason on his side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter
to the Baron Franz d'Epinay, 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'Epinay?"

"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'Epinay can have
displeased your father more than any other person?"

"I believe I know M. Franz d'Epinay," said the count; "is he
not the son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron
d'Epinay 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'Epinay 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'Epinay into
personal contact. Although General d'Epinay 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'Epinay." 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'Epinay 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-Meran, 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'Epinay,
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'Epinay, 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'Epinay,
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'Epinay 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 every one here look upon what has passed
to-day 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'Epinay, 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-Elysees 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-Meran's house!"

"Did it belong to M. de Saint-Meran?" 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 his 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."

"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 he nothing
more than a sign from M. Duchatel, or from M. Montalivet,
transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two
Greek words, tele, 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 Chatillon?"

"Yes."

"By the tower of Montlhery, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Good-by. 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 intended, but the next
morning, the Count of Monte Cristo went out by the Barrier
d'Enfer, taking the road to Orleans. 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 Montlhery, situated, as every one 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, 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.

"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 Mere Simon's son 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.

"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 Montlhery, 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 Mere 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 pease,
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 To-morrow."

"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."

"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's 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
ante-chambers, 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
ante-chamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered
him with their music; and the house, awakened from it's 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
court-yard; 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.

"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 Medeah. "I
am sure I am the first," cried Morrel; "I did it on purpose
to have you a minute to myself, before every one 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 Chateau-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 every one 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
court-yard, 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 Medeah 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 Vandyke, 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 Chateau-Renaud.

"You pretend not to know, -- because government was not rich
enough."

"Ah, pardon me," said Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud, "these Italians are well named
and badly dressed."

"You are fastidious, Chateau-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 to-day 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 to-day," 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 his not stated the number of guests."

"Ah, true."

"How many covers?"

"Count for yourself."

"Is every one 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 enciente -- 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?"

"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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 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. Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud.

"And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey."

"Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they
are caught."

"Starlets," said Chateau-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 Chateau-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
court-yard was paved and empty; while to-day 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 Chateau-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-Meran advertised it for sale two or three
years ago."

"M. de Saint-Meran?" said Madame de Villefort; "then this
house belonged to M. de Saint-Meran 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 Chateau-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-Meran 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 Ganges* 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.

* 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 Provencale." She was the widow of the Marquise
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.

"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.
"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
Chateau-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 Abbe 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 "

"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." 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 Chateau-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?"

"To-morrow."

"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, Chateau-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, "To-morrow, 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 Hotel 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. 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 any
one 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
to-night, 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 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 any one, 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.

"Good!" said Caderousse.

"Apply to the steward on the first day of every mouth, 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 line 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 cafe. 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-by 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 mustache, which it played with for some time. "Good
Caderousse," he said, "how happy you will be."

"I will do my best," said the inn-keeper 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
great-coat 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,
Chateau-Renaud to the Pont de la Revolution, and Debray to
the Quai. Most probably Morrel and Chateau-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
Michodiere, 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 St. Honore, 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.
Some one 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 any one. 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
Cornelie, her confidential maid. "What is my daughter
doing?" asked Madame Danglars.

"She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,"
replied Mademoiselle Cornelie.

"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 Cornelie. "My dear M. Lucien," said Madame
Danglars through the door, "you are always complaining that
Eugenie 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, Cornelie," said Madame Danglars, "I do not require you
any longer."

Cornelie 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?"

"Nothing," answered the baroness.

And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went
towards a looking-glass. "I am frightful to-night," 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
to-night listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for
you can hear them as well to-morrow; but I claim to-night
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."

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 to-night 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!"

"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 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."

"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 Theatre 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 cashbox. But to-day 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 the banker usually
chose to pay a visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his
office, his coupe 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-Elysees, No.
30.

Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with some one
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 abbe 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 Abbe 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. To-day 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."

"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?"

"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 indorsement -- 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 six 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 podestas, 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 and an immense fortune."

"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 it 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 to-day."

"Do so."

"I will."

"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 coupe.



Chapter 67
At 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
Guenegaud 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 ante-chamber, 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
arm-chair, 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.

"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 stool."

"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 Chalons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de
Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Chalons I
was put upon the Saone, thence I passed on to he Rhone,
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 Nimes 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!"

"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 the room and
waited."

"Oh, heavens!"

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 some one
knows it lives -- some one 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 baronet, 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 Chalons, 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 every one, 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 any
one our connection?"

"Never, to any one."

"You understand me," replied Villefort, affectionately;
"when I say any one, -- pardon my urgency, -- to any one
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?"

"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 Elysees, 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 Treport."

"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 Treport, 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."

"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 every one 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 Chateau-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
Treport, 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."

"That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make
every one 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 Marle'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 Eugenie 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 every one."

"And you include me in the expression every one -- many
thanks!"

"Let us not mistake," said Monte Cristo; "I love every one
as God commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but
I thoroughly hate but a few. Let us return to M. Franz
d'Epinay. 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 Eugenie 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'Epinay, 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
abbe, 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 every one -- 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,* M. de Villefort, to come,
but have not much hope of seeing him."

"`Never despair of anything,' says the proverb."

* Magistrate and orator of great eloquence -- chancellor of
France under Louis XV.

"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, so delights in your
conversation."

"Indeed?"

"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'Epinay?"

"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-Meran."

"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-by."

"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 Abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe 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 abbe was not in Paris, an answer
which satisfied most persons, because the abbe was known to
be a great traveller. Besides, whether at home or not,
whether in Paris or Cairo, the abbe 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 arm-chairs, and a
couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a
prie-Dieu, all its furniture. Lord Wilmore resided in Rue
Fontaine-Saint-George. 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 Ferou, and rapping at an olive-green door,
asked if the Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Ferou, 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 abbe 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 abbe
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 Abbe Busoni?" asked the visitor.

"Yes, sir," replied the abbe; "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 abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe 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 abbe 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, abbe," said the envoy of the prefect of the
police, "but the light tries my eyes very much." The abbe
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 abbe, 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, every one 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, every one 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 Chaussee d'Antin; but I know neither
the street nor the number."

"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 abbe
bowed to imply he wished to pursue his studies. The visitor
either understood the abbe's meaning, or had no more
questions to ask; he arose, and the abbe 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 abbe
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-George, 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 Sevres 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."

Then began the questions, which were similar to those which
had been addressed to the Abbe 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 every one. 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
Bagneres, 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.

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 Mercedes, 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
Mercedes 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 to-night?"

"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 every one 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 the
`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 in 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 mustache, 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 any one 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.

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 David* to devise a uniform for the
Academicians."

* Louis David, a famous French painter.

"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."

"And what are his claims to the peerage?"

"He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or
five articles in the Siecle, 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 Frankfort, 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 Mercedes;
"and since he has been here I have watched him."

"Well?"

"Well, he has taken nothing yet."

"The count is very temperate." Mercedes 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 Mercedes. 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 Mercedes, "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 -- every one inhaled with
delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time
Mercedes 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 Mercedes, "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 Mercedes. 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes, in a tremulous
voice. "Pray excuse me, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but
I never eat Muscatel grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was
hanging against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same
artificial heat. Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 any one 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?"

"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 his 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-Meran is just arrived in Paris,
bringing the news of M. de Saint-Meran'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-Meran 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-Meran 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-Meran

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 any one 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 arm-chair 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,
Tho, 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 Abbe 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, 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-Meran with you?"

"M. de Saint-Meran 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-Meran, "we went out
together in the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Meran 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-Meran, 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-Meran 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." 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-Meran 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 arm-chair, 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-Meran 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 to-night, 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-Meran. 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-Meran 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-Meran has arrived,
and her husband is dead!"

M. de Saint-Meran 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. "Mademoiselle
Valentine?" Noirtier nodded his head. "She is at the ball,
as you know, since she came to say good-by 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-Meran, 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 every
one 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-Meran; "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-Meran, 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'Epinay?"

"Yes, madame."

"Is he not the son of General d'Epinay 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'Epinay 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-Meran, 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 Renee, 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'Epinay arrives in Paris" --

"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.

"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'Epinay 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."

"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-Meran, 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 Chateau-Renaud; but Morrel was of
plebeian extraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty
Marquise de Saint-Meran 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-Meran was in a feverish sleep, and the notary had
arrived. Though his coming was announced in a very low tone,
Madame de Saint-Meran 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-Meran, "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. "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-Meran?"

"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-Meran 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. 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-Meran 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'Epinay, 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'Epinay
to arrive that the contract may be signed, and the following
day you will be his, to-morrow you will be engaged to M.
d'Epinay, 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 court-yard. 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'Epinay!' 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 to-morrow 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 clinched 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 your 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, 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
to-morrow you will be irrevocably promised to M. Franz
d'Epinay, 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."

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, willing 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-Meran insist that M. d'Epinay
should be called to-morrow 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-Phillippe 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; to-day 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-Meran 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-Meran, 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-Phillippe 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. 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-Meran'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.

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-Meran 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-Meran has fallen a victim?"

"I did. Madame de Saint-Meran had three successive attacks,
at intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the
former. When you arrived, Madame de Saint-Meran 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-Meran, 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-Meran 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?"

"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 any one besides me seen Madame de Saint-Meran?"

"No."

"Has anything been sent for from a chemist's that I have not
examined?"

"Nothing."

"Had Madame de Saint-Meran any enemies?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Would her death affect any one'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 any one; 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-Meran a dose prepared for his
master?"

"For my father?"

"Yes."

"But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame
de Saint-Meran?"

"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-Meran, 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-Meran, 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 any one 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 any one. 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 some one; stay."

"But if any one 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'Epinay?" replied Morrel.

"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 up-stairs. He
stopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether
to turn to his own apartment or into Madame de
Saint-Meran'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 any one, 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, "What?"

"I will go," continued Maximilian, "I will seek M. Franz
d'Epinay -- 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-Meran'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'Epinay?"

"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
arm-chair, 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'Epinay."

"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.



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-Honore
and the Rue de la Pepiniere. 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-Meran, and that
those who had come thinking to attend one funeral would
follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de
Saint-Meran, 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 Pere-la-Chaise, where M. de
Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the
reception of his family. The remains of poor Renee 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
Chateau-Renaud were talking of the very sudden death of the
marchioness. "I saw Madame de Saint-Meran only last year at
Marseilles, when I was coming back from Algiers," said
Chateau-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-Meran, 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-Meran."

"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. One thing only
puzzles me, namely, how Franz d'Epinay 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."

Such was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these
two sudden deaths, so quickly following each other,
astonished every one, 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, Chateau-Renaud recognized Morrel,
who had come alone in a cabriolet, and walked silently along
the path bordered with yew-trees. "You here?" said
Chateau-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-Meran." 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'Epinay, 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 Chateau-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'Epinay, 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
hall in Death's anteroom?"

"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-Meran
coffins. There grief might freely expend itself without
being disturbed by the trifling loungers who came from a
picnic party to visit Pere-la-Chaise, 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-Meran 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; Chateau-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 Chateau-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-Honore. 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'Epinay," 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-Meran 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-Meran 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-Honore,
and you have my authority to inspect those deeds."

"Sir," replied M. d'Epinay, "it is not, perhaps, the moment
for Mademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to
think of a husband; indeed, I fear" --

"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 to-day."

"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-Meran; I say hers, for she inherits it
to-day. There, after a few days, if you like, the civil
marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony.
Madame de Saint-Meran wished her daughter should be married
there. When that in 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 Chateau-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'Epinay 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 court yard. 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.
Chateau-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'Epinay?" 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'Epinay, that during
my life-time my father's will shall never be questioned, my
position forbidding any doubt to be entertained."

"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'Epinay. 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'Epinay;" he, as
well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in the
person, gave all his titles to the bride-groom elect.

Villefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from
her knees, Valentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert
and Chateau-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'Epinay 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'Epinay."

"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. 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."

"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 down-stairs
with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who finds a rock to
cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Chateau-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 arm-chair. 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, approaching Noirtier -- "Here is M. Franz
d'Epinay," 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 secretary which had been
neglected for many years and was supposed to contain nothing
but useless documents. "Shall I open the secretary?" 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.

"He 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 secretary, 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'Epinay?"

"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:

"`Extract from 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, Etienne 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
Epinay.

"`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 some one
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'Epinay 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.

"`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 any
one 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'Epinay.
"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'Epinay 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'Epinay.

"`"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.

"`General d'Epinay 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'Epinay 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, Deschamps, 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'Epinay 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.

"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.
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, Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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.

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 Eugenie 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 manoeuvre 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 is 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-Meran 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'Epinay. 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 any one 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
Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie
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 Chateau-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.

"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 Mercedes, 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 melomaniac like you!"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Sir Mocker," said Danglars; then
turning to the count 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 some
one 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 Eugenie,
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, every one would do that."

"My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent." Albert
advanced towards Eugenie, 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
Haidee

Scarcely had the count's horses cleared the angle of the
boulevard, than 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 Medicis, 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 protege, 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
Eugenie."

"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 Eugenie 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 coupe 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 waiter 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 it 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 Haidee's guzla."

"Haidee -- what an adorable name! Are there, then, really
women who bear the name of Haidee anywhere but in Byron's
poems?"

"Certainly there are. Haidee is a very uncommon name in
France, but is common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as
it 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-Eugenie, 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;
Haidee 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?* Oh, yes; it was in his service that my
father made his fortune."

"True, I had forgotten that."

* 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.

"Well, what is Haidee 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 Haidee, 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 any one 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 Haidee," 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
mustache, 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. Haidee
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.

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 Haidee, 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 Haidee 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 Haidee 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; "Haidee is almost
as civilized as a Parisian; the smell of an 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 Haidee took the beverage in the
original Arabian manner, that is to say, without sugar.
Haidee 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 Haidee 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 Haidee. "At what age did you leave Greece, signora?"
asked he.

"I left it when I was but five years old," replied Haidee.

"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 never forgets."

"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 Haidee.

"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 Haidee, and with an expression
of countenance which commanded her to pay the most implicit
attention to his words, he said in Greek, -- "Tell us the
fate of your father; but neither the name of the traitor nor
the treason." Haidee 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 any one 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 Haidee, "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?"

Haidee turned her eyes towards Monte Cristo, who, making at
the same time some imperceptible sign, murmured, -- "Go on."

"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."

"Speak, speak, signora," said Albert, "I am listening with
the most intense delight and interest to all you say."

Haidee 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 Haidee, 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 every one 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 Haidee, 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 Haidee 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
Haidee, "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.

"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.* 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.

* Greek militiamen in the war for independence. -- Ed.

"`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 Haidee 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 Serasker* Koorshid, 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.

* A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of a province. --
Ed.

"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; `to-day 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
Haidee.' -- `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 Haidee, 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," said the count in the Romaic language.

Haidee 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 Crete.* 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.

* 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. Haidee's learned
reference is to the behavior of an actor in the Dionysian
festivals. -- Ed.

"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 to-day 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 Haidee.

"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 Haidee 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.
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."

Haidee 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
Serasker Koorshid 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 Koorshid'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.'

"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."

Haidee'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 Haidee'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, "Haidee is very
courageous, and she sometimes even finds consolation in the
recital of her misfortunes."

"Because, my lord." said Haidee 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. Haidee saw at a glance the same
expression pervading the countenances of her two auditors;
she exclaimed, `When my mother recovered her senses we were
before the serasker. `Kill,' said she, `but spare the honor
of the widow of Ali.' -- `It is not to me to whom you must
address yourself,' said Koorshid.

"`To whom, then?' -- `To your new master.'

"`Who and where is he?' -- `He is here.'

"And Koorshid pointed out one who had more than any
contributed to the death of my father," said Haidee, in a
tone of chastened anger. "Then," said Albert, "you became
the property of this man?"

"No," replied Haidee, "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 Mahmood."

"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 Haidee,
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'Epinay. M. d'Epinay 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'Epinay, 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 every one, 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'Epinay, 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 awaiting her return in the chamber of her
father-in-law. 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'Epinay, saw him enter,
afterwards go out, and then re-enter with Albert and
Chateau-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 he 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. "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-Meran, 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 Chausse 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 make would be well
received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt any
manoeuvres in order to gain his end, but went at once
straight to the point.

"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 Eugenie 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 any one 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 the 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 Elysees. 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 Elysees, 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 Allee 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 any one."

"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."

"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 to-day."

"For what?"

"I am going to fight" --

"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. "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."

"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 he must fight."

"No he 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 the 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 Haidee."

"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 to-day are the enemies of to-morrow;
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 to-day 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 Chateau-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-by, 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 his
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 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."

"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 some
one 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 to-morrow 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 any one 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.
To-day 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. 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-Honore.
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 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 to-day 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."

"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 up-stairs 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 up-stairs 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 up-stairs. 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 crisis 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
every one 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."

"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 to-day?"

"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 arm-chair, was
contemplating this terrible scene without allowing a word or
a movement to escape him.

"Where is this lemonade?" asked the doctor eagerly.

"Down-stairs 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!" "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 clinched 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."

"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 lids 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-Meran 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-Meran. 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 any one?"

"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. Brunehilde and
Fredegonde 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." 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-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, 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-Meran'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-Meran" --

"O 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-Meran," repeated the doctor, "then Madame
de Saint-Meran, -- 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."

"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-Meran; and M. de Saint-Meran is dead. Mademoiselle de
Villefort prepared all the cooling draughts which Madame de
Saint-Meran took, and Madame de Saint-Meran 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. "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 any one 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 arm-chair 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, mustaches in perfect order, and white
gloves which fitted admirably, had entered the courtyard of
the banker's house in La Chaussee 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 profit."

"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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow."

"Very well, at ten o'clock;, you are still at the Hotel 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 be 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.

"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 to-morrow. 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 Hotel des
Princes, without being noticed, walked down the Faubourg St.
Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Menilmontant, and
stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked
for some one 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." 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 provincial 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
famous 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 inn-keeper 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'hote of the Hotel
des Princes, or the Cafe 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 Hotel 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?"

"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 any one
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 -- every one 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."

"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-Elysees?"

"Yes, No. 30."

"Ah," said Caderousse, "No. 30."

"Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a court-yard 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 worth while 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 secretary 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.

"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 secretary 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 secretary, 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 secretary?"

"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 secretary 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. To-morrow, 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."

"To-day?"

"No, to-morrow; I shall not have time to day."

"Well, to-morrow 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 worth while
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 to-morrow," 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 worth while."

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it
desirable to take, one of Huret & Fitchet'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 mouth. "Now," said he, "I may
require to go in one night from Paris to Treport; 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-Elysees with the intention of
carrying off some papers supposed to be in the secretary 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 attendents 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 Fiesco* 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.

* The Genoese conspirator.

"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.

"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 second 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-Elysees. 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 secretary in
its place, and the key in the secretary. 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.

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
secretary, 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." 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 great-coat,
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 abbe.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte
Cristo was completing his disguise had advanced straight to
the secretary, 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-Elysees or by
the Faubourg St. Honore; 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?"

"The Abbe 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 Abbe Busoni!"
repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.

"Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe 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 abbe, the abbe!" murmured he, clinching his fists, and
his teeth chattering.

"So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?" continued the
false abbe.

"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 secretary 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 some one."

"That some one 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 Greve. 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 secretary in a house supposed to be inhabited.
And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 40,000
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 abbe, "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 St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know
St. 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 abbe.

"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 Hyeres." And, to give more
weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step
towards the abbe, who remained motionless in his place, as
calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation. "You lie,"
said the Abbe 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."

"Oh, reverend sir!"

"Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!"

"On what I could get."

"You lie," repeated the abbe 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 abbe, 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. "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 abbe, 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 Chaussee d'Antin.'" Caderousse
wrote the address. The abbe 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.

"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 abbe, 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-Elysees 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 St. Honore. As
you pass the lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a
surgeon." Ali obeyed, leaving the abbe 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 abbe.

"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 abbe.

"Oh, send for some one 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 Toulouse, 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 Hotel des
Princes. Oh, I am dying!" He again fainted. The abbe 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!"

"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 abbe, in a tone which made the dying
man shudder; "have patience!" Caderousse looked at him with
amazement. "Besides," said the abbe, "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 clinched hands towards heaven.

"Listen," said the abbe, 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 abbe. "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 abbe; "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 abbe -- the Abbe
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 Abbe Busoni nor Lord Wilmore," said Monte
Cristo; "think again, -- do you not recollect me?" Those 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, "O 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, O 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 Abbe 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 every one
that this adventure had happened during his absence at
Auteuil, and that he only knew what was related by the Abbe
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 any one 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 Eugenie 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 to-day, 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-general the Count of
Morcerf, peer of France."

"What must then be done?"

"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 his
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."

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?"

"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."

"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 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; "I love him -- let us call."



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 my 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie?"

"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 provincial, 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 continue, every robber and assassin in
France will have the plan of my house at his fingers' end. 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 court-yard 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
Islands."*

* Lake Maggiore.

"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 Treport?"

"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 revery, he rang the bell twice and
Bertuccio entered. "Bertuccio," said he, "I intend going
this evening to Normandy, instead of to-morrow 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 Haidee'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 posthorses
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 every one 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 to-night 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 on a sea
azure, with a cross gules on the shield. 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 arm-chair 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.

"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!" 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 the 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," said Albert.

"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 the 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. Every one 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, every one 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. Business had already been going on for half an
hour when he entered. Every one 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.

"To-day I am at your service," replied the count. The
president rang the bell. "Does the House approve that the
examination should take place to-day?"

"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.

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 any one 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 Haidee 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 Haidee 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 clinched 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 Haidee. 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 any
one in the lobby?' said the president.

"`Yes, sir.' -- `Who is it?' -- `A woman, accompanied by a
servant.' Every one 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?"

"Haidee."

"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 Haidee, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina,
and of Vasiliki, his beloved wife.'

"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 Haidee, 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.

"Haidee, 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 Haidee, 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 Haidee, 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 Haidee, `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 Haidee, `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.'

"`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.' Haidee, whose eyes
had been fixed on the door, as if expecting some one, 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 Haidee. `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?'

"`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.

"Haidee 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, it 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 Paris banker, 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 every one to-day; but
you have the first claim, M. Danglars."

"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 any one 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's would not fight.
And, 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 Haidee, and
allowed the conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and
had not opposed Haidee'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
Haidee? 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-Elysees. 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 in
affairs of honor. 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 any
one 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 Chateau-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 any one, 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 Mercedes; 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?" Mercedes 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." Mercedes raised herself on her feverish arm. "M.
de Monte Cristo!" she exclaimed; "and how is he connected
with the question you asked me?"

"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
Mercedes, 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 especial reasons
for telling me to conciliate that man."

"I?" said Mercedes, 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?" Mercedes 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. Mercedes 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 Mercedes, 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 Mercedes 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
Chateau-Renaud, who had promised to be in the orchestra
before the curtain was raised. Both got into Albert's coupe;
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.

Chateau-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 Chateau-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
Chateau-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 Chateau-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? 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
every one, 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
Chateau-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
clinched 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 Haidee 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
to-morrow 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 ame!'

"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 to-morrow, 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. To-morrow 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
A Nocturnal Interview

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 coupe, 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.

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 Mercedes."

"Mercedes is dead, madame," said Monte Cristo; "I know no
one now of that name."

"Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes. "Why
do you remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its
vizier to you, Edmond? What injury his 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 Mercedes 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 any one, 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?"

"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 Mercedes. "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 Reserve,
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 secretary, 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 Mercedes. 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 Dantes, on
the day he had paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de
Boville. Mercedes read with terror the following lines: --

"The king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne
and religion that one Edmond Dantes, 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes on board the Pharaon."

"How dreadful!" said Mercedes, 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 Chateau 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 Mercedes, 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo; "Mercedes! 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, Mercedes, 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.
Mercedes, I must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen
years, -- fourteen years I wept, I cursed; now I tell you,
Mercedes, 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 Mercedes, 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 Chateau 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 Mercedes, "but I have seen him whom I
loved on the point of murdering my son." Mercedes 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!" Mercedes 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, Mercedes, 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, Mercedes, 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." Mercedes 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 Mercedes had accepted the heroic
sacrifice he made for her. Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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, Mercedes? -- 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, Mercedes, you could not imagine what I lose in
sacrificing my life at this moment." Mercedes 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 Mercedes, "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 Mercedes, 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. Mercedes opened the door of
the study and had disappeared before he had recovered from
the painful and profound revery into which his thwarted
vengeance had plunged him. The clock of the Invalides struck
one when the carriage which conveyed Madame de Morcerf away
rolled on the pavement of the Champs-Elysees, 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 Mercedes 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 Chateau d'If,
and whom I had succeeded in making so great, will be but a
lump of clay to-morrow. 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
Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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, O 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 Haidee, 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 Haidee," 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 some one." 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 Julia 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 Haidee, 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 Haidee 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."

He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made
him start, and the pen fell from his hand. "Haidee," 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."
Haidee 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 Haidee 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 any one 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 Chateau-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 every one 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 Mercedes 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 Haidee!" 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 some one 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
Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud, shaking
hands with each of them. "Because," said Debray, "Albert
sent this morning to request us to come." Beauchamp and
Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud. "Albert is ten minutes after
time."

"There he comes," said Beauchamp, "on horseback, at full
gallop, followed by a servant."

"How imprudent," said Chateau-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."

"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 Chateau-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 because 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 Mercedes, 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 any one 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
Chateau-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 Chateau-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
Chateau-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.
Chateau-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 to-day of rare chivalric generosity."

"Oh, yes," said Chateau-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 Chateau-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
Chateau-Renaud?"

"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."
Chateau-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-by, 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-by," said Chateau-Renaud in
his turn, keeping his little cane in his left hand, and
saluting with his right. Albert's lips scarcely whispered
"Good-by," 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 Feucheres
and Barye; examined the cupboards, and placed the key in
each; threw into a drawer of his secretary, 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."

"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 bed-chamber, 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, Mercedes 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 Mercedes, "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 Mercedes, "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
in favorable to avoid an explanation."

"I am ready, my son," said Mercedes. Albert ran to fetch a
carriage. He recollected that there was a small furnished
house to let in the Rue de Saints Peres, 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 Mercedes with tears in his eyes and heaving
breast, and without uttering a word he gave her the letter.
Mercedes 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 Allees de Meillan. 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.
Mercedes 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
down-stairs.



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 Barriere du Trone 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,
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 Elysees."

"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 to-day 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."

"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-by, then."

"Good-by, till we meet again." They had arrived in the
Champs Elysees. 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 Haidee be informed
that I have returned."

"Here I am," said the young girl, who at the sound of the
carriage had run down-stairs 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 Haidee
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
benificent 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 Mercedes in
the world, and he might yet be happy. His eye, elate with
happiness, was reading eagerly the tearful gaze of Haidee,
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 Haidee, "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, Haidee," 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, Haidee, 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 heavily. "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 Mercedes, 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 court-yard. 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 Elysees," 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 Haidee
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 clinched with rage. "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 it 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 clinched 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 to-day a face which the
happiness of revenge makes young again -- a face you must
often have seen in your dreams since your marriage with
Mercedes, my betrothed!"

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 Dantes!" Then, with sighs which
were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself to the door,
reeled across the court-yard, 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
Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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
Mercedes 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.



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 had 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.

"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 St. Honore 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 every one 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 court-yard?" 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-by; -- 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."

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 Eugenie 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."

"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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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." Eugenie 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 to-day."

"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."

"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 Eugenie, "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
Eugenie, 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; Eugenie
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. Ah, 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 Eugenie were going out at that
moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance. "I told you
so!" exclaimed Madame de Villefort. "Poor child!"



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-Meran'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 Elysees.

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 up-stairs 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!"

"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,
every one 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 some one 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?"

"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
some one 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. Some one 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-Meran's death. You heard M. de
Villefort talking to M. d'Avrigny about the death of M. de
Saint-Meran, 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. Why do you torment them?
`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;* 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-Meran; Madame de Saint-Meran two months since; the
other day it was Barrois; to-day, the old Noirtier, or young
Valentine."

* 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.

"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 to-morrow 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 every one, and you, M. de
Villefort, will yourself see that no one deviates from
them."

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 Eugenie Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This
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. "Etienne," said he, "see
why Mademoiselle Eugenie 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. Etienne 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 Eugenie appeared,
attired in a figured black satin dress, her hair dressed and
gloves on, as if she were going to the Italian Opera. "Well,
Eugenie, 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie, 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.

"Yes, indeed, sir," continued Eugenie, 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 Eugenie, "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, Eugenie? 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 Phaedrus, 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 Eugenie, "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 Gaiete, 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." Eugenie 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." Eugenie 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 Eugenie; "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."
Eugenie became uneasy.

"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 Eugenie,
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 Eugenie.

"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 Eugenie, "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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie, "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 then on returning from the mayor's."*

* The performance of the civil marriage.

"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 Eugenie.

"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 Eugenie, 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 Etienne entered, and
announced to Eugenie that the horses were in 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.



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 Eugenie
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 second 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 Valere reply to Alceste* at the Theatre
Francais.

"Is your love returned?"

* In Moliere's comedy, Le Misanthrope.

"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 manoeuvre 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 Abbe 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
revery, -- "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."

"Indeed?"

"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.

"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.

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 Eugenie 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
Chateau-Renaud.

Debray was admitted to the house for this grand ceremony,
but on the same plane with every one 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 Eugenie
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 Eugenie, 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 "energetic style") commented on the
feverish agitation of Andrea, on M. Danglars' riveted
attention, Eugenie'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."
Every one 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 to-day, 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?"

"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, quaerens 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, every one 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 Eugenie, 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 Cafe 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie. "In
truth I was fated," said she. "I escaped the Morcerf only to
fall into the Cavalcanti."

"Oh, do not confound the two, Eugenie."

"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 Eugenie, with her usual precision, opened a printed
paper, and read, --

"M. Leon 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.'"

"Well," said Eugenie 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, Eugenie!"

"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
secretary a small portfolio with a lock, in which she
counted twenty-three bank-notes.

"Twenty-three thousand francs," I said she.

"And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,"
said Eugenie. "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, Eugenie!" And the two young girls
began to heap into a trunk all the things they thought they
should require. "There now," said Eugenie, "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 Eugenie, 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, Eugenie
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, Eugenie 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 Eugenie. 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. "Oh,
the magnificent hair!" said Louise, with regret.

"And am I not a hundred times better thus?" cried Eugenie,
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, Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the
Rhine to Strasburg. 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, Eugenie." And the two young girls,
whom every one 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, -- Eugenie
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. Eugenie
approached softly, and saw the old man sleeping soundly in
an arm-chair 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.

Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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. Eugenie, 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 Eugenie, she
was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at the
appointed spot. Eugenie 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
Eugenie 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 Eugenie, "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 Eugenie with an almost masculine
voice.

"What do you say?" said Louise.

"I am giving them the slip," said Eugenie; "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 britzska, 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 Barriere Saint-Martin. "Ah," said
Louise, breathing freely, "here we are out of Paris."

"Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,"
replied Eugenie. "Yes, and without violence," said Louise.

"I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,"
replied Eugenie. 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
veilings, 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."* 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.

* Literally, "the basket," because wedding gifts were
originally brought in such a receptacle.

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 Mont Blanc, guided by
the instinct which leads thieves always to take the safest
path, he found himself at the end of the Rue Lafayette.
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 Poissonniere. 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 to-morrow 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-p, la!"

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. Every one 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 britzska, 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 Red Horse, 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 Red Horse inn, 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
ante-chamber 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 Montefontaine to Senlis, when my horse,
which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me. I
must reach Compiegne to-night, or I shall cause deep anxiety
to my family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?"

An inn-keeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good
or bad. The host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to
saddle "Whitey," 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 inn-keeper twenty
francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a
visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the
Cafe 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 Mauleon, 25 Rue Saint-Dominique, that being the
name and address on the card. "Whitey" 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 Compiegne, and four o'clock struck as he
reached the place where the coaches stop. There is an
excellent tavern at Compiegne, 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-au-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 Compiegne. 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 Tavern, 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 be 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 presence 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 awaken
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." 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. "The devil!" 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, having effaced the marks of his feet
upon the floor, he commenced climbing the only opening which
afforded him the means of escape. At this precise time, the
first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked up-stairs, preceded
by the commissary of police, and supported by the second
gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself
re-enforced 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. Compiegne, 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 Hotel
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, ho," 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. 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 Hotel de Ville, a
massive sixteenth century building, was on his right; any
one 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 any one. At the same
minute, one of the little windows of the Hotel 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. "Ah," said the brigadier, stopping the servant,
"the person who is ringing appears to want something more
than a waiter; 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.

"Eugenie! 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 Eugenie.

"Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly
alarmed; you can turn their suspicions and save my life!"

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 Eugenie; "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 clinched hand.

"Fly, then!" cried Mademoiselle d'Armilly, whose pity
returned as her fears diminished; "fly!"

"Or kill yourself!" said Eugenie (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."

"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 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?"

Eugenie covered her face with her hands. "Oh, ho!" said
Andrea, "you need not be ashamed, even though you did post
after me. Was I not nearly your husband?"

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. Eugenie
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 Hotel 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 every one 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 Eugenie'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 Eugenie'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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie
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 Eugenie, 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 of 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 Eugenie used in leaving it; she ran
lightly up-stairs, and with an aching heart entered her
apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugenie. She
was fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in
her daughter's innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof.
She listened at Eugenie'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 Eugenie," 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 every one 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 Mercedes, who had been
afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.

"Eugenie," 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 Eugenie 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 some one 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 down-stairs, 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 to-day 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 any one, 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 to-morrow, if not to-day --
in a week, if not to-morrow; 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 mouths
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 prisoners
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.

"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. Have mankind treated
me as a brother? Have they loved me? Have they spared me?
Has any one shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at
my hands? No, madame, they struck me, always struck me!

"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.

"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
Compiegne, 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
Eugenie 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 down-stairs 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 Eugenie 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 ante-chambers 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 any one -- 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?"

"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
to-night." 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-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, 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 any one
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?"

"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 to-night, 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-by, 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
any one 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 some one 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-flour. 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.

Some one 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. Still silent: Valentine had
promised not to awake. 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.

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-Meran
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 Hotel 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 any one -- 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 whose existence depends upon mine -- 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 he 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."

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.



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 any one 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,"* 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.

* Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598).
His best known work is "The Three Graces," now in the
Louvre.

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. 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 arm-chair 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!"

"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 calm.

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 drank; 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."

"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 arm-chair 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 any one
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. 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!"



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 arm-chair containing Noirtier
up-stairs. When he reached the landing he placed the
arm-chair 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."

"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. Mr. Procureur," 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.

"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-Meran'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." 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!"

"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
abbe, 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."

"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 abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe 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 Abbe Busoni had watched till daylight,
and then left without calling any one. 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 arm-chair,
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 study. 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 twelve o'clock the
mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and the Rue du
Faubourg Saint-Honore 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,
Chateau-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, Chateau-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, Chateau-Renaud, when we saw her, at the most three
weeks ago, about to sign that contract?"

"Indeed, no," said Chateau-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."

"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 Chateau-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
Chateau-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 Chateau-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 to-night; 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 Chausse d'Antin, to M. Danglars'.

The banker saw the carriage of the count enter the court
yard, 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?"

"Eugenie 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
Eugenie; 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 he
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 Croesus 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 to-day." 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.

"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 till 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 sad 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."

"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."

"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
to-morrow."

"To-morrow? 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 to-morrow. 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 to-morrow."

"Yes; but without fail."

"Ah, you are laughing at me; send to-morrow 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 Eugenie!" 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 Frederic,* 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."

* Frederic Lemaitre -- 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.

"I will place it on her table myself to-night," he murmured.
Then taking a passport from his drawer he said, -- "Good, it
is available for two months longer."



Chapter 105
The Cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise

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
Pere-la-Chaise 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-Meran and Villefort," for
such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renee,
Valentine's mother. The pompous procession therefore wended
its way towards Pere-la-Chaise from the Faubourg
Saint-Honore. 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.

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. Chateau-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting from his coupe,
joined him.

The count looked attentively through every opening in the
crowd; he was evidently watching for some one, but his
search ended in disappointment. "Where is Morrel?" he asked;
"do either of these gentlemen know where he is?"

"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-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 Abelard and Heloise, 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.

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 Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-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?"

"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. And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he
went. The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris.
Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while
they were watching the departure of the count, Morrel had
quitted his post, and Chateau-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.

"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?"

"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."

"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 to-day;'" 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 to-day -- because I am the man
who sent the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to
old Morrel -- because I am the Edmond Dantes 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 Dantes," 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 Allees
de Meillan. 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 wish 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
arm-chair, be 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
any one had said to your father, at the moment he raised the
pistol to his head -- if any one 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 apellation 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 are
sacred, Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that
this is the 5th of September; it is ten years to-day 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 to-day, you will come and live
with me; you can occupy Haidee's apartment, and my daughter
will at least be replaced by my son."

"Haidee?" 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 Elysees, and lead me out of this house without any
one seeing my departure." Maximilian hung his head, and
obeyed with childlike reverence.



Chapter 106
Dividing the Proceeds

The apartment on the second floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, 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
up-stairs 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 second 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 up-stairs. 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 to-morrow and I intend leaving
to-day, to escape that to-morrow, 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
every one'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.

"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 down-stairs,
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-Pres, 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. Mercedes and
Albert were in that room. Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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.
Mercedes, 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."

Mercedes 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, Mercedes 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. Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes.

"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 Mercedes, 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 Allees de Meillan, 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 coupe to Chalons. You see,
mother, I treat you handsomely for thirty-five francs."
Albert then took a pen, and wrote: --

                                                      Frs.
Coupe, thirty-five francs ............................ 35
From Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the steamboat
-- six francs ......................................... 6
From Lyons to Avignon (still by steamboat),
sixteen francs ....................................... 16
From Avignon to Marseilles, seven franc................ 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 Mercedes.

"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 Mercedes, 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." Mercedes sighed. "Well, mother, I
yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the Spahis,"*
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."

* The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in
Africa.

"Then these 1,000 francs" -- said Mercedes, shuddering --

"Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in
a year."

Mercedes 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 Lamoriciere, 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." Mercedes 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 Mercedes. 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."

"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 Mercedes, 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. Dantes' 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 Mercedes, 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. Some one 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 Mercedes, "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 any one. 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 down-stairs.

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 coupe 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 Mercedes 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 court-yard 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 or the galleys!

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 almost new, and his boots shine like a
nigger's face. It's pleasant to have such well-dressed
comrades; but didn't those gendarmes behave shameful? --
must 'a been jealous, 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
any one 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; -- "any one
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!"

"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!"* 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.

* Savate: an old shoe.

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 some one 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. "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."

"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 Elysees."

"Oh, the Champs Elysees? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at
the game of pincette. The Champs Elysees? 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 Elysees
just now, worthy foster-father."

"Well?"

"Well, in the Champs Elysees 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 Pixerecourt."*

"Do not let us jest," gravely replied Bertuccio, "and dare
not to utter that name again as you have pronounced it."

* Guilbert de Pixerecourt, French dramatist (1775-1844).

"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."

"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 to-morrow," 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!
To-morrow, then!" he added, turning towards Bertuccio.

"To-morrow!" replied the steward.



Chapter 108
The Judge

We remember that the Abbe 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 abbe,
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 great-coat, 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. "To-day," he said with
an effort, -- "to-day 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 every one 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 man 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-Meran, my
mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Meran, 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-Meran, 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."

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 potion." 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!"

"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?'"

"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!"

"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 his 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 to-night 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 Cafe 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 every one 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. Every one,
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 Chateau-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 `Divine Comedy.'"

"A nobility of the rope!" said Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-Renaud, "allow me to tell you
that you do not understand that manoeuvre 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 Eugenie?" said Chateau-Renaud; "has she
returned?"

"No, but her mother."

"Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!" said
Chateau-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 Chateau-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' [drv] is good," said Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Chateau-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 to-morrow,
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-Meran 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
Chateau-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
to-morrow, 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 Chateau-Renaud, "I will bet anything
you do not believe a word of all you have been telling us."

"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 Chateau-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 any one, 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 arm-chair and
cast a tranquil glance around him. Every one 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.

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 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.

"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;
every one waited anxiously.

"My father is king's attorney," replied Andrea calmly.

"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
the president 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 his 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."

Every one 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 Chateau-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-Honore; the carriage drove on.
The weight of his fallen fortunes 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.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot 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.

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.
"Heloise!" he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a
piece of furniture being removed. "Heloise!" 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. "Heloise, Heloise!" 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 down-stairs, sir," replied the valet.

"Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see."

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago;
he went into her room, and has not been down-stairs 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 any one determined to seek his
father, that he might have some one to whom he could relate
his misfortunes, -- some one by whose side he might weep. 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 Abbe Busoni, who looked cold
and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving the abbe, passed
his hand across his brow. He recollected the call he had
made upon him after the dinner at Auteuil, and then the
visit the abbe 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 Abbe
Busoni!"

"No!" The abbe 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-Meran. 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 Chateau 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 Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," 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 Dantes!" 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!" and 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!" 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
to-morrow."

"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. Haidee had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained
with Noirtier.



Chapter 112
The Departure

The recent event 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 any one 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. "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.

"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 heaven."
As we have before said, the postchaise 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."

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 noise and dust.

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 Chalons,
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,* the port
with its brick quays, where they had both played in
childhood, and it was with one accord that they stopped on
the Cannebiere. 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.

* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at
Marseilles in 1622.

"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." 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 Allees de Meillan 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes 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 any one 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
Mercedes 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,* with its thick foliage and
beautiful long purple flowers, he saw Mercedes 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. Mercedes raised
her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a man
before her.

* 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.

"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 Mercedes. "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 Mercedes, 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 Dantes, 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."

Mercedes 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, Mercedes," 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, Mercedes -- 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 an especial purpose. Not a thought was given to a
life which you once, Mercedes, 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!"

"Enough," said Mercedes; "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, Mercedes, 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, Mercedes?"

"For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two
graves. One is that of Edmond Dantes, 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 Dantes. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for
the dead."

"Your son shall be happy, Mercedes," repeated the count.

"Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can
possibly confer."

"But what are your intentions?"

"To say that I shall live here, like the Mercedes 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."

"Mercedes," 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 Mercedes, "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 Mercedes,
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, Mercedes rushed up
the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left the
house and turned towards the quay. But Mercedes did not
witness his departure, although she was seated at the little
window of the room which had been occupied by old Dantes.
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 Mercedes, 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 Mercedes 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 Dantes. 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, to-day 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
Chateau 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 Dantes. Clear sky,
swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared;
the heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure
of the Chateau 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 Dantes, 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.

There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau 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 Abbe 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 Chateau 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 any one 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 abbe 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.

"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 Chateau 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
Chateau 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 abbe's room."

"Ah -- No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the
voice of the abbe 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 Mercedes, 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 Mercedes. On the
other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the
white letters of which were still visible on the green wall.
"`O 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. O 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 abbe 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 abbe 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."

Dantes 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."

"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 abbe'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 Abbe Faria had spread the
riches of his mind. The manuscript was the great work by the
Abbe 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!" 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
Haidee.

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. "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 with your
misfortunes, and with hope, Maximilian."

"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?"

"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
Morgion, 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 St.
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!"

The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the
left, and stopped at the Hotel 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?"

"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."

"Indeed? 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 St. 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. 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
mora 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."

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
any one 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.

"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 Eugenie. "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 qua," 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 pit overhung by thick hedges; the
pit, 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. 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 "Caesar'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!"

"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 great-coat 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. Hallo, 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. 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 to-day." 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-pease 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."

"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 Cafe 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. "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!"
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 pease 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. Hallo, 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."

"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 pease.



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
Harpagon* alone has been capable of revealing -- "tell the
that you wish to despoil me of all; it will be sooner over
than devouring me piecemeal."

* The miser in Moliere's comedy of "L'Avare." -- Ed.

"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 some one?"

"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 every one 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?"

"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 Dantes!"
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 to-night. 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.

"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 some one 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?"

"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, -- to-day 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."

"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 Chateau 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?" 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 ambitions? 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 -- 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 walls.

"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 arm-chair; 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.

"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 Haidee! ask my beloved sister Haidee, 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 Haidee?" 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 Haidee 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; Haidee was standing pale,
motionless, looking at the count with an expression of
fearful amazement.

"Because to-morrow, Haidee, 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."

Haidee became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to
heaven, exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, "Then you
leave me, my lord?"

"Haidee, Haidee, you are young and beautiful; forget even my
name, and be happy."

"It is well," said Haidee; "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?"

Haidee 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? Haidee, would it please you not to leave me?"

"I am young," gently replied Haidee; "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, Haidee" --

"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 Haidee, 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!"

"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, Haidee! 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, Haidee; through you I again take hold on life,
through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice."

"Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haidee; "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,
Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm around the young girl's
waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.

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 sea-shore, 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." 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 Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are
the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes 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 Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

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 Haidee?"

"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 Haidee --
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.'"


                                 The End