diff --git "a/data/CountMonteCristoFull.txt" "b/data/CountMonteCristoFull.txt" new file mode 100644--- /dev/null +++ "b/data/CountMonteCristoFull.txt" @@ -0,0 +1,61685 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Count of Monte Cristo + +This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online +at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: The Count of Monte Cristo + +Author: Alexandre Dumas + Auguste Maquet + +Release date: January 1, 1998 [eBook #1184] + Most recently updated: February 4, 2024 + +Language: English + +Credits: Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers, Dan Muller and David Widger + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO *** +THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO + + + +by Alexandre Dumas [père] + + + + + +0009m + + + +0011m + + + +0019m + + + +Contents + + + VOLUME ONE +Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival +Chapter 2. Father and Son +Chapter 3. The Catalans +Chapter 4. Conspiracy +Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast +Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi +Chapter 7. The Examination +Chapter 8. The Château d’If +Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal +Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries +Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre +Chapter 12. Father and Son +Chapter 13. The Hundred Days +Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners +Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27 +Chapter 16. A Learned Italian +Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber +Chapter 18. The Treasure +Chapter 19. The Third Attack +Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If +Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen +Chapter 22. The Smugglers +Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo +Chapter 24. The Secret Cave +Chapter 25. The Unknown +Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn +Chapter 27. The Story + + VOLUME TWO +Chapter 28. The Prison Register +Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son +Chapter 30. The Fifth of September +Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor +Chapter 32. The Waking +Chapter 33. Roman Bandits +Chapter 34. The Colosseum +Chapter 35. La Mazzolata +Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome. +Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian +Chapter 38. The Rendezvous +Chapter 39. The Guests +Chapter 40. The Breakfast +Chapter 41. The Presentation +Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio +Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil +Chapter 44. The Vendetta +Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood +Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit +Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays + + VOLUME THREE +Chapter 48. Ideology +Chapter 49. Haydée +Chapter 50. The Morrel Family +Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe +Chapter 52. Toxicology +Chapter 53. Robert le Diable +Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks +Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti +Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti +Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch +Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort +Chapter 59. The Will +Chapter 60. The Telegraph +Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice +Chapter 62. Ghosts +Chapter 63. The Dinner +Chapter 64. The Beggar +Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene +Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects +Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney +Chapter 68. A Summer Ball +Chapter 69. The Inquiry +Chapter 70. The Ball +Chapter 71. Bread and Salt +Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran +Chapter 73. The Promise + +VOLUME FOUR +Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault +Chapter 75. A Signed Statement +Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger +Chapter 77. Haydée +Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina +Chapter 79. The Lemonade +Chapter 80. The Accusation +Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker +Chapter 82. The Burglary +Chapter 83. The Hand of God +Chapter 84. Beauchamp +Chapter 85. The Journey +Chapter 86. The Trial +Chapter 87. The Challenge +Chapter 88. The Insult +Chapter 89. The Night +Chapter 90. The Meeting +Chapter 91. Mother and Son +Chapter 92. The Suicide +Chapter 93. Valentine +Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal +Chapter 95. Father and Daughter + +VOLUME FIVE +Chapter 96. The Contract +Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium +Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern +Chapter 99. The Law +Chapter 100. The Apparition +Chapter 101. Locusta +Chapter 102. Valentine +Chapter 103. Maximilian +Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature +Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise +Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds +Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den +Chapter 108. The Judge +Chapter 109. The Assizes +Chapter 110. The Indictment +Chapter 111. Expiation +Chapter 112. The Departure +Chapter 113. The Past +Chapter 114. Peppino +Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare +Chapter 116. The Pardon +Chapter 117. The Fifth of October + + + +VOLUME ONE + + + + Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival + +On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde +signalled the three-master, the _Pharaon_ from Smyrna, Trieste, and +Naples. + +As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Château d’If, +got on board the vessel between Cape Morgiou and Rion island. + +Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean +were covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a +ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the _Pharaon_, +has been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs +to an owner of the city. + +The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic +shock has made between the Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled +Pomègue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker, +but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is +the forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could have +happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly +that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself, +for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the +anchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and standing by +the side of the pilot, who was steering the _Pharaon_ towards the +narrow entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity +and vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each +direction of the pilot. + +The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much +affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the +vessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled +alongside the _Pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded into La +Réserve basin. + +When the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his +station by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over the ship’s +bulwarks. + +He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with +black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing; and his whole +appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men +accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger. + +“Ah, is it you, Dantès?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s the +matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?” + +“A great misfortune, M. Morrel,” replied the young man, “a great +misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave +Captain Leclere.” + +“And the cargo?” inquired the owner, eagerly. + +“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that +head. But poor Captain Leclere——” + +“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of considerable +resignation. “What happened to the worthy captain?” + +“He died.” + +“Fell into the sea?” + +“No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.” Then turning to +the crew, he said, “Bear a hand there, to take in sail!” + +All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the +crew, sprang to their respective stations at the spanker brails and +outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and the topsail +clewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his +orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to +the owner. + +“And how did this misfortune occur?” inquired the latter, resuming the +interrupted conversation. + +0023m + + + +“Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the +harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in mind. +In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days +afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his +rest, sewn up in his hammock with a thirty-six-pound shot at his head +and his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword +and cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,” added the young man +with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the English for ten +years, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else.” + +“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more comforted +at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the +young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you assure +me that the cargo——” + +“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise +you not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of the voyage.” + +Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted: +“Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib; brail up the spanker!” + +The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a +man-of-war. + +“Let go—and clue up!” At this last command all the sails were lowered, +and the vessel moved almost imperceptibly onwards. + +“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, observing the +owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out +of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I +must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.” + +The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which +Dantès flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit +to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man, +going to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came +towards the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of +age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors, +insolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as +responsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors, +made him as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantès was beloved by +them. + +“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the misfortune +that has befallen us?” + +“Yes—yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man.” + +“And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service, +as became a man charged with the interests of a house so important as +that of Morrel & Son,” replied Danglars. + +“But,” replied the owner, glancing after Dantès, who was watching the +anchoring of his vessel, “it seems to me that a sailor needs not be so +old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend +Edmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require +instruction from anyone.” + +“Yes,” said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate. +“Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was +the captain’s breath out of his body when he assumed the command +without consulting anyone, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at +the Island of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct.” + +0025m + + + +“As to taking command of the vessel,” replied Morrel, “that was his +duty as captain’s mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Island of +Elba, he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs.” + +“The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are, +M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the +pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else.” + +“Dantès,” said the shipowner, turning towards the young man, “come this +way!” + +“In a moment, sir,” answered Dantès, “and I’m with you.” Then calling +to the crew, he said, “Let go!” + +The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through +the port-hole. Dantès continued at his post in spite of the presence of +the pilot, until this manœuvre was completed, and then he added, +“Half-mast the colors, and square the yards!” + +“You see,” said Danglars, “he fancies himself captain already, upon my +word.” + +“And so, in fact, he is,” said the owner. + +“Except your signature and your partner’s, M. Morrel.” + +“And why should he not have this?” asked the owner; “he is young, it is +true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience.” + +A cloud passed over Danglars’ brow. + +“Your pardon, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, approaching, “the vessel now +rides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?” + +Danglars retreated a step or two. “I wished to inquire why you stopped +at the Island of Elba?” + +“I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain +Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for Marshal Bertrand.” + +“Then did you see him, Edmond?” + +“Who?” + +“The marshal.” + +“Yes.” + +Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantès on one side, he said +suddenly— + +“And how is the emperor?” + +“Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him.” + +“You saw the emperor, then?” + +“He entered the marshal’s apartment while I was there.” + +“And you spoke to him?” + +“Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,” said Dantès, with a smile. + +“And what did he say to you?” + +“Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the +course she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not +been laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her. But I +told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel & +Son. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners +from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same +regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.’” + +“_Pardieu!_ and that is true!” cried the owner, greatly delighted. “And +that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain. +Dantès, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you +will see it will bring tears into the old soldier’s eyes. Come, come,” +continued he, patting Edmond’s shoulder kindly, “you did very right, +Dantès, to follow Captain Leclere’s instructions, and touch at Elba, +although if it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the +marshal, and had conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into +trouble.” + +0027m + + + +“How could that bring me into trouble, sir?” asked Dantès; “for I did +not even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made +such inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here are +the health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside.” And +the young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached, +and said,— + +“Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his +landing at Porto-Ferrajo?” + +“Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars.” + +“Well, so much the better,” said the supercargo; “for it is not +pleasant to think that a comrade has not done his duty.” + +“Dantès has done his,” replied the owner, “and that is not saying much. +It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay.” + +“Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantès given you a letter from +him?” + +“To me?—no—was there one?” + +“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter +to his care.” + +“Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?” + +“Why, that which Dantès left at Porto-Ferrajo.” + +“How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?” + +Danglars turned very red. + +“I was passing close to the door of the captain’s cabin, which was half +open, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dantès.” + +“He did not speak to me of it,” replied the shipowner; “but if there be +any letter he will give it to me.” + +Danglars reflected for a moment. “Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,” said +he, “not to say a word to Dantès on the subject. I may have been +mistaken.” + +At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew. + +“Well, my dear Dantès, are you now free?” inquired the owner. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You have not been long detained.” + +“No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and +as to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I +gave them.” + +“Then you have nothing more to do here?” + +“No—everything is all right now.” + +“Then you can come and dine with me?” + +“I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due +to my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honor you have +done me.” + +0029m + + + +“Right, Dantès, quite right. I always knew you were a good son.” + +“And,” inquired Dantès, with some hesitation, “do you know how my +father is?” + +“Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately.” + +“Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room.” + +“That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your +absence.” + +Dantès smiled. “My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal left, +I doubt if he would have asked anything from anyone, except from +Heaven.” + +“Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on +you.” + +“I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has +been paid I have another which I am most anxious to pay.” + +“True, Dantès, I forgot that there was at the Catalans someone who +expects you no less impatiently than your father—the lovely Mercédès.” + +Dantès blushed. + +“Ah, ha,” said the shipowner, “I am not in the least surprised, for she +has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the +_Pharaon_. _Peste!_ Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!” + +“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor, gravely; “she is my +betrothed.” + +“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a smile. + +“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantès. + +“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “don’t let me detain +you. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all +the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?” + +“No, sir; I have all my pay to take—nearly three months’ wages.” + +“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.” + +“Say I have a poor father, sir.” + +“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see +your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those +who detained him from me after a three months’ voyage.” + +“Then I have your leave, sir?” + +“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.” + +“Nothing.” + +“Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?” + +“He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your +leave of absence for some days.” + +“To get married?” + +“Yes, first, and then to go to Paris.” + +“Very good; have what time you require, Dantès. It will take quite six +weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until +three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the +_Pharaon_,” added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back, +“cannot sail without her captain.” + +“Without her captain!” cried Dantès, his eyes sparkling with animation; +“pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes +of my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the +_Pharaon_?” + +“If I were sole owner we’d shake hands on it now, my dear Dantès, and +call it settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian +proverb—_Chi ha compagno ha padrone_—‘He who has a partner has a +master.’ But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of +two votes. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best.” + +“Ah, M. Morrel,” exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes, +and grasping the owner’s hand, “M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of +my father and of Mercédès.” + +“That’s all right, Edmond. There’s a providence that watches over the +deserving. Go to your father; go and see Mercédès, and afterwards come +to me.” + +“Shall I row you ashore?” + +“No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with +Danglars. Have you been satisfied with him this voyage?” + +“That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you +mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the +day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose +to him to stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle +the dispute—a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite +right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you ask me the +question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you +will be content with the way in which he has performed his duty.” + +“But tell me, Dantès, if you had command of the _Pharaon_ should you be +glad to see Danglars remain?” + +“Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect +for those who possess the owners’ confidence.” + +“That’s right, that’s right, Dantès! I see you are a thoroughly good +fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you +are.” + +“Then I have leave?” + +“Go, I tell you.” + +“May I have the use of your skiff?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!” + +“I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you.” + +The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern +sheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La Canebière. The two +oarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly +as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the +narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of +the harbor to the Quai d’Orléans. + +The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him +spring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of the throng, which +from five o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, swarms in +the famous street of La Canebière,—a street of which the modern +Phocéens are so proud that they say with all the gravity in the world, +and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, “If +Paris had La Canebière, Paris would be a second Marseilles.” On turning +round the owner saw Danglars behind him, apparently awaiting orders, +but in reality also watching the young sailor,—but there was a great +difference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the +movements of Edmond Dantès. + + + + Chapter 2. Father and Son + +We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and +endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil +suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantès, who, after having +traversed La Canebière, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small +house, on the left of the Allées de Meilhan, rapidly ascended four +flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while +with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused +before a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small +room. + +This room was occupied by Dantès’ father. The news of the arrival of +the _Pharaon_ had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair, +was amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and +sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window. +Suddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice +behind him exclaimed, “Father—dear father!” + +The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he +fell into his arms, pale and trembling. + +“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young +man, much alarmed. + +“No, no, my dear Edmond—my boy—my son!—no; but I did not expect you; +and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly—Ah, I feel as if I were +going to die.” + +“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ’Tis I—really I! They say joy +never hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do +smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and +we are going to be happy.” + +“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will—so we will,” replied the old man; “but +how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me +all the good fortune that has befallen you.” + +“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness +derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek +this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to +lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable +that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you +understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred +louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor +sailor like me could have hoped for?” + +“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very fortunate.” + +“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small +house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and +honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?” + +“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away”—and as he said so the +old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards. + +“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive +you. Where do you keep your wine?” + +“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the +old man. + +“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,” and he opened two or three +cupboards. + +“It is no use,” said the old man, “there is no wine.” + +“What, no wine?” said Dantès, turning pale, and looking alternately at +the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. “What, no +wine? Have you wanted money, father?” + +“I want nothing now that I have you,” said the old man. + +“Yet,” stammered Dantès, wiping the perspiration from his brow,—“yet I +gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago.” + +“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little +debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I +did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see, +lest he might do you an injury——” + +“Well?” + +“Why, I paid him.” + +“But,” cried Dantès, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed +Caderousse.” + +“Yes,” stammered the old man. + +“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?” + +The old man nodded. + +“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered +Edmond. + +“You know how little I require,” said the old man. + +“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his +father. + +“What are you doing?” + +“You have wounded me to the heart.” + +“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man; “and now +it’s all over—everything is all right again.” + +0035m + + + +“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a promising future and a +little money. Here, father, here!” he said, “take this—take it, and +send for something immediately.” And he emptied his pockets on the +table, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six +five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantès +brightened. + +“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired. + +“To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and +tomorrow we shall have more.” + +“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by your leave I +will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy +too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your +return, in order to be able to purchase them.” + +“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I +will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and +most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall +have tomorrow. But, hush, here comes somebody.” + +“’Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to +congratulate you on your fortunate return.” + +“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,” murmured +Edmond. “But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on +a time, so he’s welcome.” + +As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at +the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of +cloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining. + +“What, is it you, Edmond, back again?” said he, with a broad +Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth. + +“Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you +in any and every way,” replied Dantès, but ill-concealing his coldness +under this cloak of civility. + +“Thanks—thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it +chances that at times there are others who have need of me.” Dantès +made a gesture. “I do not allude to you, my boy. No!—no! I lent you +money, and you returned it; that’s like good neighbors, and we are +quits.” + +“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantès’ reply; “for +when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude.” + +“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk +of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece +of mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars. ‘You at +Marseilles?’—‘Yes,’ says he. + +“‘I thought you were at Smyrna.’—‘I was; but am now back again.’ + +“‘And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?’ + +“‘Why, with his father, no doubt,’ replied Danglars. And so I came,” +added Caderousse, “as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking +hands with a friend.” + +0037m + + + +“Worthy Caderousse!” said the old man, “he is so much attached to us.” + +“Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are +so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy,” continued the +tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dantès +had thrown on the table. + +The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes +of his neighbor. “Eh,” he said, negligently, “this money is not mine. I +was expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in +my absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come, +father” added Dantès, “put this money back in your box—unless neighbor +Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service.” + +“No, my boy, no,” said Caderousse. “I am not in any want, thank God, my +living is suited to my means. Keep your money—keep it, I say;—one never +has too much;—but, at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by +your offer as if I took advantage of it.” + +“It was offered with good will,” said Dantès. + +“No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I +hear,—you insinuating dog, you!” + +“M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,” replied Dantès. + +“Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him.” + +“What, did you refuse to dine with him?” said old Dantès; “and did he +invite you to dine?” + +“Yes, my dear father,” replied Edmond, smiling at his father’s +astonishment at the excessive honor paid to his son. + +“And why did you refuse, my son?” inquired the old man. + +“That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,” replied the +young man. “I was most anxious to see you.” + +“But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,” said Caderousse. +“And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy +the owner.” + +“But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,” replied Dantès, “and +I hope he fully understood it.” + +“Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one’s +patrons.” + +“I hope to be captain without that,” said Dantès. + +“So much the better—so much the better! Nothing will give greater +pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the +Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it.” + +“Mercédès?” said the old man. + +“Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you, +and know you are well and have all you require, I will ask your consent +to go and pay a visit to the Catalans.” + +“Go, my dear boy,” said old Dantès; “and Heaven bless you in your wife, +as it has blessed me in my son!” + +“His wife!” said Caderousse; “why, how fast you go on, father Dantès; +she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me.” + +“No, but according to all probability she soon will be,” replied +Edmond. + +“Yes—yes,” said Caderousse; “but you were right to return as soon as +possible, my boy.” + +“And why?” + +“Because Mercédès is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack +followers; she particularly has them by dozens.” + +“Really?” answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of +slight uneasiness. + +0039m + + + +“Ah, yes,” continued Caderousse, “and capital offers, too; but you +know, you will be captain, and who could refuse you then?” + +“Meaning to say,” replied Dantès, with a smile which but ill-concealed +his trouble, “that if I were not a captain——” + +“Eh—eh!” said Caderousse, shaking his head. + +“Come, come,” said the sailor, “I have a better opinion than you of +women in general, and of Mercédès in particular; and I am certain that, +captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me.” + +“So much the better—so much the better,” said Caderousse. “When one is +going to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but +never mind that, my boy,—go and announce your arrival, and let her know +all your hopes and prospects.” + +“I will go directly,” was Edmond’s reply; and, embracing his father, +and nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment. + +Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantès, he +went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of +the Rue Senac. + +“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?” + +“I have just left him,” answered Caderousse. + +“Did he allude to his hope of being captain?” + +“He spoke of it as a thing already decided.” + +“Indeed!” said Danglars, “he is in too much hurry, it appears to me.” + +“Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing.” + +“So that he is quite elated about it?” + +“Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter—has already offered +me his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a +loan of money, as though he were a banker.” + +“Which you refused?” + +“Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was I +who put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M. +Dantès has no longer any occasion for assistance—he is about to become +a captain.” + +“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not one yet.” + +“_Ma foi!_ it will be as well if he is not,” answered Caderousse; “for +if he should be, there will be really no speaking to him.” + +“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he is; and +perhaps become even less than he is.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Nothing—I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the +Catalane?” + +“Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a +storm in that quarter.” + +0041m + + + +“Explain yourself.” + +“Why should I?” + +“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantès?” + +“I never like upstarts.” + +“Then tell me all you know about the Catalane.” + +“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to +believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some +annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries.” + +“What have you seen?—come, tell me!” + +“Well, every time I have seen Mercédès come into the city she has been +accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red +complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin.” + +“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?” + +“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean +with a fine wench of seventeen?” + +“And you say that Dantès has gone to the Catalans?” + +“He went before I came down.” + +“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Réserve, and we can drink a +glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news.” + +“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but you pay the score.” + +“Of course,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated +place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses. + +Père Pamphile had seen Dantès pass not ten minutes before; and assured +that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of +the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were +singing their welcome to one of the first days of spring. + + + + Chapter 3. The Catalans + +Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot +where the two friends sat looking and listening as they drank their +wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious colony +quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this +day. Whence it came no one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of +its chiefs, who understood Provençal, begged the commune of Marseilles +to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors +of old, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and +three months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels +which had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up. +This village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half +Moorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by descendants +of the first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three +or four centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on +which they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with +the Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their +original customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have +preserved its language. + +Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little +village, and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the +beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and +within coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and +beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the +gazelle’s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in +her slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the +flowers of which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her +arms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the +Arlesian Venus, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she +tapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so as to display the +pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and +blue clocked, stocking. At three paces from her, seated in a chair +which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten +table, was a tall young man of twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was +looking at her with an air in which vexation and uneasiness were +mingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze +of the young girl controlled his look. + +“You see, Mercédès,” said the young man, “here is Easter come round +again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?” + +“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be +very stupid to ask me again.” + +“Well, repeat it,—repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe +it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had +your mother’s sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are +trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you. +Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès, and +to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!” + +“At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,” +replied Mercédès; “you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry. +I have always said to you, ‘I love you as a brother; but do not ask +from me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another’s.’ Is +not this true, Fernand?” + +“Yes, that is very true, Mercédès,” replied the young man, “Yes, you +have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the +Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?” + +0045m + + + +“You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I +pray of you, do not cite this custom in your favor. You are included in +the conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance, +liable at any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier, +what would you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune, +with nothing but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable +inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She +has been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost +entirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you, +and that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and +I accept it, Fernand, because you are the son of my father’s brother, +because we were brought up together, and still more because it would +give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this +fish which I go and sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax +I spin,—I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity.” + +“And if it were, Mercédès, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as +well as the daughter of the first shipowner or the richest banker of +Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful +housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?” + +“Fernand,” answered Mercédès, shaking her head, “a woman becomes a bad +manager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when she +loves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my +friendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will +promise no more than I can bestow.” + +“I understand,” replied Fernand, “you can endure your own wretchedness +patiently, but you are afraid to share mine. Well, Mercédès, beloved by +you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should +become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a +place as clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself.” + +“You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you +remain at the Catalans it is because there is no war; so remain a +fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you +more.” + +“Well, I will do better, Mercédès. I will be a sailor; instead of the +costume of our fathers, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat, +a striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons. +Would not that dress please you?” + +“What do you mean?” asked Mercédès, with an angry glance,—“what do you +mean? I do not understand you?” + +“I mean, Mercédès, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because +you are expecting someone who is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you +await is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him.” + +“Fernand,” cried Mercédès, “I believed you were good-hearted, and I was +mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the +anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of +whom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of +the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died +loving me and me only.” The young girl made a gesture of rage. “I +understand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not +love you; you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end +would that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and +see that friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me, +to seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who +loves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil +thoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself +with having me for your friend and sister; and besides,” she added, her +eyes troubled and moistened with tears, “wait, wait, Fernand; you said +just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four +months, and during these four months there have been some terrible +storms.” + +Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which +flowed down the cheeks of Mercédès, although for each of these tears he +would have shed his heart’s blood; but these tears flowed for another. +He arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly +stopping before Mercédès, with his eyes glowing and his hands +clenched,—“Say, Mercédès,” he said, “once for all, is this your final +determination?” + +“I love Edmond Dantès,” the young girl calmly replied, “and none but +Edmond shall ever be my husband.” + +“And you will always love him?” + +“As long as I live.” + +Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was +like a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in the face, with +clenched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,—“But if he is dead——” + +“If he is dead, I shall die too.” + +“If he has forgotten you——” + +“Mercédès!” called a joyous voice from without,—“Mercédès!” + +“Ah,” exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly +leaping in excess of love, “you see he has not forgotten me, for here +he is!” And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, “Here, +Edmond, here I am!” + +Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight +of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him. Edmond and Mercédès +were clasped in each other’s arms. The burning Marseilles sun, which +shot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of +light. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness +isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in +broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem +rather the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale, +and threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the +shadow. By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself, +the young Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt. + +“Ah, your pardon,” said Dantès, frowning in his turn; “I did not +perceive that there were three of us.” Then, turning to Mercédès, he +inquired, “Who is this gentleman?” + +“One who will be your best friend, Dantès, for he is my friend, my +cousin, my brother; it is Fernand—the man whom, after you, Edmond, I +love the best in the world. Do you not remember him?” + +“Yes!” said Dantès, and without relinquishing Mercédès’ hand clasped in +one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial +air. But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture, +remained mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly +at the agitated and embarrassed Mercédès, and then again on the gloomy +and menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger waxed hot. + +“I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet +an enemy here.” + +“An enemy!” cried Mercédès, with an angry look at her cousin. “An enemy +in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my +arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to +return to it no more.” + +Fernand’s eye darted lightning. “And should any misfortune occur to +you, dear Edmond,” she continued with the same calmness which proved to +Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his +sinister thought, “if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend +the highest point of the Cape de Morgiou and cast myself headlong from +it.” + +Fernand became deadly pale. “But you are deceived, Edmond,” she +continued. “You have no enemy here—there is no one but Fernand, my +brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend.” + +And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the +Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and +offered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave, +was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercédès exercised over +him. Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond’s hand when he felt he +had done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house. + +“Oh,” he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair—“Oh, who +will deliver me from this man? Wretched—wretched that I am!” + +“Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?” exclaimed a +voice. + +The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived +Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under an arbor. + +“Well”, said Caderousse, “why don’t you come? Are you really in such a +hurry that you have no time to pass the time of day with your friends?” + +“Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them,” added +Danglars. Fernand looked at them both with a stupefied air, but did not +say a word. + +“He seems besotted,” said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee. +“Are we mistaken, and is Dantès triumphant in spite of all we have +believed?” + +“Why, we must inquire into that,” was Caderousse’s reply; and turning +towards the young man, said, “Well, Catalan, can’t you make up your +mind?” + +Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly +entered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness +to his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment to his +exhausted body. + +“Good-day,” said he. “You called me, didn’t you?” And he fell, rather +than sat down, on one of the seats which surrounded the table. + +“I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid +you would throw yourself into the sea,” said Caderousse, laughing. +“Why, when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of +wine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of +water unnecessarily!” + +Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into +his hands, his elbows leaning on the table. + +“Well, Fernand, I must say,” said Caderousse, beginning the +conversation, with that brutality of the common people in which +curiosity destroys all diplomacy, “you look uncommonly like a rejected +lover;” and he burst into a hoarse laugh. + +“Bah!” said Danglars, “a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in +love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse.” + +“No,” he replied, “only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand,” said +Caderousse, “hold up your head, and answer us. It’s not polite not to +reply to friends who ask news of your health.” + +“My health is well enough,” said Fernand, clenching his hands without +raising his head. + +“Ah, you see, Danglars,” said Caderousse, winking at his friend, “this +is how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a good and brave Catalan, +one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very +fine girl, named Mercédès; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine +girl is in love with the mate of the _Pharaon_; and as the _Pharaon_ +arrived today—why, you understand!” + +“No; I do not understand,” said Danglars. + +“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse. + +“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking +at Caderousse like a man who looks for someone on whom to vent his +anger; “Mercédès is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not +free to love whomsoever she will?” + +“Oh, if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is another +thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans +were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was +even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance.” + +Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he said. + +“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from +the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantès +return so suddenly—he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance +faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come +suddenly.” + +“Ah, _ma foi_, under any circumstances!” said Caderousse, who drank as +he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take +effect,—“under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out +by the fortunate arrival of Dantès; is he, Danglars?” + +“No, you are right—and I should say that would bring him ill-luck.” + +“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine +for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while +Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never mind—in the meantime he marries +Mercédès—the lovely Mercédès—at least he returns to do that.” + +During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, +on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead. + +“And when is the wedding to be?” he asked. + +“Oh, it is not yet fixed!” murmured Fernand. + +“No, but it will be,” said Caderousse, “as surely as Dantès will be +captain of the _Pharaon_—eh, Danglars?” + +Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse, +whose countenance he scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow +was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already +rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness. + +“Well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to Captain Edmond +Dantès, husband of the beautiful Catalane!” + +Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and +swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground. + +“Eh, eh, eh!” stammered Caderousse. “What do I see down there by the +wall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are +better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver; +but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in +hand. Heaven forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and +they are actually embracing!” + +Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured. + +“Do you know them, Fernand?” he said. + +“Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. “It is Edmond and Mercédès!” + +“Ah, see there, now!” said Caderousse; “and I did not recognize them! +Hallo, Dantès! hello, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know +when the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not +tell us.” + +“Hold your tongue, will you?” said Danglars, pretending to restrain +Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the +arbor. “Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without +interruption. See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is +well-behaved!” + +0051m + + + +Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the +bull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen +from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong +upon his rival, when Mercédès, smiling and graceful, lifted up her +lovely head, and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this +Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped +again heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after +the other, the one brutalized by liquor, the other overwhelmed with +love. + +“I shall get nothing from these fools,” he muttered; “and I am very +much afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Here’s an +envious fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be nursing +his wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from +under his nose and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes +that glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and +Calabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one +blow. Unquestionably, Edmond’s star is in the ascendant, and he will +marry the splendid girl—he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all, +unless”—a sinister smile passed over Danglars’ lips—“unless I take a +hand in the affair,” he added. + +“Hallo!” continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the +table, “hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too +proud to speak to them?” + +“No, my dear fellow!” replied Dantès, “I am not proud, but I am happy, +and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.” + +“Ah, very well, that’s an explanation!” said Caderousse. “How do you +do, Madame Dantès?” + +Mercédès courtesied gravely, and said—“That is not my name, and in my +country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call a young girl by the +name of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me +Mercédès, if you please.” + +“We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse,” said Dantès, “he is +so easily mistaken.” + +“So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantès,” said +Danglars, bowing to the young couple. + +“As soon as possible, M. Danglars; today all preliminaries will be +arranged at my father’s, and tomorrow, or next day at latest, the +wedding festival here at La Réserve. My friends will be there, I hope; +that is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse.” + +“And Fernand,” said Caderousse with a chuckle; “Fernand, too, is +invited!” + +“My wife’s brother is my brother,” said Edmond; “and we, Mercédès and +I, should be very sorry if he were absent at such a time.” + +Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and +he could not utter a word. + +“Today the preliminaries, tomorrow or next day the ceremony! You are in +a hurry, captain!” + +“Danglars,” said Edmond, smiling, “I will say to you as Mercédès said +just now to Caderousse, ‘Do not give me a title which does not belong +to me’; that may bring me bad luck.” + +“Your pardon,” replied Danglars, “I merely said you seemed in a hurry, +and we have lots of time; the _Pharaon_ cannot be under weigh again in +less than three months.” + +“We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have +suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good +fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I +must go to Paris.” + +“Ah, really?—to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been +there, Dantès?” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you business there?” + +“Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know +to what I allude, Danglars—it is sacred. Besides, I shall only take the +time to go and return.” + +“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he +added, “To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter which the grand +marshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea—a capital idea! Ah; +Dantès, my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the +good ship _Pharaon_;” then turning towards Edmond, who was walking +away, “A pleasant journey,” he cried. + +“Thank you,” said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers +continued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they were the very +elect of heaven. + + + + Chapter 4. Conspiracy + +Danglars followed Edmond and Mercédès with his eyes until the two +lovers disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas; +then, turning round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and +trembling, into his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of +a drinking-song. + +“Well, my dear sir,” said Danglars to Fernand, “here is a marriage +which does not appear to make everybody happy.” + +“It drives me to despair,” said Fernand. + +“Do you, then, love Mercédès?” + +“I adore her!” + +“For long?” + +“As long as I have known her—always.” + +“And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy +your condition; I did not think that was the way of your people.” + +“What would you have me do?” said Fernand. + +“How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle +Mercédès; but for you—in the words of the gospel, seek, and you shall +find.” + +“I have found already.” + +“What?” + +“I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune +happened to her betrothed, she would kill herself.” + +“Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them.” + +“You do not know Mercédès; what she threatens she will do.” + +“Idiot!” muttered Danglars; “whether she kill herself or not, what +matter, provided Dantès is not captain?” + +“Before Mercédès should die,” replied Fernand, with the accents of +unshaken resolution, “I would die myself!” + +“That’s what I call love!” said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than +ever. “That’s love, or I don’t know what love is.” + +“Come,” said Danglars, “you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and +hang me, I should like to help you, but——” + +“Yes,” said Caderousse, “but how?” + +“My dear fellow,” replied Danglars, “you are three parts drunk; finish +the bottle, and you will be completely so. Drink then, and do not +meddle with what we are discussing, for that requires all one’s wit and +cool judgment.” + +“I—drunk!” said Caderousse; “well that’s a good one! I could drink four +more such bottles; they are no bigger than cologne flasks. Père +Pamphile, more wine!” + +And Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table. + +“You were saying, sir——” said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the +end of this interrupted remark. + +“What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose +the thread of my sentence.” + +“Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it +is because they have bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will +extract from their hearts;” and Caderousse began to sing the two last +lines of a song very popular at the time: + +‘Tous les méchants sont buveurs d’eau; + +C’est bien prouvé par le déluge.’1 + + +“You said, sir, you would like to help me, but——” + +“Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dantès did +not marry her you love; and the marriage may easily be thwarted, +methinks, and yet Dantès need not die.” + +“Death alone can separate them,” remarked Fernand. + +“You talk like a noodle, my friend,” said Caderousse; “and here is +Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow, who will prove to +you that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you. +Say there is no need why Dantès should die; it would, indeed, be a pity +he should. Dantès is a good fellow; I like Dantès. Dantès, your +health.” + +Fernand rose impatiently. “Let him run on,” said Danglars, restraining +the young man; “drunk as he is, he is not much out in what he says. +Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were +between Edmond and Mercédès they would be as effectually separated as +if he lay under a tombstone.” + +0056m + + + +“Yes; but one gets out of prison,��� said Caderousse, who, with what +sense was left him, listened eagerly to the conversation, “and when one +gets out and one’s name is Edmond Dantès, one seeks revenge——” + +“What matters that?” muttered Fernand. + +“And why, I should like to know,” persisted Caderousse, “should they +put Dantès in prison? he has neither robbed, nor killed, nor murdered.” + +“Hold your tongue!” said Danglars. + +“I won’t hold my tongue!” replied Caderousse; “I say I want to know why +they should put Dantès in prison; I like Dantès; Dantès, your health!” +and he swallowed another glass of wine. + +0057m + + + +Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his +intoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said, “Well, you understand +there is no need to kill him.” + +“Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having +Dantès arrested. Have you that means?” + +“It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the +matter? it is no affair of mine.” + +“I know not why you meddle,” said Fernand, seizing his arm; “but this I +know, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dantès, for he +who himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others.” + +“I! motives of hatred against Dantès? None, on my word! I saw you were +unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that’s all; but since you +believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the +affair as best you may;” and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart. + +“No, no,” said Fernand, restraining him, “stay! It is of very little +consequence to me at the end of the matter whether you have any angry +feeling or not against Dantès. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you +find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man, +for Mercédès has declared she will kill herself if Dantès is killed.” + +Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and +looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said, “Kill Dantès! +who talks of killing Dantès? I won’t have him killed—I won’t! He’s my +friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I +shared mine with him. I won’t have Dantès killed—I won’t!” + +“And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?” replied +Danglars. “We were merely joking; drink to his health,” he added, +filling Caderousse’s glass, “and do not interfere with us.” + +“Yes, yes, Dantès’ good health!” said Caderousse, emptying his glass, +“here’s to his health! his health—hurrah!” + +“But the means—the means?” said Fernand. + +“Have you not hit upon any?” asked Danglars. + +“No!—you undertook to do so.” + +“True,” replied Danglars; “the French have the superiority over the +Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the French invent.” + +“Do you invent, then,” said Fernand impatiently. + +“Waiter,” said Danglars, “pen, ink, and paper.” + +“Pen, ink, and paper,” muttered Fernand. + +“Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without +my tools I am fit for nothing.” + +“Pen, ink, and paper, then,” called Fernand loudly. + +“There’s what you want on that table,” said the waiter. + +“Bring them here.” The waiter did as he was desired. + +0059m + + + +“When one thinks,” said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper, +“there is here wherewithal to kill a man more sure than if we waited at +the corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more dread +of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or +pistol.” + +“The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be,” said Danglars. “Give +him some more wine, Fernand.” Fernand filled Caderousse’s glass, who, +like the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper and +seized the glass. + +The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh +assault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped, his glass upon the +table. + +“Well!” resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of +Caderousse’s reason vanishing before the last glass of wine. + +“Well, then, I should say, for instance,” resumed Danglars, “that if +after a voyage such as Dantès has just made, in which he touched at the +Island of Elba, someone were to denounce him to the king’s procureur as +a Bonapartist agent——” + +“I will denounce him!” exclaimed the young man hastily. + +“Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront +you with him you have denounced; I will supply you with the means of +supporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dantès cannot +remain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and +the day when he comes out, woe betide him who was the cause of his +incarceration!” + +“Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a +quarrel with me.” + +“Yes, and Mercédès! Mercédès, who will detest you if you have only the +misfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly beloved Edmond!” + +“True!” said Fernand. + +“No, no,” continued Danglars; “if we resolve on such a step, it would +be much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip it into this ink, +and write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized) +the denunciation we propose.” And Danglars, uniting practice with +theory, wrote with his left hand, and in a writing reversed from his +usual style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he +handed to Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone: + +“The honorable, the king’s attorney, is informed by a friend of the +throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantès, mate of the ship +_Pharaon_, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at +Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for +the usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist +committee in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him, +for the letter will be found upon him, or at his father’s, or in his +cabin on board the _Pharaon_.” + +“Very good,” resumed Danglars; “now your revenge looks like common +sense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and the matter will +thus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the letter +as I am doing, and write upon it, ‘To the king’s attorney,’ and that’s +all settled.” And Danglars wrote the address as he spoke. + +“Yes, and that’s all settled!” exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last +effort of intellect, had followed the reading of the letter, and +instinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation +must entail. “Yes, and that’s all settled; only it will be an infamous +shame;” and he stretched out his hand to reach the letter. + +“Yes,” said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; “and as what I +say and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the first and foremost, +should be sorry if anything happened to Dantès—the worthy Dantès—look +here!” And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw +it into a corner of the arbor. + +“All right!” said Caderousse. “Dantès is my friend, and I won’t have +him ill-used.” + +“And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand,” +said Danglars, rising and looking at the young man, who still remained +seated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper +flung into the corner. + +“In this case,” replied Caderousse, “let’s have some more wine. I wish +to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercédès.” + +“You have had too much already, drunkard,” said Danglars; “and if you +continue, you will be compelled to sleep here, because unable to stand +on your legs.” + +“I?” said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken +man, “I can’t keep on my legs? Why, I’ll wager I can go up into the +belfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too!” + +“Done!” said Danglars, “I’ll take your bet; but tomorrow—today it is +time to return. Give me your arm, and let us go.” + +“Very well, let us go,” said Caderousse; “but I don’t want your arm at +all. Come, Fernand, won’t you return to Marseilles with us?” + +“No,” said Fernand; “I shall return to the Catalans.” + +“You’re wrong. Come with us to Marseilles—come along.” + +“I will not.” + +“What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince; +there’s liberty for all the world. Come along, Danglars, and let the +young gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses.” + +Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s temper at the moment, to take +him off towards Marseilles by the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he +went. + +When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and saw +Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his +pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon. + +“Well,” said Caderousse, “why, what a lie he told! He said he was going +to the Catalans, and he is going to the city. Hallo, Fernand! You are +coming, my boy!” + +“Oh, you don’t see straight,” said Danglars; “he’s gone right by the +road to the Vieilles Infirmeries.” + +“Well,” said Caderousse, “I should have sworn that he turned to the +right—how treacherous wine is!” + +“Come, come,” said Danglars to himself, “now the thing is at work and +it will effect its purpose unassisted.” + + + + Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast + +The morning’s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves +into a network of ruby-tinted light. + +The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Réserve, with +whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for +the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each +of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the +name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a +wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although +the entertainment was fixed for twelve o’clock, an hour previous to +that time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests, +consisting of the favored part of the crew of the _Pharaon_, and other +personal friends of the bridegroom, the whole of whom had arrayed +themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to +the occasion. + +Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the +_Pharaon_ had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed +unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding +condescension could possibly be intended. + +Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by +Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had +recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his +intention to dine at La Réserve. + +In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an +enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the _Pharaon_, who +hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man +whose wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first +in command of the ship; and as Dantès was universally beloved on board +his vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at +finding that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly +coincided with their own. + +With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched +in search of the bridegroom to convey to him the intelligence of the +arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a +lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste. + +Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but +ere they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards +them, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in +attendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dantès’ father; the whole +brought up by Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile. + +Neither Mercédès nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his +countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the +sunshine and the presence of each other. + +Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty +shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their +places beside Fernand and old Dantès,—the latter of whom attracted +universal notice. + +The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed +with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry +legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked stockings, +evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat +depended a long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came +along, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his aged +countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one +of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the +Luxembourg and Tuileries. + +Beside him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good +things provided for the wedding party had induced him to become +reconciled to the Dantès, father and son, although there still lingered +in his mind a faint and unperfect recollection of the events of the +preceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the morning the +dim and misty outline of a dream. + +0065m + + + +As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of +deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair, +who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten +that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted; +occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance, +and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated +and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like +one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event. + +Dantès himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar +to the merchant service—a costume somewhat between a military and a +civil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and +happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be +imagined. + +Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercédès boasted the same +bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved +with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more +practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes +beneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed +lashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; +but, on the contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile +that seemed to say: “If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am +very happy.” + +As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel +descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and +sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already +given, that Dantès should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere. +Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of +his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting +her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the +feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose +heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of +several minutes. + +“Father,” said Mercédès, stopping when she had reached the centre of +the table, “sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place +him who has ever been as a brother to me,” pointing with a soft and +gentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the +direst torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even +beneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen +retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart. + +During this time, Dantès, at the opposite side of the table, had been +occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was +seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from +Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most +agreeable. + +Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages, +and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and +brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel +within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than +rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster, North. All the +delicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the +sandy beach, and styled by the grateful fishermen “fruits of the sea.” + +“A pretty silence truly!” said the old father of the bridegroom, as he +carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the +topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercédès herself. “Now, +would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who +desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?” + +“Ah,” sighed Caderousse, “a man cannot always feel happy because he is +about to be married.” + +“The truth is,” replied Dantès, “that I am too happy for noisy mirth; +if that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you +are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us +almost the same as sorrow.” + +Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and +betrayed each fresh impression. + +“Why, what ails you?” asked he of Edmond. “Do you fear any approaching +evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this +instant.” + +“And that is the very thing that alarms me,” returned Dantès. “Man does +not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness +is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where +fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of +all shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I +own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of +which I feel myself unworthy—that of being the husband of Mercédès.” + +“Nay, nay!” cried Caderousse, smiling, “you have not attained that +honor yet. Mercédès is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and +manner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is +not yet come!” + +The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start +at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops +of perspiration that gathered on his brow. + +“Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worthwhile to +contradict me for such a trifle as that. ’Tis true that Mercédès is not +actually my wife; but,” added he, drawing out his watch, “in an hour +and a half she will be.” + +A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the +exception of the elder Dantès, whose laugh displayed the still perfect +beauty of his large white teeth. Mercédès looked pleased and gratified, +while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch. + +“In an hour?” inquired Danglars, turning pale. “How is that, my +friend?” + +“Why, thus it is,” replied Dantès. “Thanks to the influence of M. +Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every +difficulty has been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the +usual delay; and at half-past two o’clock the Mayor of Marseilles will +be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has +already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying, +that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will have become +Madame Dantès.” + +0069m + + + +Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, +and he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his +falling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not +refrain from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the +noisy felicitations of the company. + +“Upon my word,” cried the old man, “you make short work of this kind of +affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married today at three +o’clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!” + +“But,” asked Danglars, in a timid tone, “how did you manage about the +other formalities—the contract—the settlement?” + +“The contract,” answered Dantès, laughingly, “it didn’t take long to +fix that. Mercédès has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So, +you see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come +very expensive.” This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause. + +“So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to +be the actual wedding dinner!” said Danglars. + +“No, no,” answered Dantès; “don’t imagine I am going to put you off in +that shabby manner. Tomorrow morning I start for Paris; four days to +go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission +entrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back +here by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage +feast.” + +This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests +to such a degree, that the elder Dantès, who, at the commencement of +the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it +difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment’s +tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the +bride and bridegroom. + +Dantès, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded +by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercédès glanced at the clock and +made an expressive gesture to Edmond. + +Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at +such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of social +position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the +commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves +according to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out +more agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting +for a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or +her own thoughts. + +Fernand’s paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As +for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the +damned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table, and, +as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such +deafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther +end of the salon. + +Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most +anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room. + +“Upon my word,” said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment +of Dantès, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken +of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantès’ good +fortune,—“upon my word, Dantès is a downright good fellow, and when I +see him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I +cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him +that trick you were planning yesterday.” + +“Oh, there was no harm meant,” answered Danglars; “at first I certainly +did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but +when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as +to become one of his rival’s attendants, I knew there was no further +cause for apprehension.” Caderousse looked full at Fernand—he was +ghastly pale. + +“Certainly,” continued Danglars, “the sacrifice was no trifling one, +when the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future +captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad! I only wish he would let me take +his place.” + +“Shall we not set forth?” asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercédès; +“two o’clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter +of an hour.” + +0071m + + + +“To be sure!—to be sure!” cried Dantès, eagerly quitting the table; +“let us go directly!” + +His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers. + +At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every +change in Fernand’s look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back, +with an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the +open windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct +sound on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with +the clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and +buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the +bridal party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension +quelled every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most +deathlike stillness prevailed. + +The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the +door. The company looked at each other in consternation. + +“I demand admittance,” said a loud voice outside the room, “in the name +of the law!” As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened, +and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself, +followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the +most extreme dread on the part of those present. + +“May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?” said M. +Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew; “there is +doubtless some mistake easily explained.” + +“If it be so,” replied the magistrate, “rely upon every reparation +being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and +although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, +nevertheless, be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled +answers to the name of Edmond Dantès?” + +Every eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation +he could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in a firm +voice: + +“I am he; what is your pleasure with me?” + +“Edmond Dantès,” replied the magistrate, “I arrest you in the name of +the law!” + +“Me!” repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, “and wherefore, I +pray?” + +“I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons +that have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary +examination.” + +M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He +saw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly +well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate +decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold +marble effigy. Old Dantès, however, sprang forward. There are +situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to +understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the +officer was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said, +“My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your +son has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in +registering his cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at +liberty directly he has given the information required, whether +touching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight.” + +“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of +Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise. + +0073m + + + +“How can I tell you?” replied he; “I am, like yourself, utterly +bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out +what it is about.” Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he +had disappeared. + +The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with +startling clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed +appeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication +of the evening before had raised between himself and his memory. + +“So, so,” said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, “this, +then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday? +All I can say is, that if it be so, ’tis an ill turn, and well deserves +to bring double evil on those who have projected it.” + +“Nonsense,” returned Danglars, “I tell you again I have nothing +whatever to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the +paper to pieces.” + +“No, you did not!” answered Caderousse, “you merely threw it by—I saw +it lying in a corner.” + +“Hold your tongue, you fool!—what should you know about it?—why, you +were drunk!” + +“Where is Fernand?” inquired Caderousse. + +“How do I know?” replied Danglars; “gone, as every prudent man ought to +be, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is, +let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends.” + +During this conversation, Dantès, after having exchanged a cheerful +shake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered +himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, “Make +yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to +clear up, that’s all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to +go so far as the prison to effect that.” + +0075m + + + +“Oh, to be sure!” responded Danglars, who had now approached the group, +“nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain.” + +Dantès descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and +followed by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got +in, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove +off towards Marseilles. + +“Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!” cried Mercédès, stretching out her arms +to him from the balcony. + +The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken +heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, “Good-bye, Mercédès—we +shall soon meet again!” Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the +turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas. + +“Wait for me here, all of you!” cried M. Morrel; “I will take the first +conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you +word how all is going on.” + +“That’s right!” exclaimed a multitude of voices, “go, and return as +quickly as you can!” + +This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of +terrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old +father and Mercédès remained for some time apart, each absorbed in +grief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their +eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other’s +arms. + +Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass +of water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit +down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed +next to the seat on which poor Mercédès had fallen half fainting, when +released from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantès. +Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair. + +“He is the cause of all this misery—I am quite sure of it,” whispered +Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars. + +“I don’t think so,” answered the other; “he’s too stupid to imagine +such a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of +whoever wrought it.” + +“You don’t mention those who aided and abetted the deed,” said +Caderousse. + +“Surely,” answered Danglars, “one cannot be held responsible for every +chance arrow shot into the air.” + +“You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody’s +head.” + +Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every +different form. + +“What think you, Danglars,” said one of the party, turning towards him, +“of this event?” + +“Why,” replied he, “I think it just possible Dantès may have been +detected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as +contraband.” + +“But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since +you are the ship’s supercargo?” + +“Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the +merchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with +cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret’s +warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal’s; that is all I was obliged to +know, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars.” + +“Now I recollect,” said the afflicted old father; “my poor boy told me +yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for +me!” + +“There, you see,” exclaimed Danglars. “Now the mischief is out; depend +upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our +absence, and discovered poor Dantès’ hidden treasures.” + +Mercédès, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover’s +arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst +out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing. + +“Come, come,” said the old man, “be comforted, my poor child; there is +still hope!” + +“Hope!” repeated Danglars. + +“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on +his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his +countenance. + +“Good news! good news!” shouted forth one of the party stationed in the +balcony on the lookout. “Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we +shall hear that our friend is released!” + +Mercédès and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him +at the door. He was very pale. + +“What news?” exclaimed a general burst of voices. + +“Alas, my friends,” replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his +head, “the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected.” + +“Oh, indeed—indeed, sir, he is innocent!” sobbed forth Mercédès. + +“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is charged——” + +“With what?” inquired the elder Dantès. + +“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of our readers +may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in +the period at which our story is dated. + +A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercédès; the old man sank +into a chair. + +“Ah, Danglars!” whispered Caderousse, “you have deceived me—the trick +you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old +man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am +determined to tell them all about it.” + +“Be silent, you simpleton!” cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, +“or I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether +Dantès be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he +quitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any +letters or other documents of a compromising character be found upon +him, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his +accomplices?” + +With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived +the solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully, +wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity. + +“Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it,” said he, casting a +bewildered look on his companion. + +“To be sure!” answered Danglars. “Let us wait, by all means. If he be +innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no +use involving ourselves in a conspiracy.” + +“Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer.” + +“With all my heart!” replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so +tractable. “Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for +the present to take their course.” + +After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and +protector of Mercédès, led the girl to her home, while some friends of +Dantès conducted his father, nearly lifeless, to the Allées de Meilhan. + +The rumor of Edmond’s arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in +circulating throughout the city. + +“Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?” asked M. +Morrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh +tidings of Dantès, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he +overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. “Could you have believed such a +thing possible?” + +“Why, you know I told you,” replied Danglars, “that I considered the +circumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very +suspicious circumstance.” + +“And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?” + +0079m + + + +“Certainly not!” returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, “You +understand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who +served under the _other_ government, and who does not altogether +conceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of +regretting the abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure +both Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a +soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is +bound to acquaint the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are +many things he ought most carefully to conceal from all else.” + +“’Tis well, Danglars—’tis well!” replied M. Morrel. “You are a worthy +fellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of +poor Edmond having become captain of the _Pharaon_.” + +“Is it possible you were so kind?” + +“Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantès what was his opinion +of you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your +post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you.” + +“And what was his reply?” + +“That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair +which he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that +whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship’s owners +would have his preference also.” + +“The hypocrite!” murmured Danglars. + +“Poor Dantès!” said Caderousse. “No one can deny his being a +noble-hearted young fellow.” + +“But meanwhile,” continued M. Morrel, “here is the _Pharaon_ without a +captain.” + +“Oh,” replied Danglars, “since we cannot leave this port for the next +three months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dantès +will be set at liberty.” + +“No doubt; but in the meantime?” + +“I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel,” answered Danglars. “You +know that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced +captain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to +accept my services, that upon Edmond’s release from prison no further +change will be requisite on board the _Pharaon_ than for Dantès and +myself each to resume our respective posts.” + +“Thanks, Danglars—that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully +authorize you at once to assume the command of the _Pharaon_, and look +carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must +never be allowed to interfere with business.” + +“Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be +permitted to see our poor Edmond?” + +“I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I +shall endeavor to interest in Edmond’s favor. I am aware he is a +furious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king’s +attorney, he is a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of +one.” + +“Perhaps not,” replied Danglars; “but I hear that he is ambitious, and +that’s rather against him.” + +“Well, well,” returned M. Morrel, “we shall see. But now hasten on +board, I will join you there ere long.” + +So saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded +in the direction of the Palais de Justice. + +0081m + + + +“You see,” said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, “the turn things have +taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence?” + +“Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere +joke should lead to such consequences.” + +“But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but +Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the +room—indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it.” + +“Oh, no,” replied Caderousse, “that I can answer for, you did not. I +only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed +and crumpled in a corner of the arbor.” + +“Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and +either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not +take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he +may have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting +was disguised.” + +“Then you were aware of Dantès being engaged in a conspiracy?” + +“Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing +more. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the +truth.” + +“Still,” argued Caderousse, “I would give a great deal if nothing of +the kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You +will see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of +us.” + +“Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person; +and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way? +All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly +quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that +the storm will pass away without in the least affecting us.” + +“Amen!” responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to +Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allées de Meilhan, moving +his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one +whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea. + +“So far, then,” said Danglars, mentally, “all has gone as I would have +it. I am, temporarily, commander of the _Pharaon_, with the certainty +of being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded +to hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantès being +released. But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and,” added he +with a smile, “she will take her own.” So saying, he leaped into a +boat, desiring to be rowed on board the _Pharaon_, where M. Morrel had +agreed to meet him. + + + + Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi + +In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand +Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being +celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given by +Dantès. In this case, however, although the occasion of the +entertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar. +Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to +the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the +very flower of Marseilles society,—magistrates who had resigned their +office during the usurper’s reign; officers who had deserted from the +imperial army and joined forces with Condé; and younger members of +families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of +exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate +to the rank of a god. + +The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic +conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive +passions that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily, +for five centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness +to the violence of party feeling. + +The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held +sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects a +small population of five or six thousand souls,—after having been +accustomed to hear the “_Vive Napoléons_” of a hundred and twenty +millions of human beings, uttered in ten different languages,—was +looked upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh +connection with France or claim to her throne. + +The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military +part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while +the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the +downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that +they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and +cheering prospect of a revivified political existence. + +An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and +proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de +Saint-Méran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of +Hartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal +enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air _à l’Anglaise_, and the +ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the +table with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor +prevailed. + +“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Méran, a woman with a stern, +forbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance, +despite her fifty years—“ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us +from those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle +during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, +that all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow +the fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made +their fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not +help admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and +station was truly our ‘Louis the well-beloved,’ while their wretched +usurper has been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their +‘Napoleon the accursed.’ Am I not right, Villefort?” + +“I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but—in +truth—I was not attending to the conversation.” + +“Marquise, marquise!” interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the +toast, “let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one’s wedding +day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry +politics.” + +“Never mind, dearest mother,” said a young and lovely girl, with a +profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid +crystal, “’tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to +prevent his listening to what you said. But there—now take him—he is +your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my +mother speaks to you.” + +“If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly +caught, I shall be delighted to answer,” said M. de Villefort. + +“Never mind, Renée,” replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness +that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however +all other feelings may be withered in a woman’s nature, there is always +one bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the +shrine of maternal love. “I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort, +was, that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or +devotion.” + +“They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities,” +replied the young man, “and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the +Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitious +followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the +personification of equality.” + +“He!” cried the marquise: “Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy’s +sake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip +the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to +my mind, has usurped quite enough.” + +0085m + + + +“Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right +pedestal—that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze; +that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme. The only +difference consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated +by these two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the +equality that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the +guillotine, the other elevates the people to a level with the throne. +Observe,” said Villefort, smiling, “I do not mean to deny that both +these men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and +the 4th of April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy +of being gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil +order; and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust +he is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical +satellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with other +usurpers—Cromwell, for instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon, +had his partisans and advocates.” + +“Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully +revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the +son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven.” A +deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort. + +“’Tis true, madame,” answered he, “that my father was a Girondin, but +he was not among the number of those who voted for the king’s death; he +was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and had +well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father +perished.” + +“True,” replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree +at the tragic remembrance thus called up; “but bear in mind, if you +please, that our respective parents underwent persecution and +proscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which +I may remark, that while my family remained among the staunchest +adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining +the new government; and that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, +the Count Noirtier became a senator.” + +“Dear mother,” interposed Renée, “you know very well it was agreed that +all these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside.” + +“Suffer me, also, madame,” replied Villefort, “to add my earnest +request to Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s, that you will kindly allow +the veil of oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails +recrimination over matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have +laid aside even the name of my father, and altogether disown his +political principles. He was—nay, probably may still be—a Bonapartist, +and is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a staunch royalist, and +style myself de Villefort. Let what may remain of revolutionary sap +exhaust itself and die away with the old trunk, and condescend only to +regard the young shoot which has started up at a distance from the +parent tree, without having the power, any more than the wish, to +separate entirely from the stock from which it sprung.” + +“Bravo, Villefort!” cried the marquis; “excellently well said! Come, +now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring +to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and +forgetfulness of the past.” + +“With all my heart,” replied the marquise; “let the past be forever +forgotten. I promise you it affords _me_ as little pleasure to revive +it as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and +inflexible for the future in his political principles. Remember, also, +Villefort, that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your +fealty and strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king +consented to forget the past, as I do” (and here she extended to him +her hand)—“as I now do at your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should +there fall in your way anyone guilty of conspiring against the +government, you will be so much the more bound to visit the offence +with rigorous punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected +family.” + +“Alas, madame,” returned Villefort, “my profession, as well as the +times in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already +successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the +offenders to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing +yet.” + +0087m + + + +“Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise. + +“I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is too +near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans. +Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one +frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; +from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of +persons, and assassinations in the lower.” + +“You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de +Saint-Méran’s oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d’Artois, +“that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?” + +“Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris,” said M. de +Saint-Méran; “and where is it decided to transfer him?” + +“To Saint Helena.” + +“For heaven’s sake, where is that?” asked the marquise. + +“An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two +thousand leagues from here,” replied the count. + +“So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly +to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples, +of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the +sovereignty of which he coveted for his son.” + +“Unfortunately,” said Villefort, “there are the treaties of 1814, and +we cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those compacts.” + +“Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it,” responded M. de Salvieux. +“There wasn’t any trouble over treaties when it was a question of +shooting the poor Duc d’Enghien.” + +“Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable that, by the aid of the +Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the +vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The +king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of +France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can +best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down +every attempt at conspiracy—’tis the best and surest means of +preventing mischief.” + +“Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm of the law +is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place.” + +“Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it.” + +“Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it +can do is to avenge the wrong done.” + +“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to +the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de +Saint-Méran, “do try and get up some famous trial while we are at +Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very +amusing!” + +“Amusing, certainly,” replied the young man, “inasmuch as, instead of +shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre, +you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress—a drama +of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed, +instead of—as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy—going home +to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he +may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,—is removed from your sight +merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the +executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to +bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that +should any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to +offer you the choice of being present.” + +“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renée, becoming quite pale; “don’t +you see how you are frightening us?—and yet you laugh.” + +“What would you have? ’Tis like a duel. I have already recorded +sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political +conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened, +and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?” + +“Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,” said Renée, becoming more and more +terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.” + +“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile; “and in the +interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would +only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as +is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon—well, can you +expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his +commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will +scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be +his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely +because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one +requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in +order to lash one’s self into a state of sufficient vehemence and +power. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile, +as though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused +pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire +of my eloquence.” Renée uttered a smothered exclamation. + +“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call talking to some +purpose.” + +“Just the person we require at a time like the present,” said a second. + +“What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear +Villefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the man for +murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner +had laid his hand upon him.” + +“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,” interposed +Renée, “it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards +poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed +themselves up in political intrigues——” + +“Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for, +don’t you see, Renée, the king is the father of his people, and he who +shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent +of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great +scale?” + +“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renée; “but, M. de +Villefort, you have promised me—have you not?—always to show mercy to +those I plead for.” + +“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered Villefort, with one +of his sweetest smiles; “you and I will always consult upon our +verdicts.” + +“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and +embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays +the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is the +badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in +point.” + +“_Cedant arma togæ_,” said Villefort with a bow. + +“I cannot speak Latin,” responded the marquise. + +“Well,” said Renée, “I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some +other profession than your own—a physician, for instance. Do you know I +always felt a shudder at the idea of even a _destroying_ angel?” + +“Dear, good Renée,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable +tenderness on the lovely speaker. + +“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de Villefort may +prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he +will have achieved a noble work.” + +“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father’s +conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise. + +“Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have already had +the honor to observe that my father has—at least, I hope so—abjured his +past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous +friend to religion and order—a better royalist, possibly, than his son; +for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulse +than warm, decided preference and conviction.” Having made this +well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the +effect of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been +addressing the bench in open court. + +“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de Salvieux, “that is +exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when +questioned by his majesty’s principal chamberlain touching the +singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the +daughter of an officer of the Duc de Condé; and I assure you he seemed +fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences +was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who, +without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted +us by saying, ‘Villefort’—observe that the king did not pronounce the +word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on +that of Villefort—‘Villefort,’ said his majesty, ‘is a young man of +great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his +profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that +he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de +Saint-Méran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the +noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.’” + +“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express +himself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured Villefort. + +“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he +will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to +him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of +your espousing his daughter.” + +0091m + + + +“That is true,” answered the marquis. + +“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do +to evince my earnest gratitude!” + +“That is right,” cried the marquise. “I love to see you thus. Now, +then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most +welcome.” + +“For my part, dear mother,” interposed Renée, “I trust your wishes will +not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor +debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort’s +hands,—then I shall be contented.” + +“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be +called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of +wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to +see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those +violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor +redounds to the physician.” + +At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s wish had +sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and +whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table +and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, +however, returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renée regarded +him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as +they then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed +to excite the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful +and intelligent lover. + +“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her, “that I +were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the +disciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in +1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my +betrothal.” + +“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked Mademoiselle de +Saint-Méran, with an air of deep interest. + +“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the +executioner.” + +“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renée, turning pale. + +“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to +the magistrate to hear his words. + +“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy +has just been discovered.” + +“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise. + +“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,” said +Villefort: + +“‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the +religious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantès, +mate of the ship _Pharaon_, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having +touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter +from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter +from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration +of this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned +Edmond Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, +or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found in the +possession of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in +the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the _Pharaon_.’” + +“But,” said Renée, “this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous +scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king’s attorney.” + +0093m + + + +“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders, +opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me, +but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for +arresting the accused party.” + +“Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?” said the marquise. + +“Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet +pronounce him guilty.” + +“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon it, if the +letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again, +unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman.” + +“And where is the unfortunate being?” asked Renée. + +“He is at my house.” + +“Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not neglect your +duty to linger with us. You are the king’s servant, and must go +wherever that service calls you.” + +“Oh, Villefort!” cried Renée, clasping her hands, and looking towards +her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on this the day of our +betrothal.” + +The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair +pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly: + +“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenity +in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero +prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his +head to be cut off.” + +Renée shuddered at the word _cut_, for the growth in question had a +head. + +“Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the marquise. “She will +soon get over these things.” So saying, Madame de Saint-Méran extended +her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s +respectful salute on it, looked at Renée, as much as to say, “I must +try and fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been.” + +“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,” sighed poor +Renée. + +“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your folly +exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can +possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the +state!” + +“Oh, mother!” murmured Renée. + +“Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that +to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;” +then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to +say, “Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with +mercy,” and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort +departed with paradise in his heart. + + + + Chapter 7. The Examination + +No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air +of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in +spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a +finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no +means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the +recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which +might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his +own career, Gérard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already +rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He +was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not +passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king; +and besides her personal attractions, which were very great, +Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran’s family possessed considerable political +influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry +of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the +prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her +father’s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling +of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its +contemplation. + +At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him. +The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to +earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, “I +have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this +man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the +conspiracy.” + +“We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers +found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself +is named Edmond Dantès, mate on board the three-master the _Pharaon_, +trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel & +Son, of Marseilles.” + +“Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the +marines?” + +“Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.” + +“How old?” + +“Nineteen or twenty at the most.” + +At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue +des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him, +approached; it was M. Morrel. + +“Ah, M. de Villefort,” cried he, “I am delighted to see you. Some of +your people have committed the strangest mistake—they have just +arrested Edmond Dantès, mate of my vessel.” + +“I know it, monsieur,” replied Villefort, “and I am now going to +examine him.” + +“Oh,” said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, “you do not know +him, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature +in the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman +in all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your +indulgence for him.” + +Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at +Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other +suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and +replied coldly: + +“You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy +in private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet +be, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?” + +The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply +them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the +heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of +indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear +on politics; besides, what Dantès had told him of his interview with +the grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed +him. He replied, however, in a tone of deep interest: + +“I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and +equitable, and give him back to us soon.” This _give us_ sounded +revolutionary in the deputy’s ears. + +“Ah, ah,” murmured he, “is Dantès then a member of some Carbonari +society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was, +if I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many +others.” Then he added, “Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform +my duty impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have +appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present +epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my +duty.” + +0097m + + + +As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the +Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the +shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had +left him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in +the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the +prisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at +Dantès, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared, +saying, “Bring in the prisoner.” + +Rapid as had been Villefort’s glance, it had served to give him an idea +of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence +in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and +frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth. +Villefort’s first impression was favorable; but he had been so often +warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the +impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He +stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, +composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An +instant after Dantès entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and +saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if +he had been in M. Morrel’s salon. It was then that he encountered for +the first time Villefort’s look,—that look peculiar to the magistrate, +who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of +his own. + +“Who and what are you?” demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of +papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police +agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour’s +time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt +espionage of which “the accused” is always made the victim. + +“My name is Edmond Dantès,” replied the young man calmly; “I am mate of +the _Pharaon_, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son.” + +“Your age?” continued Villefort. + +“Nineteen,” returned Dantès. + +“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?” + +“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the young man, +his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that +happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great +was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the +radiant face of Mercédès. + +“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the deputy, +shuddering in spite of himself. + +“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been +attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive as he was, was +struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès, +surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in +his own bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was +summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This +philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M. +de Saint-Méran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited +further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a +reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort +turned to Dantès. + +0099m + + + +“Go on, sir,” said he. + +“What would you have me say?” + +“Give all the information in your power.” + +“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I +know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.” + +“Have you served under the usurper?” + +“I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell.” + +“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said Villefort, +who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make +this inquiry, as if it were an accusation. + +“My political opinions!” replied Dantès. “Alas, sir, I never had any +opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play. +If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus +all my opinions—I will not say public, but private—are confined to +these three sentiments,—I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I +adore Mercédès. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how +uninteresting it is.” As Dantès spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous +and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renée, who, without +knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With +the deputy’s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man +uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he +was scarcely a man,—simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of +the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody, +because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked +good—extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort’s +severe look and stern accent. Dantès seemed full of kindness. + +_“Pardieu!”_ said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain +Renée’s favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on +me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet +kiss in private.” Full of this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous, +that when he turned to Dantès, the latter, who had watched the change +on his physiognomy, was smiling also. + +“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least, that you know.” + +“I have enemies?” replied Dantès; “my position is not sufficiently +elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat +too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve +sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that +they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as +an elder brother.” + +“But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at +nineteen—an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who +loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the +envy of someone.” + +“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may +possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my +acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced +to hate them.” + +“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You +seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty +to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the +paper; do you know the writing?” As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter +from his pocket, and presented it to Dantès. Dantès read it. A cloud +passed over his brow as he said: + +“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably +plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,” added he, +looking gratefully at Villefort, “to be examined by such a man as you; +for this envious person is a real enemy.” And by the rapid glance that +the young man’s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid +beneath this mildness. + +“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a +judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what +truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?” +And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantès had just +given back to him. + +“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a +sailor, by my love for Mercédès, by the life of my father——” + +“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally, “If Renée could +see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a +decapitator.” + +“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a +brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to +arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder +rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was +dying, he called me to him. ‘My dear Dantès,’ said he, ‘swear to +perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest +importance.’ + +“‘I swear, captain,’ replied I. + +“‘Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume +the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at +Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter—perhaps +they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. +You will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor +and profit from it.’ + +“‘I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the +grand-marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’ + +“‘Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every +difficulty,’ said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was +time—two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died.” + +“And what did you do then?” + +“What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my +place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with +a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for +the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody +to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found +some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent +the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly +admitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as +the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in +Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I +landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit +my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M. +Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at +my marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and +tomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this +charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust.” + +“Ah,” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you have been +culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to +the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from +Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go +and rejoin your friends. + +“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantès joyfully. + +“Yes; but first give me this letter.” + +“You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I +see in that packet.” + +“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantès took his hat and gloves. +“To whom is it addressed?” + +_“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, Paris.”_ Had a thunderbolt +fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He +sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the +fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror. + +“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing still paler. + +“Yes,” said Dantès; “do you know him?” + +“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king does not know +conspirators.” + +0103m + + + +“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantès, who after believing himself +free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. “I have, however, already told +you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter.” + +“Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,” +said Villefort. + +“I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it.” + +“Have you shown this letter to anyone?” asked Villefort, becoming still +more pale. + +“To no one, on my honor.” + +“Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the +Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?” + +“Everybody, except the person who gave it to me.” + +“And that was too much, far too much,�� murmured Villefort. Villefort’s +brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled +Dantès with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered +his face with his hands. + +“Oh,” said Dantès timidly, “what is the matter?” Villefort made no +answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and +again perused the letter. + +“And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?” + +“I give you my word of honor, sir,” said Dantès; “but what is the +matter? You are ill—shall I ring for assistance?—shall I call?” + +“No,” said Villefort, rising hastily; “stay where you are. It is for me +to give orders here, and not you.” + +“Monsieur,” replied Dantès proudly, “it was only to summon assistance +for you.” + +“I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself; +answer me.” Dantès waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort +fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with +perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter. + +“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and that Noirtier +is the father of Villefort, I am lost!” And he fixed his eyes upon +Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts. + +“Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,” cried he, suddenly. + +“In heaven’s name!” cried the unhappy young man, “if you doubt me, +question me; I will answer you.” Villefort made a violent effort, and +in a tone he strove to render firm: + +“Sir,” said he, “I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you +immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial +justice; what my own feeling is you already know.” + +“Oh, monsieur,” cried Dantès, “you have been rather a friend than a +judge.” + +0105m + + + +“Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it +as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter, +and you see——” Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited +until it was entirely consumed. + +“You see, I destroy it?” + +“Oh,” exclaimed Dantès, “you are goodness itself.” + +“Listen,” continued Villefort; “you can now have confidence in me after +what I have done.” + +“Oh, command, and I will obey.” + +“Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you.” + +“Speak, and I will follow your advice.” + +“I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should +anyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but +do not breathe a word of this letter.” + +“I promise.” It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner +who reassured him. + +“You see,” continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of +burnt paper fluttered in the flames, “the letter is destroyed; you and +I alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned, +deny all knowledge of it—deny it boldly, and you are saved.” + +“Be satisfied; I will deny it.” + +“It was the only letter you had?” + +“It was.” + +“Swear it.” + +“I swear it.” + +Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words +in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head. + +“Follow him,” said Villefort to Dantès. Dantès saluted Villefort and +retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself +half-fainting into a chair. + +“Alas, alas,” murmured he, “if the procureur himself had been at +Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have +destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always +interfere with my successes?” Suddenly a light passed over his face, a +smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in +thought. + +“This will do,” said he, “and from this letter, which might have ruined +me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand.” And after +having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur +hastened to the house of his betrothed. + +0107m + + + + + Chapter 8. The Château d’If + +The commissary of police, as he traversed the antechamber, made a sign +to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dantès’ right and the +other on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice +was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors, +whose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais +de Justice communicated with the prison,—a sombre edifice, that from +its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After +numberless windings, Dantès saw a door with an iron wicket. The +commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow +seeming to Dantès as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two +gendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud +sound behind him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and +mephitic,—he was in prison. + +He was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated and barred, +and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him; besides, the +words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so much, resounded +still in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four o’clock when +Dantès was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st of +March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity +augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound he rose +and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate him, +but the sound died away, and Dantès sank again into his seat. At last, +about ten o’clock, and just as Dantès began to despair, steps were +heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the +massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches +pervaded the apartment. + +By the torchlight Dantès saw the glittering sabres and carbines of four +gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but stopped at the sight of this +display of force. + +“Are you come to fetch me?” asked he. + +“Yes,” replied a gendarme. + +“By the orders of the deputy procureur?” + +“I believe so.” The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort +relieved all Dantès’ apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed +himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the +coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him. + +“Is this carriage for me?” said Dantès. + +“It is for you,” replied a gendarme. + +Dantès was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and +having neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the +steps, and was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the +two others took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily +over the stones. + +The prisoner glanced at the windows—they were grated; he had changed +his prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither. +Through the grating, however, Dantès saw they were passing through the +Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the +quay. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne. + +The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse, +a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dantès saw +the reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay. + +“Can all this force be summoned on my account?” thought he. + +The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking a +word, answered Dantès’ question; for he saw between the ranks of the +soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two +gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered +to alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example. +They advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a +chain, near the quay. + +The soldiers looked at Dantès with an air of stupid curiosity. In an +instant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the +gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent +the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards +the Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of +the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantès knew, in the +Frioul and outside the inner harbor. + +The prisoner’s first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure +air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La +Réserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the +open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantès folded his +hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently. + +0111m + + + +The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tête de Mort, were +now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This +manœuvre was incomprehensible to Dantès. + +“Whither are you taking me?” asked he. + +“You will soon know.” + +“But still——” + +“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.” Dantès, trained in +discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question +subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent. + +The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they +were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor +outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him +on some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt +to handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the +deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not +pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend? +Had not Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only +proof against him? + +He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness. + +They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the +right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the +prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it +was there Mercédès dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn +Mercédès that her lover was within three hundred yards of her? + +One light alone was visible; and Dantès saw that it came from Mercédès’ +chamber. Mercédès was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A +loud cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not +utter it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a +madman? + +He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on, +but the prisoner thought only of Mercédès. An intervening elevation of +land hid the light. Dantès turned and perceived that they had got out +to sea. While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their +oars and hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind. + +In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantès turned to the +nearest gendarme, and taking his hand, + +“Comrade,” said he, “I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to +tell me where we are going. I am Captain Dantès, a loyal Frenchman, +thought accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I +promise you on my honor I will submit to my fate.” + +The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for +answer a sign that said, “I see no great harm in telling him now,” and +the gendarme replied: + +“You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know +where you are going?” + +“On my honor, I have no idea.” + +“Have you no idea whatever?” + +“None at all.” + +“That is impossible.” + +“I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat.” + +“But my orders.” + +“Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten +minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if +I intended.” + +“Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must +know.” + +“I do not.” + +“Look round you then.” Dantès rose and looked forward, when he saw rise +within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which +stands the Château d’If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than +three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to +Dantès like a scaffold to a malefactor. + +“The Château d’If?” cried he, “what are we going there for?” + +The gendarme smiled. + +“I am not going there to be imprisoned,” said Dantès; “it is only used +for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any +magistrates or judges at the Château d’If?” + +“There are only,” said the gendarme, “a governor, a garrison, turnkeys, +and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you +will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good +nature.” + +Dantès pressed the gendarme’s hand as though he would crush it. + +“You think, then,” said he, “that I am taken to the Château d’If to be +imprisoned there?” + +“It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard.” + +“Without any inquiry, without any formality?” + +“All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already +made.” + +“And so, in spite of M. de Villefort’s promises?” + +“I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you,” said the gendarme, +“but I know we are taking you to the Château d’If. But what are you +doing? Help, comrades, help!” + +By a rapid movement, which the gendarme’s practiced eye had perceived, +Dantès sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four +vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He +fell back cursing with rage. + +“Good!” said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; “this is the +way you keep your word as a sailor! Believe soft-spoken gentlemen +again! Hark ye, my friend, I have disobeyed my first order, but I will +not disobey the second; and if you move, I will blow your brains out.” +And he levelled his carbine at Dantès, who felt the muzzle against his +temple. + +For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending +the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M. +de Villefort’s promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of +a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing +his teeth and wringing his hands with fury. + +At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of +the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley, +and Dantès guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they +were mooring the boat. + +His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise, +and dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the +fortress, while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet +followed behind. + +Dantès made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream; he saw +soldiers drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was +ascending a flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a +door, and that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as +through a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier +against freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair. + +They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his +thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls; +he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the +light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine. + +They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantès could not escape, +the gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders +came. + +“Where is the prisoner?” said a voice. + +“Here,” replied the gendarmes. + +“Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell.” + +“Go!” said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantès forward. + +The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under +ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with +tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly, and +showed Dantès the features of his conductor, an under-jailer, +ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance. + +0113m + + + +“Here is your chamber for tonight,” said he. “It is late, and the +governor is asleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the +meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a +prisoner can wish for. Goodnight.” And before Dantès could open his +mouth—before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the +water—before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was, the +jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door, +leaving stamped upon the prisoner’s mind the dim reflection of the +dripping walls of his dungeon. + +Dantès was alone in darkness and in silence—cold as the shadows that he +felt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the +jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantès where he was. He found the +prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with +weeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The +jailer advanced; Dantès appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on +the shoulder. Edmond started. + +“Have you not slept?” said the jailer. + +“I do not know,” replied Dantès. The jailer stared. + +“Are you hungry?” continued he. + +“I do not know.” + +“Do you wish for anything?” + +“I wish to see the governor.” + +The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left the chamber. + +Dantès followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands +towards the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst +forth; he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking +himself what crime he had committed that he was thus punished. + +The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and +round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular +tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so +still, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and, +thanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained +the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish +vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercédès and his father could +have joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live—good seamen +are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish +like a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercédès and +his father, whereas he was now confined in the Château d’If, that +impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and +Mercédès; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort’s promise. +The thought was maddening, and Dantès threw himself furiously down on +his straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again. + +“Well,” said the jailer, “are you more reasonable today?” Dantès made +no reply. + +“Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?” + +“I wish to see the governor.” + +“I have already told you it was impossible.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask +for it.” + +“What is allowed, then?” + +“Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about.” + +“I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to +walk about; but I wish to see the governor.” + +“If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any +more to eat.” + +“Well, then,” said Edmond, “if you do not, I shall die of hunger—that +is all.” + +The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every +prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more +subdued tone. + +“What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will +be allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and +if he chooses to reply, that is his affair.” + +“But,” asked Dantès, “how long shall I have to wait?” + +“Ah, a month—six months—a year.” + +“It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once.” + +“Ah,” said the jailer, “do not always brood over what is impossible, or +you will be mad in a fortnight.” + +“You think so?” + +“Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of +francs to the governor for his liberty that an abbé became mad, who was +in this chamber before you.” + +0119m + + + +“How long has he left it?” + +“Two years.” + +“Was he liberated, then?” + +“No; he was put in a dungeon.” + +“Listen!” said Dantès. “I am not an abbé, I am not mad; perhaps I shall +be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another +offer.” + +“What is that?” + +“I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give +you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will +seek out a young girl named Mercédès, at the Catalans, and give her two +lines from me.” + +0120m + + + +“If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is +worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to +run such a risk for three hundred.” + +“Well,” said Dantès, “mark this; if you refuse at least to tell +Mercédès I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and +when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool.” + +“Threats!” cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the +defensive; “you are certainly going mad. The abbé began like you, and +in three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but, +fortunately, there are dungeons here.” + +Dantès whirled the stool round his head. + +“All right, all right,” said the jailer; “all right, since you will +have it so. I will send word to the governor.” + +“Very well,” returned Dantès, dropping the stool and sitting on it as +if he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an +instant with a corporal and four soldiers. + +“By the governor’s orders,” said he, “conduct the prisoner to the tier +beneath.” + +“To the dungeon, then,” said the corporal. + +“Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen.” The soldiers seized +Dantès, who followed passively. + +He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and +he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantès advanced with +outstretched hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the +corner until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was +right; Dantès wanted but little of being utterly mad. + + + + Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal + +Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de +Saint-Méran’s in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house +found that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in +the salon. Renée was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously +awaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a general exclamation. + +“Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is +the matter?” said one. “Speak out.” + +“Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?” asked another. + +“Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?” cried a third. + +“Marquise,” said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, “I +request your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by +a few moments’ private conversation?” + +“Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?” asked the marquis, remarking +the cloud on Villefort’s brow. + +“So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so,” added +he, turning to Renée, “judge for yourself if it be not important.” + +“You are going to leave us?” cried Renée, unable to hide her emotion at +this unexpected announcement. + +“Alas,” returned Villefort, “I must!” + +“Where, then, are you going?” asked the marquise. + +“That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions +for Paris, a friend of mine is going there tonight, and will with +pleasure undertake them.” The guests looked at each other. + +“You wish to speak to me alone?” said the marquis. + +“Yes, let us go to the library, please.” The marquis took his arm, and +they left the salon. + +“Well,” asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, “tell me what it +is?” + +“An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate +presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you +any landed property?” + +“All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand +francs.” + +“Then sell out—sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all.” + +0123m + + + +“But how can I sell out here?” + +“You have a broker, have you not?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an +instant’s delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late.” + +“The deuce you say!” replied the marquis, “let us lose no time, then!” + +And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to +sell out at the market price. + +“Now, then,” said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, “I +must have another!” + +“To whom?” + +“To the king.” + +“To the king?” + +“Yes.” + +“I dare not write to his majesty.” + +“I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do +so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king’s presence +without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would +occasion a loss of precious time.” + +“But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of +entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the +day or night.” + +“Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my +discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and +take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made +if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget +the service I do him.” + +“In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write +the letter.” + +“Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an +hour.” + +“Tell your coachman to stop at the door.” + +“You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renée, +whom I leave on such a day with great regret.” + +“You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person.” + +“A thousand thanks—and now for the letter.” + +The marquis rang, a servant entered. + +“Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him.” + +“Now, then, go,” said the marquis. + +“I shall be gone only a few moments.” + +Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight +of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to +throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At +his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for +him. It was Mercédès, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come +unobserved to inquire after him. + +As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantès had +spoken of Mercédès, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty +and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become +of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the +accused. + +“The young man you speak of,” said Villefort abruptly, “is a great +criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.” Mercédès burst +into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him. + +“But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is +alive or dead,” said she. + +0125m + + + +“I do not know; he is no longer in my hands,” replied Villefort. + +And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and +closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not +thus banished; like Virgil’s wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his +wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was +almost a sob, and sank into a chair. + +Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The +man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on +the altar of his father’s faults, appeared to him pale and threatening, +leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse, +not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow +and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up to +the very moment of death. Then he had a moment’s hesitation. He had +frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his +irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest +shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort’s brow, because they were +guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose +happiness he had destroyed. In this case he was not the judge, but the +executioner. + +As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and +which had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill +him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles +instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be +healed, but Villefort’s was one of those that never close, or if they +do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment +the sweet voice of Renée had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or +the fair Mercédès had entered and said, “In the name of God, I conjure +you to restore me my affianced husband,” his cold and trembling hands +would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the +chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort’s valet, who came to +tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness. + +Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of +the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into his +pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head, +muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his +servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the +carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Méran’s. The +hapless Dantès was doomed. + +As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renée in +waiting. He started when he saw Renée, for he fancied she was again +about to plead for Dantès. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she +was thinking only of Villefort’s departure. + +She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to +become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and +Renée, far from pleading for Dantès, hated the man whose crime +separated her from her lover. + +0127m + + + +Meanwhile what of Mercédès? She had met Fernand at the corner of the +Rue de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly +cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her +hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercédès did not even feel. She +passed the night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid +no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was +day. Grief had made her blind to all but one object—that was Edmond. + +“Ah, you are there,” said she, at length, turning towards Fernand. + +“I have not quitted you since yesterday,” returned Fernand sorrowfully. + +M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that +Dantès had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends, +and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in +circulation that Dantès was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the +most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne +as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home +in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more +could be done. + +Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking, +like M. Morrel, to aid Dantès, he had shut himself up with two bottles +of black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did +not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and +yet not so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows +on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres +danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle—spectres such as Hoffmann +strews over his punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust. + +Danglars alone was content and joyous—he had got rid of an enemy and +made his own situation on the _Pharaon_ secure. Danglars was one of +those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a +heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life +of a man was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when, +by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires. +He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace. + +Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux’s letter, embraced +Renée, kissed the marquise’s hand, and shaken that of the marquis, +started for Paris along the Aix road. + +Old Dantès was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond. +But we know very well what had become of Edmond. + + + + Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries + +We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling—thanks to +trebled fees—with all speed, and passing through two or three +apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched +window, so well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon +and Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe. + +There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from +Hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to great +people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was +carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with +gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire, +and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius’s rather +inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace—a work which was +much indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical +monarch. + +“You say, sir——” said the king. + +“That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire.” + +“Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean +kine?” + +“No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and +seven years of scarcity; and with a king as full of foresight as your +majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared.” + +“Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?” + +“Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the +south.” + +“Well, my dear duke,” replied Louis XVIII., “I think you are wrongly +informed, and know positively that, on the contrary, it is very fine +weather in that direction.” Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII. +liked a pleasant jest. + +“Sire,” continued M. de Blacas, “if it only be to reassure a faithful +servant, will your majesty send into Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphiné, +trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the feeling +in these three provinces?” + +“_Canimus surdis_,” replied the king, continuing the annotations in his +Horace. + +“Sire,” replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to +comprehend the quotation, “your majesty may be perfectly right in +relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether +wrong in dreading some desperate attempt.” + +“By whom?” + +“By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents.” + +“My dear Blacas,” said the king, “you with your alarms prevent me from +working.” + +“And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security.” + +“Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on +the _Pastor quum traheret_—wait, and I will listen to you afterwards.” + +There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as +small as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then +looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of +his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said: + +“Go on, my dear duke, go on—I listen.” + +“Sire,” said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing +Villefort to his own profit, “I am compelled to tell you that these are +not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a +serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to +watch over the south” (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these +words), “has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens +the king, and so I hastened to you, sire.” + +“_Mala ducis avi domum_,” continued Louis XVIII., still annotating. + +“Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?” + +“By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand.” + +“Which?” + +“Whichever you please—there to the left.” + +“Here, sire?” + +“I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my +left—yes, there. You will find yesterday’s report of the minister of +police. But here is M. Dandré himself;” and M. Dandré, announced by the +chamberlain-in-waiting, entered. + +“Come in,” said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, “come in, Baron, +and tell the duke all you know—the latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do +not conceal anything, however serious,—let us see, the Island of Elba +is a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and +bristling war—_bella, horrida bella_.” + +M. Dandré leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two +hands, and said: + +“Has your majesty perused yesterday’s report?” + +“Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what +the report contains—give him the particulars of what the usurper is +doing in his islet.” + +“Monsieur,” said the baron to the duke, “all the servants of his +majesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the +Island of Elba. Bonaparte——” + +M. Dandré looked at Louis XVIII., who, employed in writing a note, did +not even raise his head. “Bonaparte,” continued the baron, “is mortally +wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at +Porto-Longone.” + +“And scratches himself for amusement,” added the king. + +“Scratches himself?” inquired the duke, “what does your majesty mean?” + +“Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this +hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries +him to death, _prurigo_?” + +“And, moreover, my dear duke,” continued the minister of police, “we +are almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be +insane.” + +“Insane?” + +“Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly, +sometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he passes hours on the +seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes +‘duck-and-drake’ five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he +had gained another Marengo or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that +these are indubitable symptoms of insanity.” + +“Or of wisdom, my dear baron—or of wisdom,” said Louis XVIII., +laughing; “the greatest captains of antiquity amused themselves by +casting pebbles into the ocean—see Plutarch’s life of Scipio +Africanus.” + +M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the +truthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to reveal the whole +secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had +yet communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness. + +“Well, well, Dandré,” said Louis XVIII., “Blacas is not yet convinced; +let us proceed, therefore, to the usurper’s conversion.” The minister +of police bowed. + +“The usurper’s conversion!” murmured the duke, looking at the king and +Dandré, who spoke alternately, like Virgil’s shepherds. “The usurper +converted!” + +“Decidedly, my dear duke.” + +“In what way converted?” + +“To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron.” + +“Why, this is the way of it,” said the minister, with the gravest air +in the world: “Napoleon lately had a review, and as two or three of his +old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their +dismissal, and exhorted them to ‘serve the good king.’ These were his +own words, of that I am certain.” + +“Well, Blacas, what think you of this?” inquired the king triumphantly, +and pausing for a moment from the voluminous scholiast before him. + +“I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am; +and as it is impossible it can be the minister of police as he has the +guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable +that I am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will +interrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will urge your +majesty to do him this honor.” + +“Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person +you please, but you must not expect me to be too confiding. Baron, have +you any report more recent than this, dated the 20th February, and this +is the 3rd of March?” + +“No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I +left my office.” + +“Go thither, and if there be none—well, well,” continued Louis XVIII., +“make one; that is the usual way, is it not?” and the king laughed +facetiously. + +“Oh, sire,” replied the minister, “we have no occasion to invent any; +every day our desks are loaded with most circumstantial denunciations, +coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services which +they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon +some unexpected event in some way to justify their predictions.” + +“Well, sir, go,” said Louis XVIII., “and remember that I am waiting for +you.” + +“I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes.” + +“And I, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “will go and find my messenger.” + +“Wait, sir, wait,” said Louis XVIII. “Really, M. de Blacas, I must +change your armorial bearings; I will give you an eagle with +outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to +escape, and bearing this device—_Tenax_.” + +0133m + + + +“Sire, I listen,” said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience. + +“I wish to consult you on this passage, ‘_Molli fugiens anhelitu_,’ you +know it refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are you not a sportsman +and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the _molli +anhelitu_?” + +“Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for +he has posted two hundred and twenty leagues in scarcely three days.” + +“Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we +have a telegraph which transmits messages in three or four hours, and +that without getting in the least out of breath.” + +“Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come +so far, and with so much ardor, to give your majesty useful +information. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him +to me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously.” + +“M. de Salvieux, my brother’s chamberlain?” + +“Yes, sire.” + +“He is at Marseilles.” + +“And writes me thence.” + +“Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?” + +“No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present +him to your majesty.” + +“M. de Villefort!” cried the king, “is the messenger’s name M. de +Villefort?” + +“Yes, sire.” + +“And he comes from Marseilles?” + +“In person.” + +“Why did you not mention his name at once?” replied the king, betraying +some uneasiness. + +“Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty.” + +“No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding, +ambitious, too, and, _pardieu!_ you know his father’s name!” + +“His father?” + +“Yes, Noirtier.” + +“Noirtier the Girondin?—Noirtier the senator?” + +“He himself.” + +“And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?” + +“Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you +Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would +sacrifice everything, even his father.” + +“Then, sire, may I present him?” + +“This instant, duke! Where is he?” + +“Waiting below, in my carriage.” + +“Seek him at once.” + +“I hasten to do so.” + +The duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his +really sincere royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained +alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened Horace, muttered: + +“_Justum et tenacem propositi virum_.” + +M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the +antechamber he was forced to appeal to the king’s authority. +Villefort’s dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut, +excited the susceptibility of M. de Brezé, who was all astonishment at +finding that this young man had the audacity to enter before the king +in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a +word—his majesty’s order; and, in spite of the protestations which the +master of ceremonies made for the honor of his office and principles, +Villefort was introduced. + +The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On +opening the door, Villefort found himself facing him, and the young +magistrate’s first impulse was to pause. + +“Come in, M. de Villefort,” said the king, “come in.” + +Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited until the king +should interrogate him. + +“M. de Villefort,” said Louis XVIII., “the Duc de Blacas assures me you +have some interesting information to communicate.” + +“Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it +equally important.” + +0137m + + + +“In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as +bad in your opinion as I am asked to believe?” + +“Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have +used, that it is not irreparable.” + +“Speak as fully as you please, sir,” said the king, who began to give +way to the emotion which had showed itself in Blacas’s face and +affected Villefort’s voice. “Speak, sir, and pray begin at the +beginning; I like order in everything.” + +“Sire,” said Villefort, “I will render a faithful report to your +majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my anxiety leads to +some obscurity in my language.” A glance at the king after this +discreet and subtle exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his +august auditor, and he went on: + +“Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your +majesty that I have discovered, in the exercise of my duties, not a +commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the +lower ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy—a +storm which menaces no less than your majesty’s throne. Sire, the +usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which, +however mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have +left Elba, to go whither I know not, but assuredly to attempt a landing +either at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores +of France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island +of Elba has maintained his relations with Italy and France?” + +“I am, sir,” said the king, much agitated; “and recently we have had +information that the Bonapartist clubs have had meetings in the Rue +Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these +details?” + +“Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a +man of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some time, and arrested on +the day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent character, +and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of +Elba. There he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral +message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not extract from +him; but this mission was to prepare men’s minds for a return (it is +the man who says this, sire)—a return which will soon occur.” + +“And where is this man?” + +“In prison, sire.” + +“And the matter seems serious to you?” + +“So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst +of a family festival, on the very day of my betrothal, I left my bride +and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your +majesty’s feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my +devotion.” + +“True,” said Louis XVIII., “was there not a marriage engagement between +you and Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran?” + +“Daughter of one of your majesty’s most faithful servants.” + +“Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort.” + +“Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy.” + +“A conspiracy in these times,” said Louis XVIII., smiling, “is a thing +very easy to meditate, but more difficult to conduct to an end, +inasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors, +we have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the +future. For the last ten months my ministers have redoubled their +vigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If +Bonaparte landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before +he could even reach Piombino; if he land in Tuscany, he will be in an +unfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful +of men, and the result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is +by the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same time rely on our +royal gratitude.” + +“Ah, here is M. Dandré!” cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister +of police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to +faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his +hand, restrained him. + + + + Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre + +At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently +the table at which he was sitting. + +“What ails you, baron?” he exclaimed. “You appear quite aghast. Has +your uneasiness anything to do with what M. de Blacas has told me, and +M. de Villefort has just confirmed?” M. de Blacas moved suddenly +towards the baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the +forbearance of the statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much +more to his advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over +him than that he should humiliate the prefect. + +“Sire,——” stammered the baron. + +“Well, what is it?” asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving +way to an impulse of despair, was about to throw himself at the feet of +Louis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned. + +“Will you speak?” he said. + +“Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I +can never forgive myself!” + +“Monsieur,” said Louis XVIII., “I command you to speak.” + +“Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on +the 1st of March.” + +“And where? In Italy?” asked the king eagerly. + +“In France, sire,—at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan.” + +“The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two +hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only +acquired this information today, the 3rd of March! Well, sir, what you +tell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you +have gone mad.” + +“Alas, sire, it is but too true!” Louis made a gesture of indescribable +anger and alarm, and then drew himself up as if this sudden blow had +struck him at the same moment in heart and countenance. + +“In France!” he cried, “the usurper in France! Then they did not watch +over this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in league with him.” + +“Oh, sire,” exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, “M. Dandré is not a man to be +accused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of +police has shared the general blindness, that is all.” + +“But——” said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was +silent; then he continued, “Your pardon, sire,” he said, bowing, “my +zeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me?” + +“Speak, sir, speak boldly,” replied Louis. “You alone forewarned us of +the evil; now try and aid us with the remedy.” + +“Sire,” said Villefort, “the usurper is detested in the south; and it +seems to me that if he ventured into the south, it would be easy to +raise Languedoc and Provence against him.” + +“Yes, assuredly,” replied the minister; “but he is advancing by Gap and +Sisteron.” + +“Advancing—he is advancing!” said Louis XVIII. “Is he then advancing on +Paris?” The minister of police maintained a silence which was +equivalent to a complete avowal. + +“And Dauphiné, sir?” inquired the king, of Villefort. “Do you think it +possible to rouse that as well as Provence?” + +“Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling in +Dauphiné is quite the reverse of that in Provence or Languedoc. The +mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire.” + +“Then,” murmured Louis, “he was well informed. And how many men had he +with him?” + +“I do not know, sire,” answered the minister of police. + +“What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on +that point? Of course it is of no consequence,” he added, with a +withering smile. + +“Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact +of the landing and the route taken by the usurper.” + +“And how did this despatch reach you?” inquired the king. The minister +bowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he +stammered out: + +“By the telegraph, sire.” Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his +arms over his chest as Napoleon would have done. + +0141m + + + +“So then,” he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, “seven conjoined and +allied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of heaven replaced me on +the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have, +during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the +people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now, +when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I +hold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms!” + +“Sire, it is fatality!” murmured the minister, feeling that the +pressure of circumstances, however light a thing to destiny, was too +much for any human strength to endure. + +“What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing, +forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console +myself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places +of honor, who ought to watch over me more carefully than over +themselves,—for my fortune is theirs—before me they were nothing—after +me they will be nothing, and perish miserably from +incapacity—ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right—it is fatality!” + +The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas +wiped the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled within himself, for +he felt his increased importance. + +“To fall,” continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded +the abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended,—“to fall, and learn of +that fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my +brother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries +driven away by ridicule. Ridicule, sir—why, you know not its power in +France, and yet you ought to know it!” + +“Sire, sire,” murmured the minister, “for pity’s——” + +“Approach, M. de Villefort,” resumed the king, addressing the young +man, who, motionless and breathless, was listening to a conversation on +which depended the destiny of a kingdom. “Approach, and tell monsieur +that it is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known.” + +“Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man +concealed from all the world.” + +“Really impossible! Yes—that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there +are great words, as there are great men; I have measured them. Really +impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen +hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going +on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is +a gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal—a +gentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all +your police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had +the power of directing a telegraph.” The look of the minister of police +was turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in +modest triumph. + +“I do not mean that for you, Blacas,” continued Louis XVIII.; “for if +you have discovered nothing, at least you have had the good sense to +persevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have +considered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else +dictated by venal ambition.” These words were an allusion to the +sentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much +confidence an hour before. + +Villefort understood the king’s intent. Any other person would, +perhaps, have been overcome by such an intoxicating draught of praise; +but he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police +minister, although he saw that Dandré was irrevocably lost. In fact, +the minister, who, in the plenitude of his power, had been unable to +unearth Napoleon’s secret, might in despair at his own downfall +interrogate Dantès and so lay bare the motives of Villefort’s plot. +Realizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen +minister, instead of aiding to crush him. + +“Sire,” said Villefort, “the suddenness of this event must prove to +your majesty that the issue is in the hands of Providence; what your +majesty is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is +simply owing to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good +and devoted servant—that’s all. Do not attribute to me more than I +deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the +first opinion you have been pleased to form of me.” The minister of +police thanked the young man by an eloquent look, and Villefort +understood that he had succeeded in his design; that is to say, that +without forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of +one on whom, in case of necessity, he might rely. + +“’Tis well,” resumed the king. “And now, gentlemen,” he continued, +turning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of police, “I have no +further occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is +in the department of the minister of war.” + +“Fortunately, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “we can rely on the army; your +majesty knows how every report confirms their loyalty and attachment.” + +“Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to +place in them. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned +with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?” + +“The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!” exclaimed Villefort, unable to +repress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he added, “Your pardon, +sire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget, not the +respect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the +rules of etiquette.” + +“Go on, go on, sir,” replied the king; “you have today earned the right +to make inquiries here.” + +“Sire,” interposed the minister of police, “I came a moment ago to give +your majesty fresh information which I had obtained on this head, when +your majesty’s attention was attracted by the terrible event that has +occurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your +majesty.” + +“On the contrary, sir,—on the contrary,” said Louis XVIII., “this +affair seems to me to have a decided connection with that which +occupies our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps, +put us on the direct track of a great internal conspiracy.” At the name +of General Quesnel, Villefort trembled. + +“Everything points to the conclusion, sire,” said the minister of +police, “that death was not the result of suicide, as we first +believed, but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just +left a Bonapartist club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been +with him that morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue +Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general’s valet, who was dressing his +hair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street +mentioned, but did not catch the number.” As the police minister +related this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life +hung on the speaker’s lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king +looked towards him. + +“Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom +they believed attached to the usurper, but who was really entirely +devoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush?” + +“It is probable, sire,” replied Villefort. “But is this all that is +known?” + +“They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him.” + +“On his track?” said Villefort. + +“Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty +to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy +eyebrows, and a thick moustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat, +buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an +officer of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly +corresponding with this description was followed, but he was lost sight +of at the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Héron.” +Villefort leaned on the back of an armchair, for as the minister of +police went on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he +learned that the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who +followed him, he breathed again. + +“Continue to seek for this man, sir,” said the king to the minister of +police; “for if, as I am all but convinced, General Quesnel, who would +have been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his +assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished.” It required +all Villefort’s coolness not to betray the terror with which this +declaration of the king inspired him. + +“How strange,” continued the king, with some asperity; “the police +think that they have disposed of the whole matter when they say, ‘A +murder has been committed,’ and especially so when they can add, ‘And +we are on the track of the guilty persons.’” + +“Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at +least.” + +“We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you +must be fatigued after so long a journey; go and rest. Of course you +stopped at your father’s?” A feeling of faintness came over Villefort. + +0145m + + + +“No, sire,” he replied, “I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue +de Tournon.” + +“But you have seen him?” + +“Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas.” + +“But you will see him, then?” + +“I think not, sire.” + +“Ah, I forgot,” said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all +these questions were not made without a motive; “I forgot you and M. +Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another +sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be +recompensed.” + +“Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a +recompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition that I have +nothing more to ask for.” + +“Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the +meanwhile” (the king here detached the cross of the Legion of Honor +which he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis, +above the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave +it to Villefort)—“in the meanwhile take this cross.” + +“Sire,” said Villefort, “your majesty mistakes; this is an officer’s +cross.” + +“_Ma foi!_” said Louis XVIII., “take it, such as it is, for I have not +the time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be your care to see +that the brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort.” Villefort’s +eyes were filled with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and +kissed it. + +“And now,” he said, “may I inquire what are the orders with which your +majesty deigns to honor me?” + +“Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to +serve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at +Marseilles.” + +“Sire,” replied Villefort, bowing, “in an hour I shall have quitted +Paris.” + +“Go, sir,” said the king; “and should I forget you (kings’ memories are +short), do not be afraid to bring yourself to my recollection. Baron, +send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain.” + +“Ah, sir,” said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the +Tuileries, “you entered by luck’s door—your fortune is made.” + +“Will it be long first?” muttered Villefort, saluting the minister, +whose career was ended, and looking about him for a hackney-coach. One +passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the +driver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to +dreams of ambition. + +Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to +be ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him. +He was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp +and loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard someone speak +his name. + +0147m + + + +“Who could know that I was here already?” said the young man. The valet +entered. + +“Well,” said Villefort, “what is it?—Who rang?—Who asked for me?” + +“A stranger who will not send in his name.” + +“A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me?” + +“He wishes to speak to you.” + +“To me?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did he mention my name?” + +“Yes.” + +“What sort of person is he?” + +“Why, sir, a man of about fifty.” + +“Short or tall?” + +“About your own height, sir.” + +“Dark or fair?” + +“Dark,—very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows.” + +“And how dressed?” asked Villefort quickly. + +“In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of +Honor.” + +“It is he!” said Villefort, turning pale. + +0148m + + + +“Eh, _pardieu!_” said the individual whose description we have twice +given, entering the door, “what a great deal of ceremony! Is it the +custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their +anterooms?” + +“Father!” cried Villefort, “then I was not deceived; I felt sure it +must be you.” + +“Well, then, if you felt so sure,” replied the new-comer, putting his +cane in a corner and his hat on a chair, “allow me to say, my dear +Gérard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the +door.” + +“Leave us, Germain,” said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment +with evident signs of astonishment. + + + + Chapter 12. Father and Son + +M. Noirtier—for it was, indeed, he who entered—looked after the servant +until the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he might +be overheard in the antechamber, he opened the door again, nor was the +precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who +proved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our first +parents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the +antechamber door, then that of the bedchamber, and then extended his +hand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which +he could not conceal. + +“Well, now, my dear Gérard,” said he to the young man, with a very +significant look, “do you know, you seem as if you were not very glad +to see me?” + +“My dear father,” said Villefort, “I am, on the contrary, delighted; +but I so little expected your visit, that it has somewhat overcome me.” + +“But, my dear fellow,” replied M. Noirtier, seating himself, “I might +say the same thing to you, when you announce to me your wedding for the +28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in Paris.” + +“And if I have come, my dear father,” said Gérard, drawing closer to M. +Noirtier, “do not complain, for it is for you that I came, and my +journey will be your salvation.” + +“Ah, indeed!” said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in +the chair. “Really, pray tell me all about it, for it must be +interesting.” + +“Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue +Saint-Jacques?” + +“No. 53; yes, I am vice-president.” + +“Father, your coolness makes me shudder.” + +“Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers, +has escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of +Bordeaux by Robespierre’s bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most +things. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?” + +“Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel, +who quitted his own house at nine o’clock in the evening, was found the +next day in the Seine.” + +0151m + + + +“And who told you this fine story?” + +“The king himself.” + +“Well, then, in return for your story,” continued Noirtier, “I will +tell you another.” + +“My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me.” + +“Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?” + +“Not so loud, father, I entreat of you—for your own sake as well as +mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for +three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible +speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay.” + +“Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not +landed.” + +“No matter, I was aware of his intention.” + +“How did you know about it?” + +“By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba.” + +“To me?” + +“To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger. +Had that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father, +would probably ere this have been shot.” Villefort’s father laughed. + +“Come, come,” said he, “will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so +promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you +speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing +to pass you.” + +“I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that +letter must have led to your condemnation.” + +“And the destruction of your future prospects,” replied Noirtier; “yes, +I can easily comprehend that. But I have nothing to fear while I have +you to protect me.” + +“I do better than that, sir—I save you.” + +“You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic—explain +yourself.” + +“I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques.” + +“It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn’t +they search more vigilantly? they would have found——” + +“They have not found; but they are on the track.” + +“Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the +police is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the +government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a +sneaking air, that the track is lost.” + +“Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in +all countries they call that a murder.” + +“A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the +general was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having +thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to +swim.” + +“Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown +himself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month +of January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense +of the word.” + +“And who thus designated it?” + +“The king himself.” + +“The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was +no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well +as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in +politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all. +Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell +you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was +recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and +invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends. +He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the +projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the +fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at +each other,—he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an +ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and +yet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free—perfectly +free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear +fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that’s all. A murder? +really, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found +an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you +were fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of +one of my party, ‘My son, you have committed a murder?’ No, I said, +‘Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; tomorrow, perchance, it +will be our turn.’” + +“But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be +sweeping.” + +“I do not understand you.” + +“You rely on the usurper’s return?” + +“We do.” + +“You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of +France without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast.” + +“My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble; +on the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at +Paris.” + +“The people will rise.” + +“Yes, to go and meet him.” + +“He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched +against him.” + +“Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gérard, you are +but a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph has +told you, three days after the landing, ‘The usurper has landed at +Cannes with several men. He is pursued.’ But where is he? what is he +doing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to +Paris, without drawing a trigger.” + +“Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an +impassable barrier.” + +“Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm—all Lyons will +hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and +our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well, +you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your +arrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your +direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in +proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring, +then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will +dine together.” + +“Indeed!” replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment, +“you really do seem very well informed.” + +“Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the +means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which +devotion prompts.” + +“Devotion!” said Villefort, with a sneer. + +“Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful +ambition.” + +And Villefort’s father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon +the servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm. + +“Wait, my dear father,” said the young man, “one word more.” + +“Say on.” + +“However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible +thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General +Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house.” + +“Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may +be that description?” + +“Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat, +buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor +in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane.” + +“Ah, ha, that’s it, is it?” said Noirtier; “and why, then, have they +not laid hands on him?” + +“Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the +corner of the Rue Coq-Héron.” + +“Didn’t I say that your police were good for nothing?” + +“Yes; but they may catch him yet.” + +“True,” said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, “true, if this +person were not on his guard, as he is;” and he added with a smile, “He +will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.” At +these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went +towards a table on which lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his +face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising +whiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration. + +His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took, +instead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top +of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned +frock-coat, a coat of Villefort’s of dark brown, and cut away in front; +tried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son’s, which +appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner +where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the +air with it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger +which was one of his principal characteristics. + +“Well,” he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise +was completed, “well, do you think your police will recognize me now.” + +“No, father,” stammered Villefort; “at least, I hope not.” + +“And now, my dear boy,” continued Noirtier, “I rely on your prudence to +remove all the things which I leave in your care.” + +“Oh, rely on me,” said Villefort. + +“Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really +saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter.” + +Villefort shook his head. + +“You are not convinced yet?” + +“I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.” + +“Shall you see the king again?” + +“Perhaps.” + +“Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?” + +“Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father.” + +“True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second +restoration, you would then pass for a great man.” + +“Well, what should I say to the king?” + +“Say this to him: ‘Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France, +as to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he +whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the +usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at +Grenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing +as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with +hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of +snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave +France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but +by right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your +adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be +humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of +Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.’ Tell him this, Gérard; or, rather, tell +him nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you have +come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter +Marseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain, +quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time, +I swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies. +Go, my son—go, my dear Gérard, and by your obedience to my paternal +orders, or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in +your place. This will be,” added Noirtier, with a smile, “one means by +which you may a second time save me, if the political balance should +some day take another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down. +Adieu, my dear Gérard, and at your next journey alight at my door.” + +Noirtier left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness +that had characterized him during the whole of this remarkable and +trying conversation. Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window, +put aside the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or +three ill-looking men at the corner of the street, who were there, +perhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat, +and hat with broad brim. + +Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared +at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various articles he had left +behind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of +the portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into +small bits and flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and +calling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was +ready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready, +learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in the midst +of the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached +Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the +heart of man with ambition and its first successes. + + + + Chapter 13. The Hundred Days + +M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he +had predicted. Everyone knows the history of the famous return from +Elba, a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably +remain without a counterpart in the future. + +Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow; +the monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious +foundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous structure of +ancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort, +therefore, gained nothing save the king’s gratitude (which was rather +likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion +of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas +had duly forwarded the brevet. + +Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it +not been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at court, and thus the +Girondin of ’93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had +been his protector. All Villefort’s influence barely enabled him to +stifle the secret Dantès had so nearly divulged. The king’s procureur +alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism. + +However, scarcely was the imperial power established—that is, scarcely +had the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and begun to issue orders from +the closet into which we have introduced our readers,—he found on the +table there Louis XVIII.’s half-filled snuff-box,—scarcely had this +occurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities, to +rekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and +it required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater +violence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the +royalists whenever they ventured abroad. + +0159m + + + +Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment—we +will not say all powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather a +timid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of +Bonaparte accused him of “moderation”—but sufficiently influential to +make a demand in favor of Dantès. + +Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more +favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, Gérard +required a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII. +returned, the influence of M. de Saint-Méran, like his own, could be +vastly increased, and the marriage be still more suitable. The deputy +procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one +morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced. + +Anyone else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man +of ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made +Morrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for +the simple reason that the king’s procureur always makes everyone wait, +and after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he +ordered M. Morrel to be admitted. + +Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had +found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial +politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the +well-bred from the vulgar man. + +He had entered Villefort’s office expecting that the magistrate would +tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder +all over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his +desk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; +Villefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him; +then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned +his hat in his hands, + +“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the +hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.” + +“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel. + +“Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be +delighted.” + +“Everything depends on you.” + +“Explain yourself, pray.” + +“Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, “do +you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the +emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who +was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of +Elba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You +then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor—it was your +duty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him—it is +equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?” + +0161m + + + +Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. “What is his +name?” said he. “Tell me his name.” + +“Edmond Dantès.” + +Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a +pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but +he did not blanch. + +“Dantès,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantès.” + +“Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then went to a +table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to +Morrel, + +“Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said he, in the +most natural tone in the world. + +Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these +matters, he would have been surprised at the king’s procureur answering +him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the +prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in +his expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other’s +condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly. + +“No,” said Morrel; “I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years, +the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I +came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come today to +plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were +very severe with the Bonapartists in those days.” + +“Monsieur,” returned Villefort, “I was then a royalist, because I +believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen +of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the +legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people.” + +“That’s right!” cried Morrel. “I like to hear you speak thus, and I +augur well for Edmond from it.” + +“Wait a moment,” said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register; +“I have it—a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I +recollect now; it was a very serious charge.” + +“How so?” + +“You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de +Justice.” + +“Well?” + +“I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was +carried off.” + +“Carried off!” said Morrel. “What can they have done with him?” + +“Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the +Sainte-Marguérite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take +command of your vessel.” + +“Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not +already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be +to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it.” + +“Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,” replied Villefort. “The order of +imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation +must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been +reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded.” + +“But,” said Morrel, “is there no way of expediting all these +formalities—of releasing him from arrest?” + +“There has been no arrest.” + +“How?” + +“It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance +without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may +defeat their wishes.” + +“It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present——” + +“It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV. +The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis +himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the +register is incalculable.” Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much +kindness would have dispelled them. + +“Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?” asked he. + +“Petition the minister.” + +“Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions +every day, and does not read three.” + +“That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented +by me.” + +“And will you undertake to deliver it?” + +“With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is +innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn +him.” Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which, +however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him +defenceless. + +“But how shall I address the minister?” + +“Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, “and +write what I dictate.” + +“Will you be so good?” + +“Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already.” + +“That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be +suffering.” + +Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw +back. Dantès must be crushed to gratify Villefort’s ambition. + +Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention, +no doubt, Dantès’ patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made +out one of the most active agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident +that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release +him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud. + +“That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.” + +“Will the petition go soon?” + +“Today.” + +“Countersigned by you?” + +“The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents +of your petition.” And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate +at the bottom. + +“What more is to be done?” + +“I will do whatever is necessary.” This assurance delighted Morrel, who +took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantès that he +would soon see his son. + +As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved +the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantès, in the hopes of an +event that seemed not unlikely,—that is, a second restoration. Dantès +remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis +XVIII.’s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire. + +Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice +had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo, +and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any +fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly. + +Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had +become filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the +situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards +he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, whose father now stood higher +at court than ever. + +And so Dantès, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in +his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven. + +Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that +overwhelmed Dantès; and, when Napoleon returned to France, he, after +the manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, _a decree of +Providence_. But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart +failed him, and he lived in constant fear of Dantès’ return on a +mission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to +quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish +merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is, +ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. He then left for Madrid, +and was no more heard of. + +Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was absent. What had +become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the +absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of +deceiving Mercédès as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of +emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and +motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence +Marseilles and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of +a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of +vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up; he would shoot Dantès, and then +kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never +kills himself, for he constantly hopes. + +During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man +in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the +emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible +thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and +marry Mercédès. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have +done so when he parted from Mercédès. His devotion, and the compassion +he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce +on noble minds—Mercédès had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, +and this was now strengthened by gratitude. + +“My brother,” said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders, +“be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the +world.” These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand’s heart. Should +Dantès not return, Mercédès might one day be his. + +0165m + + + +Mercédès was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never +seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in +tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute +and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times +gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to +cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was +not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into +execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her. + +Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married +and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantès, +who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s downfall. +Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the +hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercédès’ arms. M. Morrel +paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old +man had contracted. + +There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the +south was aflame, and to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of +so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantès, was stigmatized as a crime. + + + + Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners + +A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the +inspector-general of prisons. Dantès in his cell heard the noise of +preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been +inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash +of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. +He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had +so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked +upon himself as dead. + +The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of +several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended +them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed, +and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that +the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free. + +The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook +their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector +turned smilingly to the governor. + +“I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless +visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same +thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?” + +“Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.” + +“Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We +must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.” + +“Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners +sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be +sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall +a victim.” + +“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector. + +Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a +stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight, +smell, and respiration. + +“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?” + +“A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most +strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.” + +“He is alone?” + +“Certainly.” + +“How long has he been there?” + +“Nearly a year.” + +“Was he placed here when he first arrived?” + +“No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to +him.” + +“To kill the turnkey?” + +“Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked +the governor. + +“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey. + +“He must be mad,” said the inspector. + +“He is worse than that,—he is a devil!” returned the turnkey. + +“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector. + +“Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another +year he will be quite so.” + +“So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,” said the inspector. +He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every +way fit for his office. + +“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves +that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon +about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, +an old abbé, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here +since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He +used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had +better see him, for his madness is amusing.” + +“I will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously +perform my duty.” + +This was the inspector’s first visit; he wished to display his +authority. + +“Let us visit this one first,” added he. + +“By all means,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to +open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the +creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the +dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a +narrow iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted +by two turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to +whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and +that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was +come, sprang forward with clasped hands. + +The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was +about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three +steps. Dantès saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing +all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the +inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity. + +The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor, +observed, “He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is +afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of +anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then, +turning to the prisoner, “What is it you want?” said he. + +“I want to know what crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am +guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.” + +“Are you well fed?” said the inspector. + +“I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters +really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is +that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an +infamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.” + +“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “you are not so +always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the +turnkey.” + +“It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very +good to me, but I was mad.” + +“And you are not so any longer?” + +“No; captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.” + +“So long?—when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector. + +“The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.” + +“Today is the 30th of July, 1816,—why, it is but seventeen months.” + +“Only seventeen months,” replied Dantès. “Oh, you do not know what is +seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man +who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man, who, +like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an +honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant—who +sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his +affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen +months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a +worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, +and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a +verdict—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be +denied to one who is accused!” + +“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On +my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against +him.” + +“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.” + +“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “I know it is not in your power to +release me; but you can plead for me—you can have me tried—and that is +all I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned. +Uncertainty is worse than all.” + +“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector. + +“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched +with pity; tell me at least to hope.” + +“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to +examine into your case.” + +“Oh, I am free—then I am saved!” + +“Who arrested you?” + +“M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says.” + +“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse.” + +“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “since my +only protector is removed.” + +“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?” + +“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.” + +“I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?” + +“Entirely.” + +“That is well; wait patiently, then.” + +Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but +this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès—Hope. + +0173m + + + +“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to +the other cell?” + +“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector. “If I once went up those +stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.” + +“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting +than this one’s display of reason.” + +“What is his folly?” + +“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered +government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the +third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of +captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five +millions.” + +“How curious!—what is his name?” + +“The Abbé Faria.” + +“No. 27,” said the inspector. + +“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.” + +The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber +of the _mad abbé_, as the prisoner was usually called. + +In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of +plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments +scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, +and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the +soldier of Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the +door, and continued his calculations until the flash of the torches +lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then, +raising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons +present. He hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it +round him. + +“What is it you want?” said the inspector. + +“I, monsieur,” replied the abbé with an air of surprise,—“I want +nothing.” + +“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by +government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the +prisoners.” + +“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each +other, I hope.” + +“There, now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.” + +“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome. +I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why, +I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have +demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.” + +“Why from the French government?” + +“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and +Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.” + +“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from Italy?” + +“My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,” returned +the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for +his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli +and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.” + +“Monsieur,” returned the inspector, “Providence has changed this +gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.” + +“It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and +independent.” + +“Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire +if you have anything to ask or to complain of.” + +“The food is the same as in other prisons,—that is, very bad; the +lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon; +but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to +reveal of the greatest importance.” + +“We are coming to the point,” whispered the governor. + +“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued the abbé, +“although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which, +if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton’s system. Could you allow +me a few words in private.” + +“What did I tell you?” said the governor. + +“You knew him,” returned the inspector with a smile. + +“What you ask is impossible, monsieur,” continued he, addressing Faria. + +0175m + + + +“But,” said the abbé, “I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting +to five millions.” + +“The very sum you named,” whispered the inspector in his turn. + +“However,” continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to +depart, “it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the +governor can be present.” + +“Unfortunately,” said the governor, “I know beforehand what you are +about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?” Faria fixed his +eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced anyone else of +his sanity. + +“Of course,” said he; “of what else should I speak?” + +“Mr. Inspector,” continued the governor, “I can tell you the story as +well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five +years.” + +“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like those of Holy +Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.” + +“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,” +replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.” The abbé’s +eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand. + +“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until +my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit +by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the +rest, if they will only give me my liberty.” + +“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not been told +beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.” + +“I am not mad,” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar +to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to +sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot +where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask +no more.” + +The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?” + +“A hundred leagues.” + +“It is not ill-planned,” said the governor. “If all the prisoners took +it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians +consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of +escaping.” + +“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the abbé’s plan +has not even the merit of originality.” + +Then turning to Faria, “I inquired if you are well fed?” said he. + +“Swear to me,” replied Faria, “to free me if what I tell you prove +true, and I will stay here while you go to the spot.” + +“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector. + +“Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so +there is no chance of my escaping.” + +“You do not reply to my question,” replied the inspector impatiently. + +“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will +keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.” And +the abbé, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued +his calculations. + +0177m + + + +“What is he doing there?” said the inspector. + +“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor. + +Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They +went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them. + +“He was wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector. + +“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.” + +“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich, he would not +have been here.” + +So the matter ended for the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and +this visit only increased the belief in his insanity. + +Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the +impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his +wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern +times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither +courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the +eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves +sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are +not inviolable. + +It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer +the victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition +rarely allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and +their flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its +cell, from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy +hospital, where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the +mutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the +Abbé Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity. + +The inspector kept his word with Dantès; he examined the register, and +found the following note concerning him: + +_Edmond Dantès:_ + +Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba. + +The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised. + +This note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it +had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend +against this accusation; he simply wrote, _Nothing to be done._ + +This visit had infused new vigor into Dantès; he had, till then, +forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the +date, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose +his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months—Dantès +still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This +fortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until +his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his +circuit was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months +passed away, then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by +and no favorable change had taken place, and Dantès began to fancy the +inspector’s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain. + +At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had +obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his +subordinates, and amongst them Dantès’ jailer. A new governor arrived; +it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners; +he learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty +cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell, +and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now +number 34. + + + + Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27 + +Dantès passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in +suspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious +innocence which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own +innocence, which justified in some measure the governor’s belief in his +mental alienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he +addressed his supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the +last resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have +any hope in him till they have exhausted all other means of +deliverance. + +Dantès asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, even +if it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous, +was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated +to be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing +materials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the +same. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the +latter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to +speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantès spoke for the +sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but +the sound of his voice terrified him. + +Often, before his captivity, Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea of +assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers. +He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face +besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the +infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The +galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. +They were very happy. + +He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were it +even the mad abbé. The jailer, though rough and hardened by the +constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of +his heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man +who suffered so; and he laid the request of number 34 before the +governor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dantès wished to +conspire or attempt an escape, and refused his request. Dantès had +exhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God. + +All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he +recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new +meaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere medley +of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first +understands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the +pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the +sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid +every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to +accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty +oftener addressed to man than to God: “Forgive us our trespasses as we +forgive them that trespass against us.” Yet in spite of his earnest +prayers, Dantès remained a prisoner. + +Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantès was a man of great +simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore, +in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history +of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild +the ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the +imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors +in Martin’s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past +life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so +doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! +No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would +have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle +in a cage. He clung to one idea—that of his happiness, destroyed, +without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and +reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable +Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante. + +Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantès uttered blasphemies that made +his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the +walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly +upon himself, so that the least thing,—a grain of sand, a straw, or a +breath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the +letter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every +line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the _mene, mene, +tekel upharsin_ of Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity +of man, and not the vengeance of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into +the deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most +horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient, +because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at +least the boon of unconsciousness. + +By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death, +and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must +be invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the +brink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these! + +Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye; +but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself +struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once +thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all +is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This +state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings +that precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a +sort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the +bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity. + +Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his +sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell +when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantès reviewed his past +life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future +existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge. + +“Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded +other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the +storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with +its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled +and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight +of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then +terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a +sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was +happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed +of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a +creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the +gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound +me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own +manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I +have paced three thousand times round my cell,—that is thirty thousand +steps, or about ten leagues.” + +No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more +composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and +slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt +that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two +methods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself +with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of +starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dantès had always +entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the +yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He +resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his +resolve. + +0185m + + + +Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had +ceased to mark the lapse of time. Dantès said, “I wish to die,” and had +chosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he +had taken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are +brought,” thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and they +will think that I have eaten them.” + +He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture, +the provisions his jailer brought him—at first gayly, then with +deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of +his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once +repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at +a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted +fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life +contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less +sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young—he was only +four or five-and-twenty—he had nearly fifty years to live. What +unforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to +liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary +Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would +not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient +strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next +morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously +ill. Edmond hoped he was dying. + +Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over +him which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain +at his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his +eyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the +will-o’-the-wisps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of +that mysterious country called Death! + +Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow +sound in the wall against which he was lying. + +So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did +not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his +faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond +raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made +by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the +stones. + +Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded to the +idea that haunts all prisoners—liberty! It seemed to him that heaven +had at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on +the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had +so often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the +distance that separated them. + +No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams +that forerun death! + +Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then +heard a noise of something falling, and all was silent. + +Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond +was intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered. + +For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that +he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the +attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter +with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously +at him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it, +and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last +moments. + +The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantès raised himself up and +began to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food, +about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order +to have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his +jailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread +for his prisoner. + +Fortunately, he fancied that Dantès was delirious; and placing the food +on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound +became more and more distinct. + +“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner who +is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help +him!” + +Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to +misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope—the idea that the +noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the +neighboring dungeon. + +It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It +was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch his +countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy +hopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own +curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he +could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one +means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned +his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered +towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents +with a feeling of indescribable pleasure. + +He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that +shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much +food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour, +and returned to his couch—he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his +ideas became again collected—he could think, and strengthen his +thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself: + +“I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it +is a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to +work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as +his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. +If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, +he will cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.” + +Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his +sight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone, +and with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck +thrice. + +At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic. + +Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no +sound was heard from the wall—all was silent there. + +Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and, +thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh +recovered. + +The day passed away in utter silence—night came without recurrence of +the noise. + +“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, and +life and energy returned. + +The night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes. + +In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions—he had already +devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously +for the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars +of the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, +and so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he +listened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient +at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been +disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself. + +Three days passed—seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off +by minutes! + +At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time +that night, Dantès, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall, +fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He +moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and +then went back and listened. + +The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other +side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had +substituted a lever for a chisel. + +Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the +indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around +for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist +cement, and displace a stone. + +He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating +was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All +his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug. +The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it +would have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and +chair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had +been removed. + +0189m + + + +Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one +of the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the +floor, and it broke in pieces. + +Dantès concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed, +leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural +an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in, +but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was +working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited +for day. + +All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his +way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantès told him that the jug had +fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went +grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to +remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised +the prisoner to be more careful, and departed. + +Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the +sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by +the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored +uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of +removing the plaster that surrounded it. + +The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès was able to break it +off—in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had +scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in +two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage +twenty feet long and two feet broad, might be formed. + +The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours +he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six +years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished? + +This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, with +the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the +stone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give +strength to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals +imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must +remove from its socket. + +Dantès strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The +fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantès +paused with anguish on his brow. + +Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive +until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea +occurred to him—he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead. + +The jailer always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; this +saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantès had noticed that +it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave +it to him or to his companion first. + +The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten +years of his life in exchange for it. + +0191m + + + +The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into +Dantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon, +washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening +came Dantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as +he entered, stepped on it and broke it. + +This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there, +but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer, +therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour +the soup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one +plate—there was no alternative. + +“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bring +me my breakfast.” + +This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity +of making another trip. He left the saucepan. + +Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and +after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and +return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted +the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and +employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all +went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the +wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter. + +Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of +his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use +of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work +without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his +bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece +of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table. + +“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès. + +“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break +your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners +followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave +you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I +hope you will not be so destructive.” + +Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the +coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of +iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that +the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was +a greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him, +he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by +the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and +fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived, +Dantès straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and +placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of +soup into it, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners +were deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, +had not Dantès long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the +turnkey retired. + +Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to +work. He listened—all was silent, as it had been for the last three +days. Dantès sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him. +However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but +after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no +impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and found +that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole +Dantès had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it. +The unhappy young man had not thought of this. + +“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you, +that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my +liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to +existence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!” + +0193m + + + +“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that +seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance, +sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair +stood on end, and he rose to his knees. + +“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard anyone +speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to +a prisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding +strength to restraints of oak and iron. + +“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound +of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?” + +“Who are you?” said the voice. + +“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation in +answering. + +“Of what country?” + +“A Frenchman.” + +“Your name?” + +“Edmond Dantès.” + +“Your profession?” + +“A sailor.” + +“How long have you been here?” + +“Since the 28th of February, 1815.” + +“Your crime?” + +“I am innocent.” + +“But of what are you accused?” + +“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.” + +“What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the +throne, then?” + +“He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of +Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all +this?” + +“Since 1811.” + +Dantès shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in +prison. + +“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is +your excavation?” + +“On a level with the floor.” + +“How is it concealed?” + +“Behind my bed.” + +“Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?” + +“No.” + +“What does your chamber open on?” + +“A corridor.” + +“And the corridor?” + +“On a court.” + +“Alas!” murmured the voice. + +“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantès. + +“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong +angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the +wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.” + +“But then you would be close to the sea?” + +“That is what I hoped.” + +“And supposing you had succeeded?” + +“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands +near here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I should +have been safe.” + +“Could you have swum so far?” + +“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.” + +“All?” + +“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait +until you hear from me.” + +“Tell me, at least, who you are?” + +“I am—I am No. 27.” + +“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantès. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter +laugh resounding from the depths. + +“Oh, I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this +man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by him who died for us that +naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I +conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have +got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against +the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.” + +“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.” + +“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been +here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested, +the 28th of February, 1815.” + +“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be a +traitor.” + +“Oh, no, no,” cried Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray +you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!” + +“You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I +was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures +me. I will not forget you. Wait.” + +“How long?” + +“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.” + +“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me +come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you +of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love +somebody?” + +“No, I am alone in the world.” + +“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if +you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he +yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father +has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves +me still; I shall love you as I loved my father.” + +“It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.” + +These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his +sincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same +precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then +gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was, +perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a +companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints +made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are +gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven. + +All day Dantès walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on +his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he +bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind +that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; +and then his mind was made up—when the jailer moved his bed and stooped +to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would +be condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when +this miraculous noise recalled him to life. + +The jailer came in the evening. Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to him +that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was +a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are you +going mad again?” + +Dantès did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would +betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantès +hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but +he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed +from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees. + +“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.” + +“Is your jailer gone?” + +“Yes,” said Dantès; “he will not return until the evening; so that we +have twelve hours before us.” + +“I can work, then?” said the voice. + +“Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.” + +In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantès was resting his two +hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he +drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a +hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from +the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to +measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly +the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell. + +0197m + + + + + Chapter 16. A Learned Italian + +Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantès +almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view +of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled +through the grating. + +He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering +and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almost +buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black) +beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by +care, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a +man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physical +strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow, +while the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one could +only guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been +fashioned. + +The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a +certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made it +probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time. +He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with +evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled and +invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him +with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at +that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where +he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty. + +“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to remove the +traces of my entrance here—our future tranquillity depends upon our +jailers being entirely ignorant of it.” + +Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in +spite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said: + +“You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools +to aid you.” + +“Why,” exclaimed Dantès, with astonishment, “do you possess any?” + +“I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that +are necessary,—a chisel, pincers, and lever.” + +0201m + + + +“Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and +patience.” + +“Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.” + +So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of +beechwood. + +“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired Dantès. + +“With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed +me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about +fifty feet.” + +“Fifty feet!” responded Dantès, almost terrified. + +“Do not speak so loud, young man—don’t speak so loud. It frequently +occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside +the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the +prisoners.” + +“But they believe I am shut up alone here.” + +“That makes no difference.” + +“And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get +here?” + +“I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from +mine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the +necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion, +instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I +expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it, +and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor +on which your chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is +all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled +with soldiers.” + +“That’s true,” said Dantès; “but the corridor you speak of only bounds +_one_ side of my cell; there are three others—do you know anything of +their situation?” + +“This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten +experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many +years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor’s +apartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get +into some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The +fourth and last side of your cell faces on—faces on—stop a minute, now +where does it face?” + +The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole +by which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, which +gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an +opening through which a child could not have passed, was, for better +security, furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all +apprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the +possibility of a prisoner’s escape. As the stranger asked the question, +he dragged the table beneath the window. + +“Climb up,” said he to Dantès. + +The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes of +his companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held out +both hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantès knew only by the number of +his cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in a +person of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a +lizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantès, and +from them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of +the dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to +slip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as to be able to +command a perfect view from top to bottom. + +An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, “I thought +so!” and sliding from the shoulders of Dantès as dextrously as he had +ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground. + +“What was it that you thought?” asked the young man anxiously, in his +turn descending from the table. + +The elder prisoner pondered the matter. “Yes,” said he at length, “it +is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery, +where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and +night.” + +“Are you quite sure of that?” + +“Certain. I saw the soldier’s shape and the top of his musket; that +made me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see +me.” + +“Well?” inquired Dantès. + +“You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your +dungeon?” + +“Then——” pursued the young man eagerly. + +“Then,” answered the elder prisoner, “the will of God be done!” And as +the old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profound +resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantès gazed +on the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and +ardently nourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration. + +“Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?” said he at length. +“Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself.” + +“Willingly,” answered the stranger; “if, indeed, you feel any curiosity +respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way.” + +“Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own +powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?” + +The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. “Then listen,” said he. “I am +the Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Château +d’If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for +three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was +transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that +the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon, +had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was +very far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of; +namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be +overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment—Napoleon II.?” + +“No, Louis XVIII.” + +“The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways of +Providence—for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heaven +to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?” + +Dantès’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his +own misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others. + +“Yes, yes,” continued he, “’Twill be the same as it was in England. +After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James +II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a +stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people, +then a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!” said the abbé, +turning towards Dantès, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a +prophet, “you are young, you will see all this come to pass.” + +“Probably, if ever I get out of prison!” + +“True,” replied Faria, “we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes, +and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond +these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.” + +“But wherefore are you here?” + +“Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize +in 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political +face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a +quantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical +ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and, +lastly, because I fancied I had found my Cæsar Borgia in a crowned +simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was +the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed +now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to +complete his work. Italy seems fated to misfortune.” And the old man +bowed his head. + +Dantès could not understand a man risking his life for such matters. +Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and +spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing. + +“Are you not,” he asked, “the priest who here in the Château d’If is +generally thought to be—ill?” + +“Mad, you mean, don’t you?” + +“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantès, smiling. + +“Well, then,” resumed Faria with a bitter smile, “let me answer your +question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner of +the Château d’If, for many years permitted to amuse the different +visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability, +I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if +such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to +suffering and despair.” + +Dantès remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he +said: + +“Then you abandon all hope of escape?” + +“I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to +attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve.” + +“Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to +succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in +another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?” + +“Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to +effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning +over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I +possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard +as granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove +huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days +have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well +repaid if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of +this hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as +the stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I +dug up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the +fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so +completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add +another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also +that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my +undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to +make it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at +the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed +from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew +attempts evidently at variance with the Almighty’s pleasure.” + +Dantès held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the +thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the +failure of the abbé’s plans. + +The abbé sank upon Edmond’s bed, while Edmond himself remained +standing. Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed, +some things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on +them for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet—to devote +three years to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a +precipice overhanging the sea—to plunge into the waves from the height +of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to +pieces against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have +escaped the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils +past, then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three +miles ere you could reach the shore—were difficulties so startling and +formidable that Dantès had never even dreamed of such a scheme, +resigning himself rather to death. + +But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate a +courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new +courage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what he +had not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only +because of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost +incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himself +with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had done +all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantès? Faria had dug his way +through fifty feet, Dantès would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of +fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but half as +old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk +from the idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three +miles to one of the islands—Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a +hardy sailor, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar +task; should he, who had so often for mere amusement’s sake plunged to +the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to +entertain the same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many +times had he, for pure pastime, continued in the water for more than +twice as long! At once Dantès resolved to follow the brave example of +his energetic companion, and to remember that what has once been done +may be done again. + +After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man +suddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in search of!” + +Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his head with +quick anxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?” + +“The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you +occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does +it not?” + +0207m + + + +“It does.” + +“And is not above fifteen feet from it?” + +“About that.” + +“Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through +the corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the +top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately; +we shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel +who guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is +courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient +in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now see +me prove mine.” + +“One instant, my dear friend,” replied the abbé; “it is clear you do +not understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and +what use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider +that I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the +task of the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day. +But then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention), +then I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the +Almighty in trying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had +committed no offence, and merited not condemnation.” + +“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantès with much surprise; “do +you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have +encountered me?” + +“No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself +merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no +sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so +easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life.” + +A slight movement of surprise escaped Dantès. + +“Is it possible,” said he, “that where your liberty is at stake you can +allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?” + +“Tell me,” replied Faria, “what has hindered you from knocking down +your jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing +yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?” + +“Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,” answered Dantès. + +“Because,” said the old man, “the natural repugnance to the commission +of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is +because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us +from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature +teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell +to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this +instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to +spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of +blood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a +shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and +physiological formation——” + +Dantès was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts +which had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for +there are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head +and those that emanate from the heart. + +0209m + + + +“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over all the most +celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful. +Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated +upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the +Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé +Dubuquoi from For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are +those for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the +best of all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable +moment, and when it presents itself, profit by it.” + +“Ah,” said Dantès, “you might well endure the tedious delay; you were +constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with +toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.” + +“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that source for +recreation or support.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I wrote or studied.” + +“Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?” + +“Oh, no,” answered the abbé; “I had none but what I made for myself.” + +“You made paper, pens and ink?” + +“Yes.” + +Dantès gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing. +Faria saw this. + +“When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend,” said he, “I will +show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of +my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the +Colosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and on +the borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that +they would be arranged in order within the walls of the Château d’If. +The work I speak of is called _A Treatise on the Possibility of a +General Monarchy in Italy_, and will make one large quarto volume.” + +“And on what have you written all this?” + +“On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as +smooth and as easy to write on as parchment.” + +“You are, then, a chemist?” + +“Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis.” + +“But for such a work you must have needed books—had you any?” + +“I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after +reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and +fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of +all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I +devoted three years of my life to reading and studying these one +hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that +since I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled +me to recall their contents as readily as though the pages were open +before me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, +Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, +Shakespeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most +important.” + +“You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to +have been able to read all these?” + +“Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues—that is to say, German, +French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I +learned modern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am +still trying to improve myself.” + +“Improve yourself!” repeated Dantès; “why, how can you manage to do +so?” + +“Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and +arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their +medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is +absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred +thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I +certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes; +and that would be quite as much as I should ever require.” + +Stronger grew the wonder of Dantès, who almost fancied he had to do +with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some +imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings, +he added, “Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage +to write the work you speak of?” + +“I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally +preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings +are served to us on _maigre_ days. Well, I selected the cartilages of +the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight +with which I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and +Saturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for +I will freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest +solace and relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and +traversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am +myself a prisoner.” + +“But the ink,” said Dantès; “of what did you make your ink?” + +“There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,” replied Faria, “but it +was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it +must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a +coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought +to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired. +For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I +pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.” + +“And when,” asked Dantès, “may I see all this?” + +“Whenever you please,” replied the abbé. + +“Oh, then let it be directly!” exclaimed the young man. + +“Follow me, then,” said the abbé, as he re-entered the subterranean +passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès. + + + + Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber + +After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean +passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves +erect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into +which the abbé’s cell opened; from that point the passage became much +narrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees. +The floor of the abbé’s cell was paved, and it had been by raising one +of the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able to +commence the laborious task of which Dantès had witnessed the +completion. + +As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eager +and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more +than common met his view. + +“It is well,” said the abbé; “we have some hours before us—it is now +just a quarter past twelve o’clock.” Instinctively Dantès turned round +to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately +to specify the hour. + +“Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,” said the abbé, +“and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these +lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and +the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the +precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that +might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth +never vary in their appointed paths.” + +This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had always +imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in +the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement +of the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared +to him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion’s +lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging +out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, +which he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in +his earliest youth. + +“Come,” said he to the abbé, “I am anxious to see your treasures.” + +The abbé smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by +the help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the +hearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a +safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès. + +0213m + + + +“What do you wish to see first?” asked the abbé. + +“Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!” + +Faria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of +linen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls +consisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long; +they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, so +legible that Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the +sense—it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provençal, perfectly +understood. + +“There,” said he, “there is the work complete. I wrote the word _finis_ +at the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up +two of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to +complete the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find +in all Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have +composed, my literary reputation is forever secured.” + +“I see,” answered Dantès. “Now let me behold the curious pens with +which you have written your work.” + +“Look!” said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six +inches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine +painting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one +of those cartilages of which the abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it +was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantès +examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the +instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form. + +“Ah, yes,” said Faria; “the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it, +as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.” The +penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it +would serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust. + +Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same +attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools +exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the +South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading +vessels. + +“As for the ink,” said Faria, “I told you how I managed to obtain +that—and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it.” + +“One thing still puzzles me,” observed Dantès, “and that is how you +managed to do all this by daylight?” + +“I worked at night also,” replied Faria. + +“Night!—why, for Heaven’s sake, are your eyes like cats’, that you can +see to work in the dark?” + +“Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence +that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I +furnished myself with a light.” + +“You did? Pray tell me how.” + +“I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made +oil—here is my lamp.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch +very similar to those used in public illuminations. + +“But how do you procure a light?” + +“Oh, here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen.” + +“And matches?” + +“I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little +sulphur, which was readily supplied.” + +Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table, +and stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed +by the perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind. + +0215m + + + +“You have not seen all yet,” continued Faria, “for I did not think it +wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut +this one up.” They put the stone back in its place; the abbé sprinkled +a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed, +rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the +other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it +stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting +in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this +space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length. +Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and +compact enough to bear any weight. + +“Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?” + +“I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets +of my bed, during my three years’ imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when +I was removed to the Château d’If, I managed to bring the ravellings +with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here.” + +“And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?” + +“Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the +edges over again.” + +“With what?” + +“With this needle,” said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he +showed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for +the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it. + +“I once thought,” continued Faria, “of removing these iron bars, and +letting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat +wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more +preparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely +have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the +project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I +carefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen +opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chance +frequently brings about.” + +While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind +of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so +intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably be +able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself +could see nothing. + +“What are you thinking of?” asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deep +abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe +and wonder. + +“I was reflecting, in the first place,” replied Dantès, “upon the +enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to +reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you +not have accomplished if you had been free?” + +“Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a +state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is +needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect. +Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my +mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the +collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity, +lightning, from lightning, illumination.” + +“No,” replied Dantès. “I know nothing. Some of your words are to me +quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the +knowledge you have.” + +The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “but you had another subject for your +thoughts; did you not say so just now?” + +“I did!” + +“You have told me as yet but one of them—let me hear the other.” + +“It was this,—that while you had related to me all the particulars of +your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.” + +“Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit +of your having passed through any very important events.” + +“It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved +misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no +longer vent reproaches upon Heaven.” + +“Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?” + +“I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon +earth,—my father and Mercédès.” + +“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed +back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.” + +Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which +consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three +voyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last +cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet +to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with +that personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a +letter addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles, and +interview with his father—his affection for Mercédès, and their nuptual +feast—his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at +the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Château d’If. +From this point everything was a blank to Dantès—he knew nothing more, +not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital +finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly. + +“There is,” said he, at the end of his meditations, “a clever maxim, +which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and +that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved +mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime. +Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices, +and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle +within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and +wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you +visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover +the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any +way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could your +disappearance have been serviceable?” + +“To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person.” + +“Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor +philosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king +who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his +rival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his +successor inherits a crown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary +steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand +livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are +as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from +the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder, +and is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in +Descartes’ theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase +as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason +rests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your +particular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain +of the _Pharaon_?” + +“Yes.” + +“And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?” + +“Yes.” + +“Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the +accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the +question as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from +being captain of the _Pharaon_. What say you?” + +“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, +and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain +themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. +There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of +ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and +had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.” + +“Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?” + +“Danglars.” + +“What rank did he hold on board?” + +“He was supercargo.” + +“And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his +employment?” + +“Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed +inaccuracies in his accounts.” + +“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last +conversation with Captain Leclere?” + +“No; we were quite alone.” + +“Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone?” + +“It might, for the cabin door was open—and—stay; now I +recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was +giving me the packet for the grand marshal.” + +“That’s better,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did +you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?” + +“Nobody.” + +“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of +it, I think?” + +“Yes; the grand marshal did.” + +“And what did you do with that letter?” + +“Put it into my portfolio.” + +“You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find +room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official +letter?” + +“You are right; it was left on board.” + +“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter +in the portfolio?” + +“No.” + +“And what did you do with this same letter while returning from +Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?” + +“I carried it in my hand.” + +“So that when you went on board the _Pharaon_, everybody could see that +you held a letter in your hand?” + +“Yes.” + +“Danglars, as well as the rest?” + +“Danglars, as well as others.” + +“Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your +arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you +was formulated?” + +“Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my +memory.” + +“Repeat it to me.” + +Dantès paused a moment, then said, “This is it, word for word: ‘The +king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion, +that one Edmond Dantès, mate on board the _Pharaon_, this day arrived +from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been +intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the +usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of +his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will +be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his +cabin on board the _Pharaon_.’” + +The abbé shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he; +“and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good +heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.” + +“Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous.” + +“How did Danglars usually write?” + +“In a handsome, running hand.” + +“And how was the anonymous letter written?” + +“Backhanded.” + +Again the abbé smiled. “Disguised.” + +“It was very boldly written, if disguised.” + +“Stop a bit,” said the abbé, taking up what he called his pen, and, +after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen, +with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation. +Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost +amounting to terror. + +“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “Why your writing exactly +resembles that of the accusation.” + +“Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; +and I have noticed that——” + +“What?” + +“That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand +varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform.” + +“You have evidently seen and observed everything.” + +“Let us proceed.” + +“Oh, yes, yes!” + +“Now as regards the second question.” + +“I am listening.” + +“Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage +with Mercédès?” + +“Yes; a young man who loved her.” + +“And his name was——” + +“Fernand.” + +“That is a Spanish name, I think?” + +“He was a Catalan.” + +“You imagine him capable of writing the letter?” + +“Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife +into me.” + +“That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an +assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice, +never.” + +“Besides,” said Dantès, “the various circumstances mentioned in the +letter were wholly unknown to him.” + +“You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone?” + +“To no one.” + +“Not even to your mistress?” + +“No, not even to my betrothed.” + +“Then it is Danglars.” + +“I feel quite sure of it now.” + +“Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?” + +“No—yes, he was. Now I recollect——” + +“What?” + +“To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at +Père Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They +were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, +but Fernand looked pale and agitated.” + +“Were they alone?” + +“There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who +had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named +Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that it +should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that +on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper. +Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantès, pressing +his hand to his throbbing brows. + +“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the +villany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh. + +“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see so +completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery +seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent +no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was +condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?” + +“That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded the +abbé. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be +easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been +child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of +the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on +every point.” + +“Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see +more clearly into my life than I do myself.” + +“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his +deputy, or a magistrate?” + +“The deputy.” + +“Was he young or old?” + +“About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.” + +“So,” answered the abbé. “Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to +be corrupt. And how did he treat you?” + +“With more of mildness than severity.” + +“Did you tell him your whole story?” + +“I did.” + +“And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?” + +“He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought +me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.” + +“By your misfortune?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?” + +“He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.” + +“And that?” + +“He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.” + +“What? the accusation?” + +“No; the letter.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“I saw it done.” + +“That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater +scoundrel than you have thought possible.” + +“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled +with tigers and crocodiles?” + +“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more +dangerous than the others.” + +“Never mind; let us go on.” + +“With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?” + +“He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only +proof existing against you.’” + +“This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.” + +“You think so?” + +“I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?” + +“To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris.” + +“Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could +possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?” + +“Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me +promise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring +me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he +insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned +in the address.” + +“Noirtier!” repeated the abbé; “Noirtier!—I knew a person of that name +at the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been a +Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?” + +“De Villefort!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès +gazed on him in utter astonishment. + +“What ails you?” said he at length. + +“Do you see that ray of sunlight?” + +“I do.” + +“Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you. +Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed +great sympathy and commiseration for you?” + +“He did.” + +“And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?” + +“Yes.” + +“And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this +Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This +Noirtier was his father!” + +Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened its +yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely +transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected +words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to +prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! his +father!” + +“Yes, his father,” replied the abbé; “his right name was Noirtier de +Villefort.” + +At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, and +cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that +had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the +letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the +magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce +punishment,—all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried +out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried +to the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, and said, “I +must be alone, to think over all this.” + +When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the +turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and +contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these +hours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he +had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by +a solemn oath. + +Dantès was at length roused from his reverie by the voice of Faria, +who, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his +fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his +mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the +abbé unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter +quality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a +small quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbé had come to +ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him. + +Dantès followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and now +wore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance +that bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria +bent on him his penetrating eye. + +“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, or +having given you the information I did.” + +“Why so?” inquired Dantès. + +“Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that of +vengeance.” + +Dantès smiled. “Let us talk of something else,” said he. + +Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in +accordance with Dantès’ request, he began to speak of other matters. +The elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like +that of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful and +important hints as well as sound information; but it was never +egotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows. +Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his +remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort +of knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of +the good abbé’s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him; +but, like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes, +opened new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave +fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the +delight an intellectual mind would have in following one so richly +gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where he was so much at +home. + +“You must teach me a small part of what you know,” said Dantès, “if +only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so +learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being +tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself. +If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention +another word about escaping.” + +The abbé smiled. + +“Alas, my boy,” said he, “human knowledge is confined within very +narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics, +history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am +acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely +require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I +possess.” + +“Two years!” exclaimed Dantès; “do you really believe I can acquire all +these things in so short a time?” + +“Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to +learn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory +makes the one, philosophy the other.” + +“But cannot one learn philosophy?” + +“Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to +truth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into +heaven.” + +“Well, then,” said Dantès, “What shall you teach me first? I am in a +hurry to begin. I want to learn.” + +“Everything,” said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners +sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day. +Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing +quickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his +mind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally +poetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality +of arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He +already knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic +dialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two +languages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so +that at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and +German. + +In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbé, Dantès spoke no +more of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left no +room for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged +his word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring +in any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed by +unheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a year +Dantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite of +the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed +incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall +into long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise, +and, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon. +One day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed: + +“Ah, if there were no sentinel!” + +“There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,” said Dantès, +who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though +his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest +operations. + +“I have already told you,” answered the abbé, “that I loathe the idea +of shedding blood.” + +“And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a +measure of self-preservation.” + +“No matter! I could never agree to it.” + +“Still, you have thought of it?” + +“Incessantly, alas!” cried the abbé. + +“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you +not?” asked Dantès eagerly. + +“I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in +the gallery beyond us.” + +“He shall be both blind and deaf,” replied the young man, with an air +of determination that made his companion shudder. + +“No, no,” cried the abbé; “impossible!” + +Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in +token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three +months passed away. + +“Are you strong?” the abbé asked one day of Dantès. The young man, in +reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and +then as readily straightened it. + +“And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last +resort?” + +“I promise on my honor.” + +“Then,” said the abbé, “we may hope to put our design into execution.” + +“And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?” + +“At least a year.” + +“And shall we begin at once?” + +“At once.” + +“We have lost a year to no purpose!” cried Dantès. + +“Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?” asked the +abbé. + +“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply. + +“Tut, tut!” answered the abbé, “man is but man after all, and you are +about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me +show you my plan.” + +The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. It +consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the +passage which united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level +as they do in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners +immediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once +there, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones +with which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the +desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who, +stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès +before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to +make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let +themselves down from the outer walls by means of the abbé’s ladder of +cords. + +Dantès’ eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at +the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed. +That very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity +proportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of +ultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work except +the necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in +anticipation of the turnkey’s visits. They had learned to distinguish +the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards +their dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his +coming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which +would have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees +and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria’s or +Dantès’ cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the +night wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to +remain. + +More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools +for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still +continuing to instruct Dantès by conversing with him, sometimes in one +language, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the history +of nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame and +trodden the path of glory. The abbé was a man of the world, and had, +moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of +melancholy dignity which Dantès, thanks to the imitative powers +bestowed on him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward +polish and politeness he had before been wanting in, and which is +seldom possessed except by those who have been placed in constant +intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding. + +At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation +completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly +hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over +their heads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently +dark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final +attempt till that auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread +now was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall +should give way before its right time, and this they had in some +measure provided against by propping it up with a small beam which they +had discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way. +Dantès was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard +Faria, who had remained in Edmond’s cell for the purpose of cutting a +peg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of +great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him +standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead +streaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together. + +“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what has +happened?” + +“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé, “listen to what I have to say.” + +Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria, +whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles, +while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair +seemed to stand on end. + +“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting his +chisel fall to the floor. + +“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “all is over with me. I am seized with a +terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast +approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my +imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you +what that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of +the feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out +for the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there +half-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no, +no!—I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have +the strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how +long the attack may last?” + +In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly +frustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, but +descended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with +him; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the +abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed. + +“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled +with ice. “I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it +comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though +dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms +may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful +convulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries +are not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be +removed to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever. +When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and +not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife, +pour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down +my throat, and I may perhaps revive.” + +“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones. + +“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——” + +0229m + + + +So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was +unable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole +frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one +side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself +about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès +prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The +fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder +and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled +under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became +as rigid as a corpse. + +Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then, +taking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed +jaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and +anxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave +no sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed too +long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his +hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At +length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned +to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the +sufferer made a feeble effort to move. + +“He is saved! he is saved!” cried Dantès in a paroxysm of delight. + +The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident +anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished +the approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven +o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his +head. + +The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully +drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had +scarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the +prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key +had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer +had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose +restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the +food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the +stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s +couch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay +helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed. + +“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly, to Dantès. + +“And why not?” asked the young man. “Did you fancy yourself dying?” + +“No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I +thought you might have made your escape.” + +The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès. + +“Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?” + +“At least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion would +have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this +attack.” + +“Be of good cheer,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And as +he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his +hands. The abbé shook his head. + +“The last attack I had,” said he, “lasted but half an hour, and after +it I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my +right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that +there has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will +either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.” + +“No, no,” cried Dantès; “you are mistaken—you will not die! And your +third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at +liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only +with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command +every requisite assistance.” + +“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack which +has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison. +None can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.” + +“Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—and +meanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our +flight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able +to swim we will go.” + +“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; not +for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken.” + +The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight, +perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him. + +“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “Depend +upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of +this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, +for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of +it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I +have twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated +Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.” + +0233m + + + +“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your +poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my +shoulders, and swim for both of us.” + +“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must +know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done +fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain +hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I +shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all +human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are +young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back +your promise.” + +“It is well,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising and +extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he +slowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while +you live.” + +Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled +young friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the +sincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose. + +“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “I accept. You may +one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But +as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to +fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by +chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention +of his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery +which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set +about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; +keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow +till after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the +greatest importance to communicate to you.” + +Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it. +Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his +task, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show +towards his aged friend. + + + + Chapter 18. The Treasure + +When Dantès returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in +captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of +light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in +his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the +use, a sheet of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small +compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He +did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantès. + +“What is that?” he inquired. + +“Look at it,” said the abbé with a smile. + +“I have looked at it with all possible attention,” said Dantès, “and I +only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters +inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink.” + +“This paper, my friend,” said Faria, “I may now avow to you, since I +have the proof of your fidelity—this paper is my treasure, of which, +from this day forth, one-half belongs to you.” + +The sweat started forth on Dantès’ brow. Until this day and for how +long a time!—he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had +brought upon the abbé the accusation of madness. With his instinctive +delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord, +and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old +man for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by Faria, +after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into +mental alienation. + +“Your treasure?” stammered Dantès. Faria smiled. + +“Yes,” said he. “You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by +your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this +moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantès, and +if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes—you. No one +would listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you, +who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards +if you will.” + +“Alas,” murmured Edmond to himself, “this is a terrible relapse! There +was only this blow wanting.” Then he said aloud, “My dear friend, your +attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile? +Tomorrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but today I wish to +nurse you carefully. Besides,” he said, “a treasure is not a thing we +need hurry about.” + +“On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond!” +replied the old man. “Who knows if tomorrow, or the next day after, the +third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes, +indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which +would make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to +those men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I +tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my +captivity. But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now +that I see you, young and with a promising future,—now that I think of +all that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I +shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as +worthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden +wealth.” + +Edmond turned away his head with a sigh. + +“You persist in your incredulity, Edmond,” continued Faria. “My words +have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this +paper, which I have never shown to anyone.” + +“Tomorrow, my dear friend,” said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to +the old man’s madness. “I thought it was understood that we should not +talk of that until tomorrow.” + +“Then we will not talk of it until tomorrow; but read this paper +today.” + +“I will not irritate him,” thought Edmond, and taking the paper, of +which half was wanting,—having been burnt, no doubt, by some +accident,—he read: + +“this treasure, which may amount to two... + +of Roman crowns in the most distant a... + +of the second opening wh... + +declare to belong to him alo... + +heir. + + “25th April, 149’” + + +“Well!” said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it. + +“Why,” replied Dantès, “I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected +words, which are rendered illegible by fire.” + +“Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for +me, who have grown pale over them by many nights’ study, and have +reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought.” + +“And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?” + +“I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen +to the history of this paper.” + +“Silence!” exclaimed Dantès. “Steps approach—I go—adieu!” + +And Dantès, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be +sure to confirm his belief in his friend’s mental instability, glided +like a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his +alarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with +his foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more effectually to +avoid discovery. + +It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria’s illness from the jailer, +had come in person to see him. + +Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he +might conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already half +stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched with +pity, might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus +separate him from his young companion. But fortunately this was not the +case, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for +whom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a +slight indisposition. + +During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands, +tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their first +acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so +wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so +much wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was Faria +deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria? + +Dantès remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his +friend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be convinced, +once for all, that the abbé was mad—such a conviction would be so +terrible! + +But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had +gone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move and get +over the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he heard +the painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his +leg was inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond was +obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been able to +enter by the small aperture which led to Dantès’ chamber. + +“Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,” he said with a benignant +smile. “You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen +to me.” + +Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he +seated himself on the stool beside him. + +“You know,” said the abbé, “that I was the secretary and intimate +friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe +to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich, +although the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I +heard the phrase very often, ‘As rich as a Spada.’ But he, like public +rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise. +I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the +world, I tried by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all +he had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The +cardinal’s house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble +patron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty +family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his +unavailing searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that +followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume +relating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth +chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines, +which I can never forget:— + +“‘The great wars of Romagna had ended; Cæsar Borgia, who had completed +his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had +also need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of +France, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and +it was necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable +scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished +condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined +to make two cardinals.’ + +“By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich +men—_this_ was the return the Holy Father looked for. In the first +place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which +the cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell +besides. There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter. + +“The pope and Cæsar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they +were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of +the Holy See, and Cæsar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the +Roman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope. +They were ambitious, and Cæsar Borgia soon found purchasers for their +appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being +cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals +held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns +entered into the coffers of the speculators. + +0239m + + + +“It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The +pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them +the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their +affairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Cæsar +Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of +dispute between the Holy Father and his son. Cæsar thought they could +make use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends, +that is to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to +certain persons with the request that they go and open a designated +cupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point,—a negligence +on the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the +opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person +was pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the +ring with the lion’s head, which Cæsar wore when he wanted to greet his +friends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored, +and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. + +“Cæsar proposed to his father, that they should either ask the +cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander +VI. replied: ‘Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, +let us ask both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get +that money back. Besides, you forget, Cæsar, an indigestion declares +itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day +or two.’ Cæsar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals +were consequently invited to dinner. + +“The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San +Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by +report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a +good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man, +and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest +promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to +his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the +servant did not find him. + +“Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so +eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a +centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, ‘Cæsar wills that +you die.’ but it was a legate _à latere_, who came with a smile on his +lips to say from the pope, ‘His holiness requests you to dine with +him.’ + +“Spada set out about two o’clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited +him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of his +nephew, in full costume, and Cæsar Borgia paying him most marked +attentions. Spada turned pale, as Cæsar looked at him with an ironical +air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was +well spread. + +“They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his nephew if +he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly +comprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had +already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by +the pope’s butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach +him, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician +declared they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died +on the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door, +making signs which his wife could not comprehend. + +“Then Cæsar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under +pretense of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance +consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written:—‘I +bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst +others, my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve +in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.’ + +“The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the +furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was +really the most miserable of uncles—no treasures—unless they were those +of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all. +Cæsar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found +nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns +in plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to +say to his wife before he expired: ‘Look well among my uncle’s papers; +there is a will.’ + +“They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but +it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard behind the +Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value, +and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they +were beneath the rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years +rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned,—you know by what mistake. +Cæsar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a +snake; but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a +tiger’s. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself +obscurely killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. + +“After the pope’s death and his son’s exile, it was supposed that the +Spada family would resume the splendid position they had held before +the cardinal’s time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in +doubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public +rumor was, that Cæsar, a better politician than his father, had carried +off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two, +because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any precaution, was +completely despoiled. + +“Up to this point,” said Faria, interrupting the thread of his +narrative, “this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?” + +“Oh, my friend,” cried Dantès, “on the contrary, it seems as if I were +reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you.” + +“I will. The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years +rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others +diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some +were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I +was—the Count of Spada. I had often heard him complain of the +disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest +all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The +celebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in the count’s +possession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the +singular clause of the only will that had been found, had caused it to +be regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family with +superstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful +Gothic characters, and so weighty with gold, that a servant always +carried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity. + +“At the sight of papers of all sorts,—titles, contracts, parchments, +which were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from the +poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of +documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but +in spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found—nothing. Yet I had +read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for +the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had +occurred to them on the death of the Cardinal Cæsar Spada; but could +only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi, +his companion in misfortune. + +“I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited +the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the +treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth +under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated +a thousand and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the +family for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my +ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty. + +“My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers, +his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous +breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns, +which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have anniversary +masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a +genealogical tree and history of his house. All this I did +scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion. + +“In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the +death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see +presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for +the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was +sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at +Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed, +my library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor +at the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head +dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o’clock in the +afternoon. + +0243m + + + +“I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in +utter darkness. I rang for a light, but, as no one came, I determined +to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple +manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took +a wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece +of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a +light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing, +however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a +moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which +was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and +which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request +of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and +putting it into the expiring flame, set light to it. + +“But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire +ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it +in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper +in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible +emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had +been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when +exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by +the flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read it again, +Dantès, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and +unconnected sense.” + +Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantès, who this +time read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish color +resembling rust: + + “This 25th day of April, 1498, be... + + Alexander VI., and fearing that not... + + he may desire to become my heir, and re... + + and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,... + + my sole heir, that I have bu... + + and has visited with me, that is, in... + + Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss... + + jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone... + + may amount to nearly two mil... + + will find on raising the twentieth ro... + + creek to the east in a right line. Two open... + + in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a... + + which treasure I bequeath and leave en... + + as my sole heir. + + “25th April, 1498. + + “Cæs... + + +“And now,” said the abbé, “read this other paper;” and he presented to +Dantès a second leaf with fragments of lines written on it, which +Edmond read as follows: + + “...ing invited to dine by his Holiness + + ...content with making me pay for my hat, + + ...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara + + ...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada + + ...ried in a place he knows + + ...the caves of the small + + ...essed of ingots, gold, money, + + ...know of the existence of this treasure, which + + ...lions of Roman crowns, and which he + + ...ck from the small + + ...ings have been made + + ...ngle in the second; + + ...tire to him + + ...ar † Spada.” + + +Faria followed him with an excited look. + +“And now,” he said, when he saw that Dantès had read the last line, +“put the two fragments together, and judge for yourself.” Dantès +obeyed, and the conjointed pieces gave the following: + +0245m + + + +“This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness +Alexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my +hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate +of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...I declare to +my nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place +he knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small +Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...essed of ingots, gold, money, +jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this +treasure, which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns, +and which he will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small +creek to the east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in +these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second; +which treasure I bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir. +“25th April, 1498. “Cæs...ar † Spada.” + +“Well, do you comprehend now?” inquired Faria. + +“It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought +for,” replied Edmond, still incredulous. + +“Yes; a thousand times, yes!” + +“And who completed it as it now is?” + +“I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring +the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden +meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a +cavern by the small ray of light above us.” + +“And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?” + +“I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying +with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian +kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period, +quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to +him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my +hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having +aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was +leaving Piombino. + +“Now,” continued Faria, addressing Dantès with an almost paternal +expression, “now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If +we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here, +and you escape alone, the whole belongs to you.” + +“But,” inquired Dantès hesitating, “has this treasure no more +legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?” + +“No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count +of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic +breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind +satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy +it without remorse.” + +“And you say this treasure amounts to——” + +“Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our money.”2 + +“Impossible!” said Dantès, staggered at the enormous amount. + +“Impossible? and why?” asked the old man. “The Spada family was one of +the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in +those times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such +accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at +this day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly +a million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they +cannot touch.” + +Edmond thought he was in a dream—he wavered between incredulity and +joy. + +“I have only kept this secret so long from you,” continued Faria, “that +I might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped +before my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte +Cristo; now,” he added, with a sigh, “it is you who will conduct me +thither. Well, Dantès, you do not thank me?” + +“This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend,” replied Dantès, “and to +you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours.” + +“You are my son, Dantès,” exclaimed the old man. “You are the child of +my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you +to me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a +father, and the prisoner who could not get free.” + +And Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained to him to +the young man, who threw himself upon his neck and wept. + + + + Chapter 19. The Third Attack + +Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’s +meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really +loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he +expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantès all the good which, with +thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days +to his friends; and then Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the +oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected +how much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions +could do to his enemies. + +The abbé did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantès knew it, +and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa, +between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there. +This island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It +is a rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been +thrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean. +Dantès drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès +advice as to the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But +Dantès was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man. +It was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in +which he had achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the +suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond’s admiration of him; but at +the same time Dantès could not believe that the deposit, supposing it +had ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure +as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there. + +However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last +chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to +perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on +the sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had +repaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the +hole Dantès had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it +will be remembered, the abbé had made to Edmond, the misfortune would +have been still greater, for their attempt to escape would have been +detected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a +stronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the +realization of their hopes. + +“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to +Faria, “that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for +what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever +with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure +will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this +prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits +me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our +living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is +the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages +you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with +all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you +have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of +them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced +them—this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have +made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better +for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as +problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the +sea, which we take for _terra firma_, and which evaporate and vanish as +we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear +your eloquent speech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, +and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I +should ever be free,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to +which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no +longer any hold over me; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical, +but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the +sovereigns of the earth, even Cæsar Borgia himself, could not deprive +me of this.” + +Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed +together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence +as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied +would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left +leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was +continually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion, +and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might +be some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantès to learn it by heart; +and Dantès knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed +the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would +be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed +while Faria was giving instructions to Dantès,—instructions which were +to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and +hour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought, +which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone +under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to +endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed +spot,—the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in +the second opening. + +In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably. +Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand +and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had +gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his +youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who +learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually +employed,—Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantès, for +fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his +memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for +them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose +activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of +Providence. + +But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young +man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many +stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when +Edmond returned to his cell. + +One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone +calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or +rather a plaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached +him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. +Undoubtedly the call came from Faria’s dungeon. + +“Alas,” murmured Edmond; “can it be?” + +He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and +reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the +light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken, +Dantès saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. +His features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he +already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them +for the first time. + +“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you understand, +do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?” + +Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed +towards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!” + +Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him. + +“Silence,” he said, “or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my +dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your +flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done +here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew +we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear +Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty; +some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you +will appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young, +strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape, +while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead +body tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence +has done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, +and it was time I should die.” + +Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my friend, my +friend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all his presence of mind, +which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength, +which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have +saved you once, and I will save you a second time!” And raising the +foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the +red liquor. + +“See,” he exclaimed, “there remains still some of the magic draught. +Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh +instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.” + +“There is not a hope,” replied Faria, shaking his head, “but no matter; +God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so +profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to +preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet +always so dear.” + +“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès; “and I tell you that I will save you +yet.” + +“Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing +towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter +and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in +five minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an +hour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Dantès, his heart wrung with anguish. + +“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of +life are now exhausted in me, and death,” he continued, looking at his +paralyzed arm and leg, “has but half its work to do. If, after having +made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not +recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for +I can no longer support myself.” + +Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed. + +“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my wretched +existence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a +priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment of +separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the +prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!” + +The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the +old man’s bed. + +“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of +the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by +time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes +pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight +of so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom +all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo—avail +yourself of the fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough.” + +A violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dantès raised his head and +saw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood +had ascended from the chest to the head. + +“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s hand +convulsively—“adieu!” + +“Oh, no,—no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh, succor him! +Help—help—help!” + +“Hush! hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not separate us if +you save me!” + +“You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides, +although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you +were before.” + +“Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to +endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth +to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tis +here—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand, +Dantès! Adieu! adieu!” + +And raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his +faculties, he said,—“Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he +fell back on the bed. + +The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen +eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture, +in place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there. + +Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed, +whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the +distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze +he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative. + +When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife, +pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before, +counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial +contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a +quarter of an hour, half an hour,—no change took place. Trembling, his +hair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds +by the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the +last trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and +without having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained +extended, he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat. + +0255m + + + +The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded +the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon +them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed +body returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining +open. + +Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this +period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied to +his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart’s +pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it +stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid, +the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed. + +It was six o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its +feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of +the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man, +and at times gave it the appearance of life. While the struggle between +day and night lasted, Dantès still doubted; but as soon as the daylight +gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then +an invincible and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not +again press the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze +on those fixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but +in vain—they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp, +carefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could +the entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended. + +It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began his +rounds at Dantès’ cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria’s +dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened +that the man knew anything of what had occurred. He went on his way. + +Dantès was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was +going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore +returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the +exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys +came, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all +came the governor. + +Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard +the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead +man’s face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner +did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out, +and words of pity fell on Dantès’ listening ears, mingled with brutal +laughter. + +“Well, well,” said one, “the madman has gone to look after his +treasure. Good journey to him!” + +“With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!” +said another. + +“Oh,” added a third voice, “the shrouds of the Château d’If are not +dear!” + +0257m + + + +“Perhaps,” said one of the previous speakers, “as he was a churchman, +they may go to some expense in his behalf.” + +“They may give him the honors of the sack.” + +Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was +said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if everyone had +left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left +some turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and +motionless, hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he +heard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned, +followed by the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment’s +silence,—it was evident that the doctor was examining the dead body. +The inquiries soon commenced. + +The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner +had succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions and answers +followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantès indignant, for he felt +that all the world should have for the poor abbé a love and respect +equal to his own. + +“I am very sorry for what you tell me,” said the governor, replying to +the assurance of the doctor, “that the old man is really dead; for he +was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no +watching.” + +“Ah,” added the turnkey, “there was no occasion for watching him; he +would have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for it, without any +attempt to escape.” + +“Still,” said the governor, “I believe it will be requisite, +notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but +in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured +that the prisoner is dead.” + +There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantès, still +listening, knew that the doctor was examining the corpse a second time. + +“You may make your mind easy,” said the doctor; “he is dead. I will +answer for that.” + +“You know, sir,” said the governor, persisting, “that we are not +content in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite +of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by +fulfilling the formalities described by law.” + +“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it is a useless +precaution.” + +This order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder. He heard hasty steps, +the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some minutes +afterwards a turnkey entered, saying: + +“Here is the brazier, lighted.” + +There was a moment’s silence, and then was heard the crackling of +burning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even +behind the wall where Dantès was listening in horror. The perspiration +poured forth upon the young man’s brow, and he felt as if he should +faint. + +“You see, sir, he is really dead,” said the doctor; “this burn in the +heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered +from his captivity.” + +“Wasn’t his name Faria?” inquired one of the officers who accompanied +the governor. + +0259m + + + +“Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very +learned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his +treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable.” + +“It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,” said the doctor. + +“You had never anything to complain of?” said the governor to the +jailer who had charge of the abbé. + +“Never, sir,” replied the jailer, “never; on the contrary, he sometimes +amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife +was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her.” + +“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, “I did not know that I had a rival; but I +hope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect in +consequence.” + +“Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the +newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?” + +“Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?” inquired a +turnkey. + +“Certainly. But make haste—I cannot stay here all day.” Other +footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards +the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantès’ ears, the bed creaked, and +the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor; +then the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it. + +“This evening,” said the governor. + +“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants. + +“That is impossible,” replied the governor. “The chaplain of the +château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to +take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the +prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a +hurry, he might have had his requiem.” + +“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his +profession; “he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and +not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.” A shout +of laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of +putting the body in the sack was going on. + +“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended. + +“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey. + +“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.” + +“Shall we watch by the corpse?” + +“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that is +all.” + +Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; the +noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a +silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued,—the silence of death, +which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul of +Dantès. + +Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked +carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from the +tunnel. + + + + Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If + +On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale light +that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under its rude +folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria’s last +winding-sheet,—a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey said, cost so +little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had been placed between +Dantès and his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those +wide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the mysteries of +death; no longer could he clasp the hand which had done so much to make +his existence blessed. Faria, the beneficent and cheerful companion, +with whom he was accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed. +He seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell into +melancholy and gloomy reverie. + +Alone! he was alone again! again condemned to silence—again face to +face with nothingness! Alone!—never again to see the face, never again +to hear the voice of the only human being who united him to earth! Was +not Faria’s fate the better, after all—to solve the problem of life at +its source, even at the risk of horrible suffering? + +The idea of suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by +his cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the abbé’s dead +body. + +“If I could die,” he said, “I should go where he goes, and should +assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,” he went on +with a smile; “I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens +the door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me.” + +But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is +tossed from the depths to the top of the wave. Dantès recoiled from the +idea of so infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an +ardent desire for life and liberty. + +“Die? oh, no,” he exclaimed—“not die now, after having lived and +suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now +to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I +want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back +the happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not +forget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who +knows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I +shall die in my dungeon like Faria.” + +As he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before him like +one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought. Suddenly he arose, +lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain were giddy, paced twice or +thrice round the dungeon, and then paused abruptly by the bed. + +“Just God!” he muttered, “whence comes this thought? Is it from thee? +Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the +place of the dead!” + +Without giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and, indeed, +that he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his +desperate resolution, he bent over the appalling shroud, opened it with +the knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore +it along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied +around its head the rag he wore at night around his own, covered it +with his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried +vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the +head towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the +evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent custom; +entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to +the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle and thread, flung +off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh beneath the coarse +canvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself in the posture in +which the dead body had been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack +from the inside. + +He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any +mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantès might have +waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the +governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed +earlier. In that case his last hope would have been destroyed. + +Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If +while he was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that +they were bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dantès did not intend +to give them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife, +he meant to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their +alarm, escape; if they tried to catch him, he would use his knife to +better purpose. + +0263m + + + +If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would +allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was night, the +grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would +have worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped +that the weight of earth would not be so great that he could not +overcome it. If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy, +he would be stifled, and then—so much the better, all would be over. + +Dantès had not eaten since the preceding evening, but he had not +thought of hunger, nor did he think of it now. His situation was too +precarious to allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one. + +The first risk that Dantès ran was, that the jailer, when he brought +him his supper at seven o’clock, might perceive the change that had +been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or +fatigue, Dantès had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed +his bread and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word. +This time the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to +Dantès, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus +discover all. + +When seven o’clock came, Dantès’ agony really began. His hand placed +upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while, with the +other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time +chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of +ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on +without any unusual disturbance, and Dantès knew that he had escaped +the first peril. It was a good augury. + +At length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were +heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, summoned +up all his courage, held his breath, and would have been happy if at +the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of his veins. The +footsteps—they were double—paused at the door—and Dantès guessed that +the two grave-diggers had come to seek him—this idea was soon converted +into certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the +hand-bier. + +The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantès’ eyes through the +coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a +third remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men, +approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities. + +“He’s heavy, though, for an old and thin man,” said one, as he raised +the head. + +“They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones,” +said another, lifting the feet. + +“Have you tied the knot?” inquired the first speaker. + +“What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?” was the reply, +“I can do that when we get there.” + +“Yes, you’re right,” replied the companion. + +“What’s the knot for?” thought Dantès. + +They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened +himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party, +lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs. +Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantès knew that +the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain +were strangely mingled. + +The bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier +down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his shoes +striking on the pavement. + +“Where am I?” he asked himself. + +“Really, he is by no means a light load!” said the other bearer, +sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow. + +Dantès’ first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt +it. + +“Give us a light,” said the other bearer, “or I shall never find what I +am looking for.” + +The man with the torch complied, although not asked in the most polite +terms. + +“What can he be looking for?” thought Edmond. “The spade, perhaps.” + +An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the grave-digger had +found the object of his search. “Here it is at last,” he said, “not +without some trouble, though.” + +“Yes,” was the answer, “but it has lost nothing by waiting.” + +As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy +metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a cord +was fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence. + +“Well, have you tied the knot?” inquired the grave-digger, who was +looking on. + +“Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you,” was the answer. + +“Move on, then.” And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded. + +They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door, +then went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing against the +rocks on which the château is built, reached Dantès’ ear distinctly as +they went forward. + +“Bad weather!” observed one of the bearers; “not a pleasant night for a +dip in the sea.” + +“Why, yes, the abbé runs a chance of being wet,” said the other; and +then there was a burst of brutal laughter. + +Dantès did not comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his +head. + +“Well, here we are at last,” said one of them. + +“A little farther—a little farther,” said the other. “You know very +well that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the +governor told us next day that we were careless fellows.” + +They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantès felt that they +took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and swung him to +and fro. + +“One!” said the grave-diggers, “two! three!” + +And at the same instant Dantès felt himself flung into the air like a +wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood +curdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his +rapid descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century. At +last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the ice-cold +water, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry, stifled in a moment by +his immersion beneath the waves. + +Dantès had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by +a thirty-six-pound shot tied to his feet. + +The sea is the cemetery of the Château d’If. + +0267m + + + + + Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen + +Dantès, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence +of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was +for every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack, +extricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts +to free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still +lower. He then bent his body, and by a desperate effort severed the +cord that bound his legs, at the moment when it seemed as if he were +actually strangled. With a mighty leap he rose to the surface of the +sea, while the shot dragged down to the depths the sack that had so +nearly become his shroud. + +Dantès waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to avoid +being seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces from where +he had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and tempestuous sky, across +which the wind was driving clouds that occasionally suffered a +twinkling star to appear; before him was the vast expanse of waters, +sombre and terrible, whose waves foamed and roared as if before the +approach of a storm. Behind him, blacker than the sea, blacker than the +sky, rose phantom-like the vast stone structure, whose projecting crags +seemed like arms extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock +was a torch lighting two figures. + +He fancied that these two forms were looking at the sea; doubtless +these strange grave-diggers had heard his cry. Dantès dived again, and +remained a long time beneath the water. This was an easy feat to him, +for he usually attracted a crowd of spectators in the bay before the +lighthouse at Marseilles when he swam there, and was unanimously +declared to be the best swimmer in the port. When he came up again the +light had disappeared. + +He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pomègue are the nearest +islands of all those that surround the Château d’If, but Ratonneau and +Pomègue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume. Tiboulen and +Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantès’ venture. The islands of +Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Château d’If; Dantès, +nevertheless, determined to make for them. But how could he find his +way in the darkness of the night? + +At this moment he saw the light of Planier, gleaming in front of him +like a star. By leaving this light on the right, he kept the Island of +Tiboulen a little on the left; by turning to the left, therefore, he +would find it. But, as we have said, it was at least a league from the +Château d’If to this island. Often in prison Faria had said to him, +when he saw him idle and inactive: + +“Dantès, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be +drowned if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly +exercised and prepared for exertion.” + +These words rang in Dantès’ ears, even beneath the waves; he hastened +to cleave his way through them to see if he had not lost his strength. +He found with pleasure that his captivity had taken away nothing of his +power, and that he was still master of that element on whose bosom he +had so often sported as a boy. + +Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantès’ efforts. He listened for +any sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top +of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness. +He fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he +redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the +château, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the +terrible château had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it, +but he _felt_ its presence. + +An hour passed, during which Dantès, excited by the feeling of freedom, +continued to cleave the waves. + +“Let us see,” said he, “I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is +against me, that has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken, +I must be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?” + +A shudder passed over him. He sought to tread water, in order to rest +himself; but the sea was too violent, and he felt that he could not +make use of this means of recuperation. + +“Well,” said he, “I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp +seizes me, and then I shall sink;” and he struck out with the energy of +despair. + +Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense, +and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he +felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been +shot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put +out his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew +that he had gained the shore. + +Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing so +much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent +combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantès rose, advanced a few +steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on +the granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of +the wind and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter +exhaustion. At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened by the +roar of thunder. The tempest was let loose and beating the atmosphere +with its mighty wings; from time to time a flash of lightning stretched +across the heavens like a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that +rolled on in vast chaotic waves. + +Dantès had not been deceived—he had reached the first of the two +islands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was barren and +without shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he resolved to +plunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but +larger, and consequently better adapted for concealment. + +An overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and scarcely had +he availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth in all its fury. +Edmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath which he lay; the waves, +dashing themselves against it, wetted him with their spray. He was +safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of the warring of +the elements and the dazzling brightness of the lightning. It seemed to +him that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a +vessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of +the storm. + +He then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for four-and-twenty +hours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the rainwater that +had lodged in a hollow of the rock. + +As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the remotest +heights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light, between the +Island of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant, +Dantès saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a spectre before the +power of winds and waves. A second after, he saw it again, approaching +with frightful rapidity. Dantès cried at the top of his voice to warn +them of their danger, but they saw it themselves. Another flash showed +him four men clinging to the shattered mast and the rigging, while a +fifth clung to the broken rudder. The men he beheld saw him +undoubtedly, for their cries were carried to his ears by the wind. +Above the splintered mast a sail rent to tatters was waving; suddenly +the ropes that still held it gave way, and it disappeared in the +darkness of the night like a vast sea-bird. + +At the same moment a violent crash was heard, and cries of distress. +Dantès from his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the +fragments the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then all was dark +again. + +Dantès ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to +pieces; he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing—the +cries had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By degrees the +wind abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west, and the blue +firmament appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a red streak became +visible in the horizon, the waves whitened, a light played over them, +and gilded their foaming crests with gold. It was day. + +Dantès stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle, as if +he now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his captivity in +the Château d’If he had forgotten that such scenes were ever to be +witnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and looked at both sea and +land. The gloomy building rose from the bosom of the ocean with +imposing majesty and seemed to dominate the scene. It was about five +o’clock. The sea continued to get calmer. + +“In two or three hours,” thought Dantès, “the turnkey will enter my +chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in +vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men +who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered, +will be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue +the wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn everyone to refuse shelter +to a man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles +will be on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I +am cold, I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. Oh, my +God, I have suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what +I am unable to do for myself.” + +As Dantès (his eyes turned in the direction of the Château d’If) +uttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of +Pomègue a small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a gull in +search of prey; and with his sailor’s eye he knew it to be a Genoese +tartan. She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was standing out +to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the waves. + +“Oh,” cried Edmond, “to think that in half an hour I could join her, +did I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed back to +Marseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under pretext of +trading along the coast, these men, who are in reality smugglers, will +prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must wait. But I cannot—I +am starving. In a few hours my strength will be utterly exhausted; +besides, perhaps I have not been missed at the fortress. I can pass as +one of the sailors wrecked last night. My story will be accepted, for +there is no one left to contradict me.” + +As he spoke, Dantès looked toward the spot where the fishing-vessel had +been wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of the sailors hung to a +point of the rock and some timbers that had formed part of the vessel’s +keel, floated at the foot of the crag. In an instant Dantès��� plan was +formed. He swam to the cap, placed it on his head, seized one of the +timbers, and struck out so as to cut across the course the vessel was +taking. + +“I am saved!” murmured he. And this conviction restored his strength. + +He soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was tacking +between the Château d’If and the tower of Planier. For an instant he +feared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should stand out to sea; +but he soon saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy, +between the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne. + +However, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and +in one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of +him. He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on +board saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack. Dantès would have +shouted, but he knew that the wind would drown his voice. + +It was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber, for +without it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the +vessel—certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in +attracting attention. + +Dantès, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had +yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then he +advanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her +course. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his +cap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailors. This time he was +both seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At +the same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat. + +An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards +him. Dantès let go of the timber, which he now thought to be useless, +and swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned too much upon his +strength, and then he realized how serviceable the timber had been to +him. His arms became stiff, his legs lost their flexibility, and he was +almost breathless. + +He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of +them cried in Italian, “Courage!” + +The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength +to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface, +struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a +third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were +again tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky +turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He +felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had +fainted. + +When he opened his eyes Dantès found himself on the deck of the tartan. +His first care was to see what course they were taking. They were +rapidly leaving the Château d’If behind. Dantès was so exhausted that +the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh. + +As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his +limbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who +had cried out “Courage!” held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while +the third, an old sailor, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with +that egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped +yesterday, and which may overtake them tomorrow. + +A few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the friction +of his limbs restored their elasticity. + +“Who are you?” said the pilot in bad French. + +“I am,” replied Dantès, in bad Italian, “a Maltese sailor. We were +coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook +us at Cape Morgiou, and we were wrecked on these rocks.” + +“Where do you come from?” + +“From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our +captain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and +fearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a +piece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my +life, and I thank you,” continued Dantès. “I was lost when one of your +sailors caught hold of my hair.” + +“It was I,” said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; “and it was +time, for you were sinking.” + +“Yes,” returned Dantès, holding out his hand, “I thank you again.” + +“I almost hesitated, though,” replied the sailor; “you looked more like +a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair +a foot long.” + +Dantès recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the +time he was at the Château d’If. + +“Yes,” said he, “I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my +hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but +today the vow expires.” + +“Now what are we to do with you?” said the captain. + +“Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped; +but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be +sure to find employment.” + +“Do you know the Mediterranean?” + +“I have sailed over it since my childhood.” + +“You know the best harbors?” + +“There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage +over my eyes.” + +“I say, captain,” said the sailor who had cried “Courage!” to Dantès, +“if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us?” + +“If he says true,” said the captain doubtingly. “But in his present +condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it +afterwards.” + +“I will do more than I promise,” said Dantès. + +“We shall see,” returned the other, smiling. + +“Where are you going?” asked Dantès. + +“To Leghorn.” + +“Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the +wind?” + +“Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion.” + +“You shall pass it by twenty fathoms.” + +“Take the helm, and let us see what you know.” + +The young man took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the +rudder promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailor, she +yet was tolerably obedient. + +“To the sheets,” said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew, +obeyed, while the pilot looked on. “Haul taut.” + +They obeyed. + +“Belay.” This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dantès +had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward. + +“Bravo!” said the captain. + +“Bravo!” repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at +this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor +they had not thought him capable of showing. + +“You see,” said Dantès, quitting the helm, “I shall be of some use to +you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you +can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get, +for my food and the clothes you lend me.” + +“Ah,” said the captain, “we can agree very well, if you are +reasonable.” + +“Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,” returned +Dantès. + +“That’s not fair,” said the seaman who had saved Dantès; “for you know +more than we do.” + +“What is that to you, Jacopo?” returned the Captain. “Everyone is free +to ask what he pleases.” + +“That’s true,” replied Jacopo; “I only make a remark.” + +“Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of +trousers, if you have them.” + +“No,” said Jacopo; “but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers.” + +“That is all I want,” interrupted Dantès. Jacopo dived into the hold +and soon returned with what Edmond wanted. + +“Now, then, do you wish for anything else?” said the patron. + +“A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for I +have not eaten or drunk for a long time.” He had not tasted food for +forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the +gourd. + +“Larboard your helm,” cried the captain to the steersman. Dantès +glanced that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with +hand in mid-air. + +“Hollo! what’s the matter at the Château d’If?” said the captain. + +A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantès’ attention, crowned the +summit of the bastion of the Château d’If. At the same moment the faint +report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another. + +“What is this?” asked the captain. + +“A prisoner has escaped from the Château d’If, and they are firing the +alarm gun,” replied Dantès. The captain glanced at him, but he had +lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure, +that suspicions, if the captain had any, died away. + +0277m + + + +“Pretty strong rum!” said Dantès, wiping his brow with his sleeve. + +“At any rate,” murmured he, “if it be, so much the better, for I have +made a rare acquisition.” + +0279m + + + +Under pretence of being fatigued, Dantès asked to take the helm; the +steersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the captain, and the latter +by a sign indicated that he might abandon it to his new comrade. Dantès +could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles. + +“What is the day of the month?” asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside +him. + +“The 28th of February.” + +“In what year?” + +“In what year—you ask me in what year?” + +“Yes,” replied the young man, “I ask you in what year!” + +“You have forgotten then?” + +“I got such a fright last night,” replied Dantès, smiling, “that I have +almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?” + +“The year 1829,” returned Jacopo. + +It was fourteen years, day for day, since Dantès’ arrest. He was +nineteen when he entered the Château d’If; he was thirty-three when he +escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what +had become of Mercédès, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes +lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused +him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars, +Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in +his dungeon. + +This oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailor in the +Mediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan, +that with every stitch of canvas set was flying before the wind to +Leghorn. + + + + Chapter 22. The Smugglers + +Dantès had not been a day on board before he had a very clear idea of +the men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having been in the +school of the Abbé Faria, the worthy master of _La Jeune Amélie_ (the +name of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of all the tongues spoken +on the shores of that large lake called the Mediterranean, from the +Arabic to the Provençal, and this, while it spared him interpreters, +persons always troublesome and frequently indiscreet, gave him great +facilities of communication, either with the vessels he met at sea, +with the small boats sailing along the coast, or with the people +without name, country, or occupation, who are always seen on the quays +of seaports, and who live by hidden and mysterious means which we must +suppose to be a direct gift of Providence, as they have no visible +means of support. It is fair to assume that Dantès was on board a +smuggler. + +At first the captain had received Dantès on board with a certain degree +of distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers of the +coast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a perpetual +battle of wits, he had at first thought that Dantès might be an +emissary of these industrious guardians of rights and duties, who +perhaps employed this ingenious means of learning some of the secrets +of his trade. But the skilful manner in which Dantès had handled the +lugger had entirely reassured him; and then, when he saw the light +plume of smoke floating above the bastion of the Château d’If, and +heard the distant report, he was instantly struck with the idea that he +had on board his vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings, +was accompanied with salutes of artillery. This made him less uneasy, +it must be owned, than if the new-comer had proved to be a customs +officer; but this supposition also disappeared like the first, when he +beheld the perfect tranquillity of his recruit. + +Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was, without +the owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor and his crew +tried to “pump” him, they extracted nothing more from him; he gave +accurate descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he knew as well as +Marseilles, and held stoutly to his first story. Thus the Genoese, +subtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose favor his mild +demeanor, his nautical skill, and his admirable dissimulation, pleaded. +Moreover, it is possible that the Genoese was one of those shrewd +persons who know nothing but what they should know, and believe nothing +but what they should believe. + +In this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn. Here +Edmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out whether he +could recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face for fourteen +years. He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance of what the youth +had been, and was now to find out what the man had become. His comrades +believed that his vow was fulfilled. As he had twenty times touched at +Leghorn, he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went there +to have his beard and hair cut. The barber gazed in amazement at this +man with the long, thick and black hair and beard, which gave his head +the appearance of one of Titian’s portraits. At this period it was not +the fashion to wear so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber +would only be surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should +consent voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said +nothing and went to work. + +When the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin was +completely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he asked +for a looking-glass. He was now, as we have said, three-and-thirty +years of age, and his fourteen years’ imprisonment had produced a great +transformation in his appearance. + +Dantès had entered the Château d’If with the round, open, smiling face +of a young and happy man, with whom the early paths of life have been +smooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past. This +was now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling mouth +had assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken resolution; his +eyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with thought; his eyes +were full of melancholy, and from their depths occasionally sparkled +gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, so long kept +from the sun, had now that pale color which produces, when the features +are encircled with black hair, the aristocratic beauty of the man of +the north; the profound learning he had acquired had besides diffused +over his features a refined intellectual expression; and he had also +acquired, being naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame +possesses which has so long concentrated all its force within itself. + +0283m + + + +To the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the solidity +of a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice, prayers, sobs, and +imprecations had changed it so that at times it was of a singularly +penetrating sweetness, and at others rough and almost hoarse. + +Moreover, from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had +acquired the faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to +the hyena and the wolf. Edmond smiled when he beheld himself; it was +impossible that his best friend—if, indeed, he had any friend +left—could recognize him; he could not recognize himself. + +The master of _La Jeune Amélie_, who was very desirous of retaining +amongst his crew a man of Edmond’s value, had offered to advance him +funds out of his future profits, which Edmond had accepted. His next +care on leaving the barber’s who had achieved his first metamorphosis +was to enter a shop and buy a complete sailor’s suit—a garb, as we all +know, very simple, and consisting of white trousers, a striped shirt, +and a cap. + +It was in this costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt and +trousers he had lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of +the lugger, who had made him tell his story over and over again before +he could believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor the man +with thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body +soaking in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned. +Attracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of an +engagement to Dantès; but Dantès, who had his own projects, would not +agree for a longer time than three months. + +_La Jeune Amélie_ had a very active crew, very obedient to their +captain, who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been a +week at Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with printed +muslins, contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on which the +excise had forgotten to put its mark. The master was to get all this +out of Leghorn free of duties, and land it on the shores of Corsica, +where certain speculators undertook to forward the cargo to France. + +They sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the azure sea which had been the +first horizon of his youth, and which he had so often dreamed of in +prison. He left Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on his left, and +went towards the country of Paoli and Napoleon. + +The next morning going on deck, as he always did at an early hour, the +patron found Dantès leaning against the bulwarks gazing with intense +earnestness at a pile of granite rocks, which the rising sun tinged +with rosy light. It was the Island of Monte Cristo. + +_La Jeune Amélie_ left it three-quarters of a league to the larboard +and kept on for Corsica. Dantès thought, as they passed so closely to +the island whose name was so interesting to him, that he had only to +leap into the sea and in half an hour be at the promised land. But then +what could he do without instruments to discover his treasure, without +arms to defend himself? Besides, what would the sailors say? What would +the patron think? He must wait. + +Fortunately, Dantès had learned how to wait; he had waited fourteen +years for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait at least six +months or a year for wealth. Would he not have accepted liberty without +riches if it had been offered to him? Besides, were not those riches +chimerical?—offspring of the brain of the poor Abbé Faria, had they not +died with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada was +singularly circumstantial, and Dantès repeated it to himself, from one +end to the other, for he had not forgotten a word. + +0285m + + + +Evening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades of +twilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but his own, +for he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to +behold it last of all, for he remained alone upon deck. The next morn +broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening +saw fires lighted on land; the position of these was no doubt a signal +for landing, for a ship’s lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead +of the streamer, and they came to within a gunshot of the shore. Dantès +noticed that the captain of _La Jeune Amélie_ had, as he neared the +land, mounted two small culverins, which, without making much noise, +can throw a four ounce ball a thousand paces or so. + +But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything +proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came +off with very little noise alongside the lugger, which, no doubt, in +acknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the +sea, and the five boats worked so well that by two o’clock in the +morning all the cargo was out of _La Jeune Amélie_ and on _terra +firma_. The same night, such a man of regularity was the patron of _La +Jeune Amélie_, the profits were divided, and each man had a hundred +Tuscan livres, or about eighty francs. + +But the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit towards +Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to replace +what had been discharged. The second operation was as successful as the +first, _La Jeune Amélie_ was in luck. This new cargo was destined for +the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of +Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines. + +There they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties; the +excise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of _La Jeune +Amélie_. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors wounded; +Dantès was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left +shoulder. Dantès was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at +being wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what +eye he could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear +suffering. He had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded +had exclaimed with the great philosopher, “Pain, thou art not an evil.” + +He had, moreover, looked upon the customs officer wounded to death, +and, whether from heat of blood produced by the encounter, or the chill +of human sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him. +Dantès was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the +end he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in +his bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and +rushing towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all +the kindness of a devoted comrade. + +This world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither +was it so wicked as Dantès thought it, since this man, who had nothing +to expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his share of the +prize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him fall. +Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and with certain +herbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the smugglers by the old +Sardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond then resolved to try +Jacopo, and offered him in return for his attention a share of his +prize-money, but Jacopo refused it indignantly. + +As a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from the first +bestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain degree of +affection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively felt that +Edmond had a right to superiority of position—a superiority which +Edmond had concealed from all others. And from this time the kindness +which Edmond showed him was enough for the brave seaman. + +Then in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on with +security over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of the +helmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails, Edmond, +with a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo, as the poor +Abbé Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him the bearings of +the coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught +him to read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call +heaven, and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds. + +And when Jacopo inquired of him, “What is the use of teaching all these +things to a poor sailor like me?” Edmond replied, “Who knows? You may +one day be the captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte, +became emperor.” We had forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican. + +Two months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had become as +skilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had formed an +acquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and learned all the +Masonic signs by which these half pirates recognize each other. He had +passed and re-passed his Island of Monte Cristo twenty times, but not +once had he found an opportunity of landing there. + +He then formed a resolution. As soon as his engagement with the patron +of _La Jeune Amélie_ ended, he would hire a small vessel on his own +account—for in his several voyages he had amassed a hundred +piastres—and under some pretext land at the Island of Monte Cristo. +Then he would be free to make his researches, not perhaps entirely at +liberty, for he would be doubtless watched by those who accompanied +him. But in this world we must risk something. Prison had made Edmond +prudent, and he was desirous of running no risk whatever. But in vain +did he rack his imagination; fertile as it was, he could not devise any +plan for reaching the island without companionship. + +Dantès was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the patron, +who had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of retaining him +in his service, took him by the arm one evening and led him to a tavern +on the Via del’ Oglio, where the leading smugglers of Leghorn used to +congregate and discuss affairs connected with their trade. Already +Dantès had visited this maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing +all these hardy free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly +two hundred leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might +not that man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all +these contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter +that was under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey +carpets, stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to find +some neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and then to try +and land these goods on the coast of France. If the venture was +successful the profit would be enormous, there would be a gain of fifty +or sixty piastres each for the crew. + +The patron of _La Jeune Amélie_ proposed as a place of landing the +Island of Monte Cristo, which being completely deserted, and having +neither soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been placed in +the midst of the ocean since the time of the heathen Olympus by +Mercury, the god of merchants and robbers, classes of mankind which we +in modern times have separated if not made distinct, but which +antiquity appears to have included in the same category. + +At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantès started with joy; he rose to +conceal his emotion, and took a turn around the smoky tavern, where all +the languages of the known world were jumbled in a _lingua franca_. + +When he again joined the two persons who had been discussing the +matter, it had been decided that they should touch at Monte Cristo and +set out on the following night. Edmond, being consulted, was of opinion +that the island afforded every possible security, and that great +enterprises to be well done should be done quickly. + +Nothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were given to get +under weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make the +neutral island by the following day. + +0289m + + + + + Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo + +Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which +sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an +evil destiny, Dantès was about to secure the opportunity he wished for, +by simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring +any suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way. + +The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions, +good and evil, passed through Dantès’ mind. If he closed his eyes, he +saw Cardinal Spada’s letter written on the wall in characters of +flame—if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He +ascended into grottos paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and +the roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as +subterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed, +wonderstruck, filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then +returned to daylight, when he discovered that his prizes had all +changed into common pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter the +marvellous grottos, but they had suddenly receded, and now the path +became a labyrinth, and then the entrance vanished, and in vain did he +tax his memory for the magic and mysterious word which opened the +splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless, +the treasure disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom +for a moment he had hoped to carry it off. + +The day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night had +been, but it brought reason to the aid of imagination, and Dantès was +then enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and +unsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for +departure, and these preparations served to conceal Dantès’ agitation. +He had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he +was almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always +clear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with +celerity and pleasure. + +The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the +superiority of Dantès over the crew and himself. He saw in the young +man his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter, +that he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure alliance. At +seven o’clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past +seven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The +sea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed +beneath a bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his +beacon lights, each of which is a world. Dantès told them that all +hands might turn in, and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for +so they called Dantès) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went +to their bunks contentedly. + +This frequently happened. Dantès, cast from solitude into the world, +frequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and what +solitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship +floating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in +the silence of immensity, and under the eye of Heaven? + +Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up +by his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When +the patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and +every sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an +hour. The Island of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond +resigned the lugger to the master’s care, and went and lay down in his +hammock; but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his +eyes for a moment. + +Two hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about to double +the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the +flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo +reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dantès +ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La Pianosa +to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by two or +three knots. About five o’clock in the evening the island was distinct, +and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness +of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast +at its setting. + +Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the +variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest +blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and +a mist passed over his eyes. Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune +is staked on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond +felt in his paroxysms of hope. + +Night came, and at ten o’clock they anchored. _La Jeune Amélie_ was +first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself, +Dantès could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first to jump on +shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have “kissed his +mother earth.” It was dark, but at eleven o’clock the moon rose in the +midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, “ascending +high,” played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second +Pelion. + +The island was familiar to the crew of _La Jeune Amélie_,—it was one of +her regular haunts. As to Dantès, he had passed it on his voyage to and +from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo. + +“Where shall we pass the night?” he inquired. + +“Why, on board the tartan,” replied the sailor. + +“Should we not do better in the grottos?” + +“What grottos?” + +“Why, the grottos—caves of the island.” + +“I do not know of any grottos,” replied Jacopo. + +The cold sweat sprang forth on Dantès’ brow. + +“What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?” he asked. + +“None.” + +For a moment Dantès was speechless; then he remembered that these caves +might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the +sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to +discover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and +Dantès therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides, +a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which _La Jeune Amélie_ +replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had +come. + +The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was +well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast +anchor within a cable’s length of shore. + +Then the landing began. Dantès reflected, as he worked, on the shout of +joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he +gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart; +but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he +had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual +questions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, aroused +suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his +painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and the +glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but +transitory. + +No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a +fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantès declared his intention to go +and kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to +rock, his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for +solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dantès did not +oppose this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust. +Scarcely, however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, having +killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request +them to cook it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This +and some dried fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of +fare. + +Dantès went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him. +Having reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath +him, his companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy +preparing the repast which Edmond’s skill as a marksman had augmented +with a capital dish. + +Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile of a +man superior to his fellows. + +“In two hours’ time,” said he, “these persons will depart richer by +fifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to +gain fifty more; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred +francs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans +and the insolence of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their +riches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance tomorrow deception +will so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a +contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!” exclaimed +Edmond, “that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be +mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to +continue to lead this low and wretched life.” + +Thus Dantès, who but three months before had no desire but liberty had +now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in +Dantès, but in Providence, who, while limiting the power of man, has +filled him with boundless desires. + +Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn +by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never +before trod, Dantès approached the spot where he supposed the grottos +must have existed. Keeping along the shore, and examining the smallest +object with serious attention, he thought he could trace, on certain +rocks, marks made by the hand of man. + +Time, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as +it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have +respected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree +of regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the +marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes +laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to +separate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the +guide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes. +Might it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them, +in order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event +of a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so +complete. This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements +of a man desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying +marks have attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and +had the dark and wondrous island indeed faithfully guarded its precious +secret? + +0295m + + + +It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the +inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the +marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock, +placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to +lead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end +of the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore +turned round and retraced his steps. + +Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from +a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at +the moment when they were taking the dainty animal from the spit, they +saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock, +and they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed +his direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they +watched his daring progress, Edmond’s foot slipped, and they saw him +stagger on the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards +him, for all loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo +reached him first. + +He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had +rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little +rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been so +beneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened +his eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness +in his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to +the shore; but when they touched him, although under Jacopo’s +directions, he declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to +be moved. + +It may be supposed that Dantès did not now think of his dinner, but he +insisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for fasting, should +have their meal. As for himself, he declared that he had only need of a +little rest, and that when they returned he should be easier. The +sailors did not require much urging. They were hungry, and the smell of +the roasted kid was very savory, and your tars are not very +ceremonious. An hour afterwards they returned. All that Edmond had been +able to do was to drag himself about a dozen paces forward to lean +against a moss-grown rock. + +But, instead of growing easier, Dantès’ pains appeared to increase in +violence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in the morning in +order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France, +between Nice and Fréjus, urged Dantès to try and rise. Edmond made +great exertions in order to comply; but at each effort he fell back, +moaning and turning pale. + +“He has broken his ribs,” said the commander, in a low voice. “No +matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will +try and carry him on board the tartan.” + +Dantès declared, however, that he would rather die where he was than +undergo the agony which the slightest movement cost him. + +“Well,” said the patron, “let what may happen, it shall never be said +that we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening.” + +This very much astonished the sailors, although, not one opposed it. +The patron was so strict that this was the first time they had ever +seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in its execution. Dantès +would not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules +should be made in his favor. + +“No, no,” he said to the patron, “I was awkward, and it is just that I +pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a +gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and +a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for +me.” + +“But you’ll die of hunger,” said the patron. + +“I would rather do so,” was Edmond’s reply, “than suffer the +inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me.” + +The patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in +the little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for sea +when her toilet should be completed. + +“What are we to do, Maltese?” asked the captain. “We cannot leave you +here so, and yet we cannot stay.” + +“Go, go!” exclaimed Dantès. + +“We shall be absent at least a week,” said the patron, “and then we +must run out of our course to come here and take you up again.” + +“Why,” said Dantès, “if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat, +desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my +passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me.” +The patron shook his head. + +“Listen, Captain Baldi; there’s one way of settling this,” said Jacopo. +“Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man.” + +“And give up your share of the venture,” said Edmond, “to remain with +me?” + +“Yes,” said Jacopo, “and without any hesitation.” + +“You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate,” replied Edmond, +“and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do +not wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up, +and I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent +for bruises.” + +A peculiar smile passed over Dantès’ lips; he squeezed Jacopo’s hand +warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain—and remain +alone. + +The smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail, but +not without turning about several times, and each time making signs of +a cordial farewell, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if +he could not move the rest of his body. + +Then, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile,—“’Tis strange +that it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and +devotion.” Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock, +from which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan +complete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing +herself as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set +sail. + +At the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was +impossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot +where he was. Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid among +the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand, +his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the +marks he had noted terminated. + +“And now,” he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman, +which Faria had related to him, “now, Open Sesame!” + + + + Chapter 24. The Secret Cave + +The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays fell +full on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the heat. +Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with a +monotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees +waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took he +disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off +he saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the island +was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone, guided by the hand of +God. + +He felt an indescribable sensation somewhat akin to dread—that dread of +the daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are watched and +observed. This feeling was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was +about to begin his labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his +gun, mounted to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed +round in every direction. + +But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could +distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its +historical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that to +the experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of Genoa the +proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was at the +brigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that had just +set sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes. + +The first was just disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other, +following an opposite direction, was about to round the Island of +Corsica. + +This sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He +saw that he was on the highest point of the island,—a statue on this +vast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while the +blue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it with a +fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he +dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned +should happen in reality. + +Dantès, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks, and he +had noticed that they led to a small creek, which was hidden like the +bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its +mouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance of a small +vessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from +observation. + +Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been +so skilfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of +probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be +watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little barque, followed +the line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had +buried his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantès back to +the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his +theory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been +lifted to this spot, without the aid of many men? + +Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it, +thought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang from the rock in order +to inspect the base on which it had formerly stood. + +He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid +along this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone +had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted around it, +so as to conceal the orifice; this species of masonry had been covered +with earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the +stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to +the earth. + +0301m + + + +Dantès dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he +detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by +the hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes’ labor the wall +gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened. + +Dantès went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped +off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But +the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be moved by anyone +man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès saw that he must attack the +wedge. But how? + +He cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his +friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would +serve him for this purpose. + +With the aid of his pickaxe, Dantès, after the manner of a labor-saving +pioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one that supported +it, filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his +handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired. + +The explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its base by +the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into pieces; +thousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dantès had previously +formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure, +rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared. + +Dantès approached the upper rock, which now, without any support, +leaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it, +and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most susceptible to +attack, placed his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every +nerve to move the mass. + +The rock, already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dantès +redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who +uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock +yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and finally +disappeared in the ocean. + +On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an iron ring +let into a square flag-stone. + +Dantès uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt +been crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have continued, +but his knees trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight +became so dim, that he was forced to pause. + +This feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the +ring and exerted all his strength; the flag-stone yielded, and +disclosed steps that descended until they were lost in the obscurity of +a subterraneous grotto. + +Anyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès turned pale, +hesitated, and reflected. + +“Come,” said he to himself, “be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I +must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What, +then, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when, +after having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions +destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no +treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia, +the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has +followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done, +raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing.” + +He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy +aperture that was open at his feet. + +“Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the +slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of +curiosity.” And he remained again motionless and thoughtful. + +“Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of +that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long +chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a +sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock, +perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master +descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his +awe-inspiring progress.” + +0303m + + + +“But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret?” +asked Dantès of himself. + +“The fate,” replied he, smiling, “of those who buried Alaric, and were +interred with the corpse.” + +“Yet, had he come,” thought Dantès, “he would have found the treasure, +and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could +devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in +replacing this rock. I will go down.” + +Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last word of +human philosophy, “Perhaps!” + +But instead of the darkness, and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he +had expected to find, Dantès saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well +as the air, entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but +by the interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from +without, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and the +waving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers +that grew from the rocks. + +After having stood a few minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of which +was rather warm than damp, Dantès’ eye, habituated as it was to +darkness, could pierce even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which +was of granite that sparkled like diamonds. + +“Alas,” said Edmond, smiling, “these are the treasures the cardinal has +left; and the good abbé, seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has +indulged in fallacious hopes.” + +But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by heart. +“In the farthest angle of the second opening,” said the cardinal’s +will. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to seek the +second. Dantès continued his search. He reflected that this second +grotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he examined the stones, +and sounded one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed, +masked for precaution’s sake. + +The pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of +Dantès’ forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to him +that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper echo; he +eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception that no one but +a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all probability, the opening +must be. + +However, he, like Cæsar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in order +to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with his +pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding nothing +that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall whence +issued the consoling sound he had before heard. + +He again struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing +occurred. As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used +in the ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in +flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had been +closed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and painted to +imitate granite. Dantès struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which +entered someway between the interstices. + +It was there he must dig. + +But by some strange play of emotion, in proportion as the proofs that +Faria, had not been deceived became stronger, so did his heart give +way, and a feeling of discouragement stole over him. This last proof, +instead of giving him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe +descended, or rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand +over his brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an +excuse, a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in +reality because he felt that he was about to faint. + +The island was deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery +glance; afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the +blue ocean. + +Dantès had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such a +moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again entered the +cavern. + +The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now like a feather in his +grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall. After several blows he +perceived that the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed +one upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of +his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the +stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his feet. + +He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe +to draw the stones towards him one by one. The aperture was already +sufficiently large for him to enter, but by waiting, he could still +cling to hope, and retard the certainty of deception. At last, after +renewed hesitation, Dantès entered the second grotto. + +The second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the first; the air +that could only enter by the newly formed opening had the mephitic +smell Dantès was surprised not to find in the outer cavern. He waited +in order to allow pure air to displace the foul atmosphere, and then +went on. + +At the left of the opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dantès’ +eye there was no darkness. He glanced around this second grotto; it +was, like the first, empty. + +The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time had at +length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dantès’ fate would be +decided. + +He advanced towards the angle, and summoning all his resolution, +attacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth blow the +pickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral knell, +never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the hearer. Had +Dantès found nothing he could not have become more ghastly pale. + +He again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and encountered the same +resistance, but not the same sound. + +“It is a casket of wood bound with iron,” thought he. + +At this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the opening; Dantès +seized his gun, sprang through the opening, and mounted the stair. A +wild goat had passed before the mouth of the cave, and was feeding at a +little distance. This would have been a favorable occasion to secure +his dinner; but Dantès feared lest the report of his gun should attract +attention. + +He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it at the +fire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast, and descended +with this torch. + +He wished to see everything. He approached the hole he had dug, and +now, with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in reality +struck against iron and wood. He planted his torch in the ground and +resumed his labor. + +In an instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared, +and Dantès could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the +middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was still +untarnished, the arms of the Spada family—viz., a sword, _en pale_, on +an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted +by a cardinal’s hat. + +Dantès easily recognized them, Faria had so often drawn them for him. +There was no longer any doubt: the treasure was there—no one would have +been at such pains to conceal an empty casket. In an instant he had +cleared every obstacle away, and he saw successively the lock, placed +between two padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved as +things were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the commonest +metals precious. + +Dantès seized the handles, and strove to lift the coffer; it was +impossible. He sought to open it; lock and padlock were fastened; these +faithful guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Dantès +inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe between the coffer and the lid, +and pressing with all his force on the handle, burst open the +fastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn and fell, still holding in +their grasp fragments of the wood, and the chest was open. + +0307m + + + +Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it beside +him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see +in the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are +visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless +with amazement. + +Three compartments divided the coffer. In the first, blazed piles of +golden coin; in the second, were ranged bars of unpolished gold, which +possessed nothing attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond +grasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell +on one another, sounded like hail against glass. + +After having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed +through the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock, +from whence he could behold the sea. He was alone—alone with these +countless, these unheard-of treasures! Was he awake, or was it but a +dream? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality? + +He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not strength +enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as if to prevent +his senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly about the rocks of +Monte Cristo, terrifying the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with +his wild cries and gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to +believe the evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found +himself before this mine of gold and jewels. + +This time he fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively, +uttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and +more happy, for only now did he begin to realize his felicity. + +He then set himself to work to count his fortune. There were a thousand +ingots of gold, each weighing from two to three pounds; then he piled +up twenty-five thousand crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our +money, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors; +and he saw that the complement was not half empty. And he measured ten +double handfuls of pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many of which, +mounted by the most famous workmen, were valuable beyond their +intrinsic worth. + +Dantès saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised +in the cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a +small quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few hours’ +sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave. + +It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous +emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime. + + + + Chapter 25. The Unknown + +Day, for which Dantès had so eagerly and impatiently waited with open +eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantès resumed his search. +Again he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the previous evening, +and strained his view to catch every peculiarity of the landscape; but +it wore the same wild, barren aspect when seen by the rays of the +morning sun which it had done when surveyed by the fading glimmer of +eve. + +Descending into the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled his pockets +with gems, put the box together as well and securely as he could, +sprinkled fresh sand over the spot from which it had been taken, and +then carefully trod down the earth to give it everywhere a uniform +appearance; then, quitting the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping +on it broken masses of rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite, +filling the interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted +rapidly growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn, +then carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced +every trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as +savage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he +impatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte +Cristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost +incalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession satisfied +not the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to dwell among +mankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence which are always +accorded to wealth—that first and greatest of all the forces within the +grasp of man. + +On the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dantès +recognized the rig and handling of _La Jeune Amélie_, and dragging +himself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met his +companions with an assurance that, although considerably better than +when they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late +accident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To this +question the smugglers replied that, although successful in landing +their cargo in safety, they had scarcely done so when they received +intelligence that a guard-ship had just quitted the port of Toulon and +was crowding all sail towards them. This obliged them to make all the +speed they could to evade the enemy, when they could but lament the +absence of Dantès, whose superior skill in the management of a vessel +would have availed them so materially. In fact, the pursuing vessel had +almost overtaken them when, fortunately, night came on, and enabled +them to double the Cape of Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit. +Upon the whole, however, the trip had been sufficiently successful to +satisfy all concerned; while the crew, and particularly Jacopo, +expressed great regrets that Dantès had not been an equal sharer with +themselves in the profits, which amounted to no less a sum than fifty +piastres each. + +0311m + + + +Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the +faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all +the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island; +but as _La Jeune Amélie_ had merely come to Monte Cristo to fetch him +away, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded with the captain to +Leghorn. + +Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the house of a Jew, a dealer in +precious stones, to whom he disposed of four of his smallest diamonds +for five thousand francs each. Dantès half feared that such valuable +jewels in the hands of a poor sailor like himself might excite +suspicion; but the cunning purchaser asked no troublesome questions +concerning a bargain by which he gained a round profit of at least +eighty per cent. + +The following day Dantès presented Jacopo with an entirely new vessel, +accompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred piastres, that he +might provide himself with a suitable crew and other requisites for his +outfit, upon condition that he would go at once to Marseilles for the +purpose of inquiring after an old man named Louis Dantès, residing in +the Allées de Meilhan, and also a young woman called Mercédès, an +inhabitant of the Catalan village. + +Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this magnificent +present, which Dantès hastened to account for by saying that he had +merely been a sailor from whim and a desire to spite his family, who +did not allow him as much money as he liked to spend; but that on his +arrival at Leghorn he had come into possession of a large fortune, left +him by an uncle, whose sole heir he was. The superior education of +Dantès gave an air of such extreme probability to this statement that +it never once occurred to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy. + +The term for which Edmond had engaged to serve on board _La Jeune +Amélie_ having expired, Dantès took leave of the captain, who at first +tried all his powers of persuasion to induce him to remain as one of +the crew, but having been told the history of the legacy, he ceased to +importune him further. + +The following morning Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with directions +from Dantès to join him at the Island of Monte Cristo. + +Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantès proceeded to make +his final adieus on board _La Jeune Amélie_, distributing so liberal a +gratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good wishes of all, +and expressions of cordial interest in all that concerned him. To the +captain he promised to write when he had made up his mind as to his +future plans. Then Dantès departed for Genoa. + +At the moment of his arrival a small yacht was under trial in the bay; +this yacht had been built by order of an Englishman, who, having heard +that the Genoese excelled all other builders along the shores of the +Mediterranean in the construction of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous +of possessing a specimen of their skill; the price agreed upon between +the Englishman and the Genoese builder was forty thousand francs. +Dantès, struck with the beauty and capability of the little vessel, +applied to its owner to transfer it to him, offering sixty thousand +francs, upon condition that he should be allowed to take immediate +possession. The proposal was too advantageous to be refused, the more +so as the person for whom the yacht was intended had gone upon a tour +through Switzerland, and was not expected back in less than three weeks +or a month, by which time the builder reckoned upon being able to +complete another. A bargain was therefore struck. Dantès led the owner +of the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired with the latter for a +few minutes to a small back parlor, and upon their return the Jew +counted out to the shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand francs in +bright gold pieces. + +The delighted builder then offered his services in providing a suitable +crew for the little vessel, but this Dantès declined with many thanks, +saying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone, and his principal +pleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself; the only thing the +builder could oblige him in would be to contrive a sort of secret +closet in the cabin at his bed’s head, the closet to contain three +divisions, so constructed as to be concealed from all but himself. The +builder cheerfully undertook the commission, and promised to have these +secret places completed by the next day, Dantès furnishing the +dimensions and plan in accordance with which they were to be +constructed. + +0313m + + + +Two hours afterward Dantès sailed from the port of Genoa, under the +inspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to see the +rich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht. But their +wonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the perfect skill with +which Dantès handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated +with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest +touch; and Dantès required but a short trial of his beautiful craft to +acknowledge that the Genoese had not without reason attained their high +reputation in the art of shipbuilding. + +The spectators followed the little vessel with their eyes as long as it +remained visible; they then turned their conjectures upon her probable +destination. Some insisted she was making for Corsica, others the +Island of Elba; bets were offered to any amount that she was bound for +Spain; while Africa was positively reported by many persons as her +intended course; but no one thought of Monte Cristo. + +Yet thither it was that Dantès guided his vessel, and at Monte Cristo +he arrived at the close of the second day; his boat had proved herself +a first-class sailor, and had come the distance from Genoa in +thirty-five hours. Dantès had carefully noted the general appearance of +the shore, and, instead of landing at the usual place, he dropped +anchor in the little creek. The island was utterly deserted, and bore +no evidence of having been visited since he went away; his treasure was +just as he had left it. + +Early on the following morning he commenced the removal of his riches, +and ere nightfall the whole of his immense wealth was safely deposited +in the compartments of the secret locker. + +A week passed by. Dantès employed it in manœuvring his yacht round the +island, studying it as a skilful horseman would the animal he destined +for some important service, till at the end of that time he was +perfectly conversant with its good and bad qualities. The former Dantès +proposed to augment, the latter to remedy. + +Upon the eighth day he discerned a small vessel under full sail +approaching Monte Cristo. As it drew near, he recognized it as the boat +he had given to Jacopo. He immediately signalled it. His signal was +returned, and in two hours afterwards the new-comer lay at anchor +beside the yacht. + +A mournful answer awaited each of Edmond’s eager inquiries as to the +information Jacopo had obtained. Old Dantès was dead, and Mercédès had +disappeared. + +Dantès listened to these melancholy tidings with outward calmness; but, +leaping lightly ashore, he signified his desire to be quite alone. In a +couple of hours he returned. Two of the men from Jacopo’s boat came on +board the yacht to assist in navigating it, and he gave orders that she +should be steered direct to Marseilles. For his father’s death he was +in some manner prepared; but he knew not how to account for the +mysterious disappearance of Mercédès. + +Without divulging his secret, Dantès could not give sufficiently clear +instructions to an agent. There were, besides, other particulars he was +desirous of ascertaining, and those were of a nature he alone could +investigate in a manner satisfactory to himself. His looking-glass had +assured him, during his stay at Leghorn, that he ran no risk of +recognition; moreover, he had now the means of adopting any disguise he +thought proper. One fine morning, then, his yacht, followed by the +little fishing-boat, boldly entered the port of Marseilles, and +anchored exactly opposite the spot from whence, on the +never-to-be-forgotten night of his departure for the Château d’If, he +had been put on board the boat destined to convey him thither. + +0315m + + + +Still Dantès could not view without a shudder the approach of a +gendarme who accompanied the officers deputed to demand his bill of +health ere the yacht was permitted to hold communication with the +shore; but with that perfect self-possession he had acquired during his +acquaintance with Faria, Dantès coolly presented an English passport he +had obtained from Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing which a +French passport would not have afforded, he was informed that there +existed no obstacle to his immediate debarkation. + +The first person to attract the attention of Dantès, as he landed on +the Canebière, was one of the crew belonging to the _Pharaon_. Edmond +welcomed the meeting with this fellow—who had been one of his own +sailors—as a sure means of testing the extent of the change which time +had worked in his own appearance. Going straight towards him, he +propounded a variety of questions on different subjects, carefully +watching the man’s countenance as he did so; but not a word or look +implied that he had the slightest idea of ever having seen before the +person with whom he was then conversing. + +Giving the sailor a piece of money in return for his civility, Dantès +proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone many steps he heard the man +loudly calling him to stop. + +Dantès instantly turned to meet him. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the honest fellow, in almost breathless +haste, “but I believe you made a mistake; you intended to give me a +two-franc piece, and see, you gave me a double Napoleon.” + +“Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling mistake, +as you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give you another +double Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and be able to ask +your messmates to join you.” + +So extreme was the surprise of the sailor, that he was unable even to +thank Edmond, whose receding figure he continued to gaze after in +speechless astonishment. “Some nabob from India,” was his comment. + +Dantès, meanwhile, went on his way. Each step he trod oppressed his +heart with fresh emotion; his first and most indelible recollections +were there; not a tree, not a street, that he passed but seemed filled +with dear and cherished memories. And thus he proceeded onwards till he +arrived at the end of the Rue de Noailles, from whence a full view of +the Allées de Meilhan was obtained. At this spot, so pregnant with fond +and filial remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees +tottered under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung +for support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the +ground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually passing +there. Recovering himself, however, he wiped the perspiration from his +brows, and stopped not again till he found himself at the door of the +house in which his father had lived. + +The nasturtiums and other plants, which his father had delighted to +train before his window, had all disappeared from the upper part of the +house. + +Leaning against the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a time at the upper +stories of the shabby little house. Then he advanced to the door, and +asked whether there were any rooms to be let. Though answered in the +negative, he begged so earnestly to be permitted to visit those on the +fifth floor, that, in despite of the oft-repeated assurance of the +_concierge_ that they were occupied, Dantès succeeded in inducing the +man to go up to the tenants, and ask permission for a gentleman to be +allowed to look at them. + +The tenants of the humble lodging were a young couple who had been +scarcely married a week; and seeing them, Dantès sighed heavily. +Nothing in the two small chambers forming the apartments remained as it +had been in the time of the elder Dantès; the very paper was different, +while the articles of antiquated furniture with which the rooms had +been filled in Edmond’s time had all disappeared; the four walls alone +remained as he had left them. + +The bed belonging to the present occupants was placed as the former +owner of the chamber had been accustomed to have his; and, in spite of +his efforts to prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in tears as +he reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed his last, +vainly calling for his son. + +The young couple gazed with astonishment at the sight of their +visitor’s emotion, and wondered to see the large tears silently chasing +each other down his otherwise stern and immovable features; but they +felt the sacredness of his grief, and kindly refrained from questioning +him as to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him to +indulge his sorrow alone. + +0317m + + + +When he withdrew from the scene of his painful recollections, they both +accompanied him downstairs, reiterating their hope that he would come +again whenever he pleased, and assuring him that their poor dwelling +would ever be open to him. + +As Edmond passed the door on the fourth floor, he paused to inquire +whether Caderousse the tailor still dwelt there; but he received for +reply, that the person in question had got into difficulties, and at +the present time kept a small inn on the route from Bellegarde to +Beaucaire. + +Having obtained the address of the person to whom the house in the +Allées de Meilhan belonged, Dantès next proceeded thither, and, under +the name of Lord Wilmore (the name and title inscribed on his +passport), purchased the small dwelling for the sum of twenty-five +thousand francs, at least ten thousand more than it was worth; but had +its owner asked half a million, it would unhesitatingly have been +given. + +The very same day the occupants of the apartments on the fifth floor of +the house, now become the property of Dantès, were duly informed by the +notary who had arranged the necessary transfer of deeds, etc., that the +new landlord gave them their choice of any of the rooms in the house, +without the least augmentation of rent, upon condition of their giving +instant possession of the two small chambers they at present inhabited. + +This strange event aroused great wonder and curiosity in the +neighborhood of the Allées de Meilhan, and a multitude of theories were +afloat, none of which was anywhere near the truth. But what raised +public astonishment to a climax, and set all conjecture at defiance, +was the knowledge that the same stranger who had in the morning visited +the Allées de Meilhan had been seen in the evening walking in the +little village of the Catalans, and afterwards observed to enter a poor +fisherman’s hut, and to pass more than an hour in inquiring after +persons who had either been dead or gone away for more than fifteen or +sixteen years. + +But on the following day the family from whom all these particulars had +been asked received a handsome present, consisting of an entirely new +fishing-boat, with two seines and a tender. + +The delighted recipients of these munificent gifts would gladly have +poured out their thanks to their generous benefactor, but they had seen +him, upon quitting the hut, merely give some orders to a sailor, and +then springing lightly on horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte +d’Aix. + + + + Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn + +Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of +France may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town of +Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,—a little nearer to the former +than to the latter,—a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, +creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a +grotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of +entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backed +upon the Rhône. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a +garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, on the side opposite to +the main entrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy +olives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their +withered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict. +Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, +and eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a +tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this +unattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped +summit dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun. + +All these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which +the Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others +being the Durance and the Parliament. + +In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid +ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no +doubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of the +country to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in those +parched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a +grasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scene +with its strident, monotonous note. + +For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man +and his wife, with two servants,—a chambermaid named Trinette, and a +hostler called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the +requirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had +revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and +the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which this +prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utter +ruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhône from +which it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a +hundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithful +description. + +The innkeeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of +age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those +southern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked +nose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like +his beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in +spite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads. +His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of +brown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing +himself from morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the +lookout for guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, +exposed to the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other +protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it, +after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This man was our old +acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. + +His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine +Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighborhood +of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its women are +proverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the +devastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by +the ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained +nearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or +stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his +daily watch at the door—a duty he performed with so much the greater +willingness, as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless +plaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking +out into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her husband +would calmly return an unvarying reply, in these philosophic words: + +“Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.” + +The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle +from the fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated +between Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the +inhabitants of that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling +every person by some particular and distinctive appellation, her +husband had bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of her +sweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in all probability, his +rude gutteral language would not have enabled him to pronounce. + +Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to +the will of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not writhe under +the double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers +and his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish partner’s +murmurs and lamentations. + +0323m + + + +Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and +moderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to +display. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place +without himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the +picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the +south of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by +the Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming +fashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed +equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains, +necklaces, parti-colored scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests, +elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the +shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad +in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the +pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter +feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and +merry music from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable +hostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit +it afforded. + +Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before the +door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven +grass—on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly, +endeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate—to +the deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he was +aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as he +went, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the +entrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who +might be passing. + +At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door, +the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonely +as a desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one +interminable line of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall, +meagre trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that +no one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty +to regulate his hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in +such a formidable Sahara. + +Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes +longer, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching +from the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer, he +would easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse, +between whom the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to +exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy +pace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a +three-cornered hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the +pair came on with a fair degree of rapidity. + +Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether +for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to +say. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his +steed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure +him. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen +door, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton +handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that +streamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with +the end of his iron-shod stick. + +At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring +assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his +sharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved +how little he was accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy +footstep was heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the +upper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, the host of the +Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter. + +0319m + + + +“You are welcome, sir, most welcome!” repeated the astonished +Caderousse. “Now, then, Margotin,” cried he, speaking to the dog, “will +you be quiet? Pray don’t heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites. +I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this +dreadfully hot day.” Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the +traveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: “A +thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the honor to +receive under my poor roof. What would the abbé please to have? What +refreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service.” + +The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching +gaze—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar +scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in the +countenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at +his own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he +deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, +speaking with a strong Italian accent, “You are, I presume, M. +Caderousse?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered the host, even more surprised at the question than +he had been by the silence which had preceded it; “I am Gaspard +Caderousse, at your service.” + +“Gaspard Caderousse,” rejoined the priest. “Yes,—Christian and surname +are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan, +on the fourth floor?” + +0325m + + + +“I did.” + +“And you followed the business of a tailor?” + +“True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at +Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will +in time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there +nothing I can offer you by way of refreshment?” + +“Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your +permission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off.” + +“As you please, sir,” said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the +present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of +Cahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in +the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor +and kitchen. + +Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration of +five minutes, he found the abbé seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his +elbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by +the unusual command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to +him, and had established himself very comfortably between his knees, +his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixed +earnestly on the traveller’s face. + +“Are you quite alone?” inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before +him the bottle of wine and a glass. + +“Quite, quite alone,” replied the man—“or, at least, practically so, +for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself, +is laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance, +poor thing!” + +“You are married, then?” said the priest, with a show of interest, +glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment. + +“Ah, sir,” said Caderousse with a sigh, “it is easy to perceive I am +not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for +being honest.” The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance. + +“Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself,” continued the +innkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbé’s gaze; “I can +boast with truth of being an honest man; and,” continued he +significantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, “that is +more than everyone can say nowadays.” + +0327m + + + +“So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,” said the +abbé; “for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will +be rewarded, and the wicked punished.” + +“Such words as those belong to your profession,” answered Caderousse, +“and you do well to repeat them; but,” added he, with a bitter +expression of countenance, “one is free to believe them or not, as one +pleases.” + +“You are wrong to speak thus,” said the abbé; “and perhaps I may, in my +own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.” + +“What mean you?” inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise. + +“In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am +in search of.” + +“What proofs do you require?” + +“Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor +named Dantès?” + +“Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself +were intimate friends!” exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flushed +darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him, +while the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with +feverish scrutiny. + +“You remind me,” said the priest, “that the young man concerning whom I +asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.” + +“Said to bear the name!” repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and +eager. “Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation +of Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor +Edmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous +and happy?” + +“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the +felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.” + +A deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse, +who turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes +with the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head. + +“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” murmured Caderousse. “Well, there, sir, is +another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and +that none but the wicked prosper. Ah,” continued Caderousse, speaking +in the highly colored language of the South, “the world grows worse and +worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said +to do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?” + +“You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès,” observed the +abbé, without taking any notice of his companion’s vehemence. + +“And so I did,” replied Caderousse; “though once, I confess, I envied +him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by +everything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely +lamented his unhappy fate.” + +There was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of the +abbé was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the +innkeeper. + +“You knew the poor lad, then?” continued Caderousse. + +“I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to +him the consolations of religion.” + +“And of what did he die?” asked Caderousse in a choking voice. + +“Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they +have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of +imprisonment?” Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration +that gathered on his brow. + +0329m + + + +“But the strangest part of the story is,” resumed the abbé, “that +Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer, +that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention.” + +“And so he was,” murmured Caderousse. “How should he have been +otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth.” + +“And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he +had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any +foul spot or stain have fallen on it.” + +And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, seemed to +rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was +rapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse. + +“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “who had been his companion in +misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second +restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he +bestowed on Dantès upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his +gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantès had +nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement. +Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers, +who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, +Dantès carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of +prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a +diamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune.” + +“Then, I suppose,” asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, “that +it was a stone of immense value?” + +“Why, everything is relative,” answered the abbé. “To one in Edmond’s +position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at +fifty thousand francs.” + +“Bless me!” exclaimed Caderousse, “fifty thousand francs! Surely the +diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that.” + +“No,” replied the abbé, “it was not of such a size as that; but you +shall judge for yourself. I have it with me.” + +The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the +priest’s garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the +treasure. Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with +black shagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes +of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of +admirable workmanship. + +“And that diamond,” cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eager +admiration, “you say, is worth fifty thousand francs?” + +“It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,” replied the abbé, +as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its +brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated +innkeeper. + +“But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you +his heir?” + +“No, merely his testamentary executor. ‘I once possessed four dear and +faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed’ he said; +‘and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss. +The name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.’” The innkeeper +shivered. + +“‘Another of the number,’” continued the abbé, without seeming to +notice the emotion of Caderousse, “‘is called Danglars; and the third, +in spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for +me.’” + +A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about +to break in upon the abbé’s speech, when the latter, waving his hand, +said, “Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations +to make, you can do so afterwards. ‘The third of my friends, although +my rival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand; that of my +betrothed was’—Stay, stay,” continued the abbé, “I have forgotten what +he called her.” + +“Mercédès,” said Caderousse eagerly. + +“True,” said the abbé, with a stifled sigh, “Mercédès it was.” + +“Go on,” urged Caderousse. + +“Bring me a _carafe_ of water,” said the abbé. + +Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouring +some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé, +resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty +glass on the table: + +“Where did we leave off?” + +“The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.” + +“To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for you +understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you +understand?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“‘You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal +parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only +persons who have loved me upon earth.’” + +“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned four +persons.” + +“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s +bequest, was his own father.” + +“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the +contending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die.” + +“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strong +effort to appear indifferent; “but from the length of time that has +elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain any +particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?” + +“I do not know who could if I could not,” said Caderousse. “Why, I +lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a +year after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.” + +“Of what did he die?” + +“Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; his +acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying +moments, I say he died of——” + +Caderousse paused. + +“Of what?” asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly. + +“Why, of downright starvation.” + +“Starvation!” exclaimed the abbé, springing from his seat. “Why, the +vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The +very dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some +pitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a +Christian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other +men who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it +is impossible!—utterly impossible!” + +“What I have said, I have said,” answered Caderousse. + +“And you are a fool for having said anything about it,” said a voice +from the top of the stairs. “Why should you meddle with what does not +concern you?” + +The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La +Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of +voices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on +the lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing +conversation. + +“Mind your own business, wife,” replied Caderousse sharply. “This +gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not +permit me to refuse.” + +“Politeness, you simpleton!” retorted La Carconte. “What have you to do +with politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common +prudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying +to extract all he can from you?” + +“I pledge you my word, madam,” said the abbé, “that my intentions are +good; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me +candidly.” + +“Ah, that’s all very fine,” retorted the woman. “Nothing is easier than +to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when +poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell +all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly +forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold +trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the +unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions +come.” + +“Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you. +Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my +instrumentality, that I solemnly promise you.” + +La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again +drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two +speakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to +hear every word they uttered. Again the abbé had been obliged to +swallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to +overpower him. + +When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, “It appears, then, +that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by +everyone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have +perished by so dreadful a death.” + +“Why, he was not altogether forsaken,” continued Caderousse, “for +Mercédès the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but +somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for +Fernand—the very person,” added Caderousse with a bitter smile, “that +you named just now as being one of Dantès’ faithful and attached +friends.” + +“And was he not so?” asked the abbé. + +“Gaspard, Gaspard!” murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs, +“mind what you are saying!” + +Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and +annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbé, said, “Can a man +be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? +But Dantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he +believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was +cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might +have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his +enemies. And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his +native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I +cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the +dead than the hatred of the living.” + +“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte. + +“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired +the abbé of Caderousse. + +“Do I? No one better.” + +“Speak out then, say what it was!” + +“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if +you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.” + +“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!” + +“So you will say nothing?” asked the abbé. + +“Why, what good would it do?” asked Caderousse. “If the poor lad were +living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were +his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not +hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing +to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with +him.” + +“You prefer, then,” said the abbé, “that I should bestow on men you say +are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful +friendship?” + +“That is true enough,” returned Caderousse. “You say truly, the gift of +poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars; +besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the +ocean.” + +“Remember,” chimed in La Carconte, “those two could crush you at a +single blow!” + +“How so?” inquired the abbé. “Are these persons, then, so rich and +powerful?” + +“Do you not know their history?” + +“I do not. Pray relate it to me!” + +Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, “No, truly, +it would take up too much time.” + +“Well, my good friend,” returned the abbé, in a tone that indicated +utter indifference on his part, “you are at liberty, either to speak or +be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples +and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty +as conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My +first business will be to dispose of this diamond.” + +So saying, the abbé again drew the small box from his pocket, opened +it, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of +brilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse. + +“Wife, wife!” cried he in a hoarse voice, “come here!” + +“Diamond!” exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber +with a tolerably firm step; “what diamond are you talking about?” + +“Why, did you not hear all we said?” inquired Caderousse. “It is a +beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantès, to be sold, and the money +divided between his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand, +Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand +francs.” + +“Oh, what a magnificent jewel!” cried the astonished woman. + +“The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does +it not?” asked Caderousse. + +“It does,” replied the abbé; “with the addition of an equal division of +that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I believe myself at +liberty to divide equally with the four survivors.” + +“And why among us four?” inquired Caderousse. + +“As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to +him.” + +“I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wife +in her turn, in a low, muttering voice. + +“Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly; “no more do I, and that +was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked +upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps +crime.” + +“Remember,” answered the abbé calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its +case in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that I +do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of +both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last +wishes.” + +The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of +perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbé rise from +his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse +were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his +wife exchanged looks of deep meaning. + +0335m + + + +“There, you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might +all be ours, if we chose!” + +“Do you believe it?” + +“Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!” + +“Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part, I wash my +hands of the affair.” + +So saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber, +her body convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, in +spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she +turned round, and called out, in a warning tone, to her husband, +“Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!” + +“I have both reflected and decided,” answered he. + +La Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked +beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her +armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted. + +“Well,” asked the abbé, as he returned to the apartment below, “what +have you made up your mind to do?” + +“To tell you all I know,” was the reply. + +“I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,” said the priest. “Not +because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to +conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could +distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so +much the better, that is all.” + +“I hope it may be so,” replied Caderousse, his face flushed with +cupidity. + +“I am all attention,” said the abbé. + +“Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse; “we might be interrupted in the +most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as +well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.” + +With these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and, +by way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he was +accustomed to do at night. + +During this time the abbé had chosen his place for listening at his +ease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself +would be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the +narrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or rather +clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to +Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to +him. + +“Remember, this is no affair of mine,” said the trembling voice of La +Carconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the +scene that was enacting below. + +“Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse; “say no more about it; I will +take all the consequences upon myself.” + +And he began his story. + + + + Chapter 27. The Story + +First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.” + +“What is that?” inquired the abbé. + +“Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that +you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the +persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they +only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces +like glass.” + +“Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé. “I am a priest, and +confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry +out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, +without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I +do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to +speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to +God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I +have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.” + +This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage. + +“Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, I +even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor +Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.” + +“Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbé; “Edmond talked +to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.” + +“The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head; +“perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?” + +“Yes.” answered the abbé; “Edmond related to me everything until the +moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.” + +“At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.” + +“Was it not his betrothal feast?” + +“It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending; +a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès was +arrested.” + +“Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès +himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never +beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of +anyone of them.” + +“Well, when Dantès was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the +particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his +home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up +and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for +I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for +myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the +poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my +heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast. + +“The next day Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. de +Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old +man; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a +sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she +wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old +man would not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave +this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the +world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first +thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard +all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should +persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head +night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.” + +“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” +asked the abbé. + +“Ah, sir,” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be +consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he +seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and +I could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his +door he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you, +sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it +was more than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter, +and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am +very glad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt +such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory +or heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at +once, for I could not bear it.’” + +“Poor father!” murmured the priest. + +“From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M. +Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and, +although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer. +One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and +the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to +console him, he said to her,—‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; +and instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite +happy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’ + +“However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off after +a time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and +so at last old Dantès was left all to himself, and I only saw from time +to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle +they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he +sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the +poor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’ +rent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week, +which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into +my apartment when he left his. + +“For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on +the fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at all +risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw +him so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told +M. Morrel and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately, M. +Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of +the bowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I +never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription. + +“From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for not +eating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet.” + +The abbé uttered a kind of groan. + +“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse. + +“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.” + +“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even +more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M. +Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against +his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were +actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and +M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his +purse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s +order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine +days of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had +caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond +again, tell him I die blessing him.’” + +The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and +pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat. + +“And you believe he died——” + +“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as +that we two are Christians.” + +The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was +standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed +his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks. + +“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice. + +“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.” + +“Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember too,” he added in +an almost menacing tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell +me, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, and +the father with famine?” + +“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from +ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.” + +“How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on.” + +“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.” + +“Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent?” + +“Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.” + +“And where was this letter written?” + +“At La Réserve, the day before the betrothal feast.” + +“’Twas so, then—’twas so, then,” murmured the abbé. “Oh, Faria, Faria, +how well did you judge men and things!” + +“What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse. + +“Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest; “go on.” + +“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that +his writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the +post.” + +“But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.” + +“I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?” + +The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly,—“No one; +but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an +eye-witness.” + +“True, true!” said Caderousse in a choking voice, “I was there.” + +“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if +not, you were an accomplice.” + +“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess +that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct +understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in +such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest +they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.” + +“Next day—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had +been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantès +was arrested.” + +“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars +restrained me. ‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did +really put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a +letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this +letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his +accomplices.’ I confess I had my fears, in the state in which politics +then were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was +not criminal.” + +0341m + + + +“I understand—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.” + +“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse; “and remorse preys on me night and +day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, +the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my +life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a +moment of selfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she +complains, ‘Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.’” And +Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance. + +“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to +accuse yourself is to deserve pardon.” + +“Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me.” + +“He did not know,” said the abbé. + +“But he knows it all now,” interrupted Caderousse; “they say the dead +know everything.” + +There was a brief silence; the abbé rose and paced up and down +pensively, and then resumed his seat. + +“You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,” he said; “who was +he?” + +“The owner of the _Pharaon_ and patron of Dantès.” + +“And what part did he play in this sad drama?” inquired the abbé. + +“The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty +times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote, +implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second +restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told +you, he came to see Dantès’ father, and offered to receive him in his +own house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already +said, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the +old man’s debts, and buried him decently; and so Edmond’s father died, +as he had lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still +by me—a large one, made of red silk.” + +“And,” asked the abbé, “is M. Morrel still alive?” + +“Yes,” replied Caderousse. + +“In that case,” replied the abbé, “he should be a man blessed of God, +rich, happy.” + +Caderousse smiled bitterly. “Yes, happy as myself,” said he. + +“What! M. Morrel unhappy?” exclaimed the abbé. + +“He is reduced almost to the last extremity—nay, he is almost at the +point of dishonor.” + +“How?” + +“Yes,” continued Caderousse, “so it is; after five-and-twenty years of +labor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade of +Marseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five ships in two +years, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and his +only hope now is in that very _Pharaon_ which poor Dantès commanded, +and which is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and +indigo. If this ship founders, like the others, he is a ruined man.” + +“And has the unfortunate man wife or children?” inquired the abbé. + +“Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel; +he has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whose +family now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a ruined man; he +has, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and, as you may suppose, +all this, instead of lessening, only augments his sorrows. If he were +alone in the world he would blow out his brains, and there would be an +end.” + +“Horrible!” ejaculated the priest. + +“And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,” added Caderousse. “You +see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of—am in +destitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and +I unable to do anything in the world for her; I shall die of hunger, as +old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth.” + +“How is that?” + +“Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men +have been reduced to misery.” + +“What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the most +guilty?” + +“What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on the +recommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier +into a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in the +commissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with that +money he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his +capital; and, having first married his banker’s daughter, who left him +a widower, he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne, +daughter of M. de Servieux, the king’s chamberlain, who is in high +favor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron, +and now he is the Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du +Mont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his +antechamber, and I know not how many millions in his strongbox.” + +“Ah!” said the abbé, in a peculiar tone, “he is happy.” + +“Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret +known but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue; +but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.” + +“And Fernand?” + +“Fernand? Why, much the same story.” + +“But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or +resources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me.” + +“And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some +strange secret that no one knows.” + +“But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or +high position?” + +“Both, sir—he has both fortune and position—both.” + +“This must be impossible!” + +“It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days +before the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons +left him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a +special levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too; +but as I was older than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I +was only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army, +went to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny. +The night after that battle he was sentry at the door of a general who +carried on a secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the +general was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to +accompany him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed +the general. + +“Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on +the throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to +France with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of the +general, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was a +captain in 1823, during the Spanish war—that is to say, at the time +when Danglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and +being sent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen, +found Danglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the +support of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received +promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths +known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by +the royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this brief +campaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and +received the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion +of Honor.” + +“Destiny! destiny!” murmured the abbé. + +“Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended, +Fernand’s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to +endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had +begun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens—it +was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government, +without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to +volunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and serve +in Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll. + +0345m + + + +Some time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was the +name he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of +instructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he +died he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him a +considerable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was +gazetted lieutenant-general.” + +“So that now——?” inquired the abbé. + +“So that now,” continued Caderousse, “he owns a magnificent house—No. +27, Rue du Helder, Paris.” + +The abbé opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an +effort at self-control, he said, “And Mercédès—they tell me that she +has disappeared?” + +“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise +the next day with still more splendor.” + +“Has she made a fortune also?” inquired the abbé, with an ironical +smile. + +“Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,” +replied Caderousse. + +“Go on,” said the abbé; “it seems as if I were listening to the story +of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell +me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might.” + +“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which +deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate +M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of her +despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of +Fernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded +as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone. + +“Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news of +Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with +despair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of +two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her +home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, +turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the +uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her. + +“It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of +her past life had returned to her. + +“Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport which he took for +love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and +seeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then, +it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated—he was only not +precisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other was +absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought +Mercédès burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but +the thought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested +to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too, +old Dantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were +not, he would return to us.’ + +“The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès, +perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been +there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned +of the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his +first coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; at the second +he reminded her that he loved her. + +“Mercédès begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for +Edmond.” + +“So that,” said the abbé, with a bitter smile, “that makes eighteen +months in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire?” Then he +murmured the words of the English poet, “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’” + +“Six months afterwards,” continued Caderousse, “the marriage took place +in the church of Accoules.” + +“The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the +priest; “there was only a change of bridegrooms.” + +“Well, Mercédès was married,” proceeded Caderousse; “but although in +the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she +passed La Réserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had +been celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had +she looked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not +more at his ease—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of +Edmond’s return—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to +depart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated +with the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left +Marseilles.” + +“Did you ever see Mercédès again?” inquired the priest. + +“Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her; +she was attending to the education of her son.” + +The abbé started. “Her son?” said he. + +“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.” + +“But, then, to be able to instruct her child,” continued the abbé, “she +must have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that +she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.” + +“Oh,” replied Caderousse, “did he know so little of his lovely +betrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to +be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’s +fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing +fortune. She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe, +between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she +might forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the +weight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured,” +continued Caderousse; “no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her; +she is rich, a countess, and yet——” + +Caderousse paused. + +“And yet what?” asked the abbé. + +“Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,” said Caderousse. + +“What makes you believe this?” + +“Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends +would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even +receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his +valet-de-chambre.” + +“Then you did not see either of them?�� + +“No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me.” + +“How was that?” + +“As I went away a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twenty +louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who at once shut the +blind.” + +“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé. + +“Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I had +nothing to ask of him.” + +“Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond’s +misfortunes?” + +“No; I only know that some time after Edmond’s arrest, he married +Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt +he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars, +as high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor, +wretched, and forgotten.” + +“You are mistaken, my friend,” replied the abbé; “God may seem +sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there +always comes a moment when he remembers—and behold—a proof!” + +As he spoke, the abbé took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it +to Caderousse, said, “Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.” + +“What, for me only?” cried Caderousse, “ah, sir, do not jest with me!” + +“This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one +friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, and +sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish that +this sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.” + +0351m + + + +“Oh, sir,” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with the +other wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,—“Oh, sir, do +not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.” + +“I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of +such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange——” + +Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand. + +The abbé smiled. + +“In exchange,” he continued, “give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel +left on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in +your hands.” + +Caderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oaken +cupboard, opened it, and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk, +round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbé +took it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond. + +“Oh, you are a man of God, sir,” cried Caderousse; “for no one knew +that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.” + +“Which,” said the abbé to himself, “you would have done.” The abbé +rose, took his hat and gloves. “Well,” he said, “all you have told me +is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular.” + +“See, sir,” replied Caderousse, “in this corner is a crucifix in holy +wood—here on this shelf is my wife’s testament; open this book, and I +will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you by +my soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to +you as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear +of God at the day of the last judgment!” + +“’Tis well,” said the abbé, convinced by his manner and tone that +Caderousse spoke the truth. “’Tis well, and may this money profit you! +Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other.” + +The abbé with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks of +Caderousse, opened the door himself, got out and mounted his horse, +once more saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells, +and then returned by the road he had travelled in coming. + +When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte, paler and +trembling more than ever. + +“Is, then, all that I have heard really true?” she inquired. + +“What? That he has given the diamond to us only?” inquired Caderousse, +half bewildered with joy; “yes, nothing more true! See, here it is.” + +The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a gloomy voice, +“Suppose it’s false?” + +Caderousse started and turned pale. + +“False!” he muttered. “False! Why should that man give me a false +diamond?” + +0349m + + + +“To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!” + +Caderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such an +idea. + +“Oh!” he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the red +handkerchief tied round his head, “we will soon find out.” + +“In what way?” + +“Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from +Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife, +and I shall be back in two hours,” and Caderousse left the house in +haste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the +priest had taken. + +“Fifty thousand francs!” muttered La Carconte when left alone; “it is a +large sum of money, but it is not a fortune.” + + +VOLUME TWO + +20009m + + + +20011m + + + +20019m + + + + + Chapter 28. The Prison Register + +The day after that in which the scene we have just described had taken +place on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of about +thirty or two-and-thirty, dressed in a bright blue frock coat, nankeen +trousers, and a white waistcoat, having the appearance and accent of an +Englishman, presented himself before the mayor of Marseilles. + +“Sir,” said he, “I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, of +Rome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house +of Morrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs or +thereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy at +reports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I +have come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information.” + +“Sir,” replied the mayor. “I know very well that during the last four +or five years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost +four or five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but +it is not for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of ten +thousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his +finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and I +shall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has up +to this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality. +This is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourself +to M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles; +he has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel’s hands, and +if there be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount +than mine, you will most probably find him better informed than +myself.” + +The Englishman seemed to appreciate this extreme delicacy, made his bow +and went away, proceeding with a characteristic British stride towards +the street mentioned. + +M. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on +perceiving him, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate +that it was not the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de +Boville, he was in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the +faculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at +the moment, did not allow either his memory or his imagination to stray +to the past. + +The Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in terms +nearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor of +Marseilles. + +“Oh, sir,” exclaimed M. de Boville, “your fears are unfortunately but +too well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two +hundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two +hundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be +married in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were +payable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th +of next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these +payments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to +tell me that if his ship, the _Pharaon_, did not come into port on the +15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment.” + +“But,” said the Englishman, “this looks very much like a suspension of +payment.” + +“It looks more like bankruptcy!” exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly. + +The Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “From which +it would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable +apprehension?” + +“To tell you the truth, I consider it lost.” + +“Well, then, I will buy it of you!” + +“You?” + +“Yes, I!” + +“But at a tremendous discount, of course?” + +“No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house,” added the Englishman +with a laugh, “does not do things in that way.” + +“And you will pay——” + +“Ready money.” + +20023m + + + +And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, which +might have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of +joy passed across M. de Boville’s countenance, yet he made an effort at +self-control, and said: + +“Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not +realize six per cent of this sum.” + +“That’s no affair of mine,” replied the Englishman, “that is the affair +of the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have, +perhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm. +But all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in +exchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage.” + +“Of course, that is perfectly just,” cried M. de Boville. “The +commission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five per +cent, or even more? Whatever you say.” + +“Sir,” replied the Englishman, laughing, “I am like my house, and do +not do such things—no, the commission I ask is quite different.” + +“Name it, sir, I beg.” + +“You are the inspector of prisons?” + +“I have been so these fourteen years.” + +“You keep the registers of entries and departures?” + +“I do.” + +“To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners?” + +“There are special reports on every prisoner.” + +“Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abbé, who +disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the +Château d’If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his +death.” + +“What was his name?” + +“The Abbé Faria.” + +“Oh, I recollect him perfectly,” cried M. de Boville; “he was crazy.” + +“So they said.” + +“Oh, he was, decidedly.” + +“Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it?” + +“He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums to +the government if they would liberate him.” + +“Poor devil!—and he is dead?” + +“Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February.” + +“You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well.” + +“I recollect this, because the poor devil’s death was accompanied by a +singular incident.” + +“May I ask what that was?” said the Englishman with an expression of +curiosity, which a close observer would have been astonished at +discovering in his phlegmatic countenance. + +“Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbé’s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant +from that of one of Bonaparte’s emissaries,—one of those who had +contributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very +resolute and very dangerous man.” + +“Indeed!” said the Englishman. + +“Yes,” replied M. de Boville; “I myself had occasion to see this man in +1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of +soldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget +his countenance!” + +20025m + + + +The Englishman smiled imperceptibly. + +“And you say, sir,” he interposed, “that the two dungeons——” + +“Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this +Edmond Dantès——” + +“This dangerous man’s name was——” + +“Edmond Dantès. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantès had procured +tools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the +prisoners held communication with one another.” + +“This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape?” + +“No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbé Faria had an +attack of catalepsy, and died.” + +“That must have cut short the projects of escape.” + +“For the dead man, yes,” replied M. de Boville, “but not for the +survivor; on the contrary, this Dantès saw a means of accelerating his +escape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Château +d’If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the +dead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they +had sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment.” + +“It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,” remarked the +Englishman. + +“As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and, +fortunately, by his own act disembarrassed the government of the fears +it had on his account.” + +“How was that?” + +“How? Do you not comprehend?” + +“No.” + +“The Château d’If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into +the sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet.” + +“Well?” observed the Englishman as if he were slow of comprehension. + +“Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw him +into the sea.” + +“Really!” exclaimed the Englishman. + +“Yes, sir,” continued the inspector of prisons. “You may imagine the +amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the +rocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.” + +“That would have been difficult.” + +“No matter,” replied De Boville, in supreme good-humor at the certainty +of recovering his two hundred thousand francs,—“no matter, I can fancy +it.” And he shouted with laughter. + +“So can I,” said the Englishman, and he laughed too; but he laughed as +the English do, “at the end of his teeth.” + +“And so,” continued the Englishman who first gained his composure, “he +was drowned?” + +“Unquestionably.” + +“So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner +at the same time?” + +“Precisely.” + +20027m + + + +“But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose?” +inquired the Englishman. + +“Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantès’ relations, +if he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead or +alive.” + +“So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do +so with easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it.” + +“Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please.” + +“So be it,” said the Englishman. “But to return to these registers.” + +“True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me.” + +“Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to me +very curious.” + +“Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abbé, +who really was gentleness itself.” + +“Yes, you will much oblige me.” + +“Go into my study here, and I will show it to you.” + +And they both entered M. de Boville’s study. Everything was here +arranged in perfect order; each register had its number, each file of +papers its place. The inspector begged the Englishman to seat himself +in an armchair, and placed before him the register and documents +relative to the Château d’If, giving him all the time he desired for +the examination, while De Boville seated himself in a corner, and began +to read his newspaper. The Englishman easily found the entries relative +to the Abbé Faria; but it seemed that the history which the inspector +had related interested him greatly, for after having perused the first +documents he turned over the leaves until he reached the deposition +respecting Edmond Dantès. There he found everything arranged in due +order,—the accusation, examination, Morrel’s petition, M. de +Villefort’s marginal notes. He folded up the accusation quietly, and +put it as quietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the +name of Noirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application +dated 10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by the deputy procureur’s +advice, exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on +the throne) the services Dantès had rendered to the imperial +cause—services which Villefort’s certificates rendered indisputable. +Then he saw through the whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, kept +back by Villefort, had become, under the second restoration, a terrible +weapon against him in the hands of the king’s attorney. He was no +longer astonished when he searched on to find in the register this +note, placed in a bracket against his name: + +Edmond Dantès. + +An inveterate Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from the +Island of Elba. + +To be kept in strict solitary confinement, and to be closely watched +and guarded. + +Beneath these lines was written in another hand: “See note +above—nothing can be done.” + +He compared the writing in the bracket with the writing of the +certificate placed beneath Morrel’s petition, and discovered that the +note in the bracket was the same writing as the certificate—that is to +say, was in Villefort’s handwriting. + +20029m + + + +As to the note which accompanied this, the Englishman understood that +it might have been added by some inspector who had taken a momentary +interest in Dantès’ situation, but who had, from the remarks we have +quoted, found it impossible to give any effect to the interest he had +felt. + +As we have said, the inspector, from discretion, and that he might not +disturb the Abbé Faria’s pupil in his researches, had seated himself in +a corner, and was reading _Le Drapeau Blanc_. He did not see the +Englishman fold up and place in his pocket the accusation written by +Danglars under the arbor of La Réserve, and which had the postmark, +“Marseilles, 27th February, delivery 6 o’clock, P.M.” + +But it must be said that if he had seen it, he attached so little +importance to this scrap of paper, and so much importance to his two +hundred thousand francs, that he would not have opposed whatever the +Englishman might do, however irregular it might be. + +“Thanks,” said the latter, closing the register with a slam, “I have +all I want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simple +assignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash, +and I will hand you over the money.” + +He rose, gave his seat to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony, +and quickly drew up the required assignment, while the Englishman +counted out the bank-notes on the other side of the desk. + + + + Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son + +Anyone who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well +acquainted with the interior of Morrel’s warehouse, and had returned at +this date, would have found a great change. Instead of that air of +life, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a flourishing and +prosperous business establishment—instead of merry faces at the +windows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the long corridors—instead +of the court filled with bales of goods, re-echoing with the cries and +the jokes of porters, one would have immediately perceived all aspect +of sadness and gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks that used to fill +the deserted corridor and the empty office, but two remained. One was a +young man of three or four-and-twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel’s +daughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his +friends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed +cashier, called “Cocles,” or “Cock-eye,” a nickname given him by the +young men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive, +and which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not, +in all probability, have replied to anyone who addressed him by it. + +Cocles remained in M. Morrel’s service, and a most singular change had +taken place in his position; he had at the same time risen to the rank +of cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He was, however, the +same Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but inflexible on the subject of +arithmetic, the only point on which he would have stood firm against +the world, even against M. Morrel; and strong in the +multiplication-table, which he had at his fingers’ ends, no matter what +scheme or what trap was laid to catch him. + +In the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles was the +only one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of affection; on +the contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats that one by one +forsake the doomed ship even before the vessel weighs anchor, so all +the numerous clerks had by degrees deserted the office and the +warehouse. Cocles had seen them go without thinking of inquiring the +cause of their departure. Everything was as we have said, a question of +arithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all +payments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him +that the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the +river that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow. + +Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles’ belief; the last month’s +payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had +detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same +evening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a melancholy smile, +threw them into an almost empty drawer, saying: + +“Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers.” + +Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M. Morrel, +himself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, flattered him more +than a present of fifty crowns. But since the end of the month M. +Morrel had passed many an anxious hour. + +In order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his +resources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get +bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to such an +extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife’s and +daughter’s jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the end of +the month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted. Credit, +owing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and to meet the +one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the present month, and +the one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the next month to M. +de Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the return of the +_Pharaon_, of whose departure he had learnt from a vessel which had +weighed anchor at the same time, and which had already arrived in +harbor. + +But this vessel which, like the _Pharaon_, came from Calcutta, had been +in for a fortnight, while no intelligence had been received of the +_Pharaon_. + +20033m + + + +Such was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview with M. +de Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of +Rome, presented himself at M. Morrel’s. + +Emmanuel received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of +every new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor, +come in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man, +wishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview, questioned +the new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had nothing to say to +M. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M. Morrel in person. + +Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young +man bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel’s apartment. Cocles went +first, and the stranger followed him. On the staircase they met a +beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the +stranger. + +“M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?” said the +cashier. + +“Yes; I think so, at least,” said the young girl hesitatingly. “Go and +see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman.” + +“It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,” returned the +Englishman. “M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has +only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & +French of Rome, with whom your father does business.” + +The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger +and Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered the office +where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he possessed, +opened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the second staircase, +conducted the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which +he closed behind him, and after having left the clerk of the house of +Thomson & French alone, returned and signed to him that he could enter. + +The Englishman entered, and found Morrel seated at a table, turning +over the formidable columns of his ledger, which contained the list of +his liabilities. At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the +ledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen +him seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the +worthy merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this +history, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time and +sorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look, once so +firm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as if he feared +being forced to fix his attention on some particular thought or person. + +The Englishman looked at him with an air of curiosity, evidently +mingled with interest. “Monsieur,” said Morrel, whose uneasiness was +increased by this examination, “you wish to speak to me?” + +“Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?” + +“The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me.” + +“He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or +400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict +punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and +charged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money +otherwise.” + +Morrel sighed deeply, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was +covered with perspiration. + +“So then, sir,” said Morrel, “you hold bills of mine?” + +“Yes, and for a considerable sum.” + +“What is the amount?” asked Morrel with a voice he strove to render +firm. + +20035m + + + +“Here is,” said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from his +pocket, “an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville, +the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of +course, that you owe this sum to him?” + +“Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent +nearly five years ago.” + +“When are you to pay?” + +“Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.” + +“Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all +signed by you, and assigned to our house by the holders.” + +“I recognize them,” said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he thought +that, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to honor his +own signature. “Is this all?” + +“No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been +assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner +of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500 +francs.” + +It is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered during this +enumeration. “Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred +francs,” repeated he. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the Englishman. “I will not,” continued he, after a +moment’s silence, “conceal from you, that while your probity and +exactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the +report is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your +liabilities.” + +At this almost brutal speech Morrel turned deathly pale. + +“Sir,” said he, “up to this time—and it is now more than +four-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from +my father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years—never +has anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored.” + +“I know that,” replied the Englishman. “But as a man of honor should +answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same +punctuality?” + +Morrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who spoke with more assurance +than he had hitherto shown. + +“To questions frankly put,” said he, “a straightforward answer should +be given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely; +for its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous +accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if +the _Pharaon_ should be lost, and this last resource be gone——” + +The poor man’s eyes filled with tears. + +“Well,” said the other, “if this last resource fail you?” + +“Well,” returned Morrel, “it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but, +already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I +shall be forced to suspend payment.” + +“Have you no friends who could assist you?” + +Morrel smiled mournfully. + +“In business, sir,” said he, “one has no friends, only correspondents.” + +“It is true,” murmured the Englishman; “then you have but one hope.” + +“But one.” + +“The last?” + +“The last.” + +“So that if this fail——” + +“I am ruined,—completely ruined!” + +“As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.” + +“I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes, +passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in +hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed +me of the arrival of this ship.” + +“And it is not yours?” + +“No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, _La Gironde_; she comes from India also; +but she is not mine.” + +“Perhaps she has spoken to the _Pharaon_, and brings you some tidings +of her?” + +“Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to +receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is +still hope.” Then in a low voice Morrel added,—“This delay is not +natural. The _Pharaon_ left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to +have been here a month ago.” + +“What is that?” said the Englishman. “What is the meaning of that +noise?” + +“Oh, my God!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is it?” + +A loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and +half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his +strength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained +opposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger +gazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but +it seemed that Morrel expected something—something had occasioned the +noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard +footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of +several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of +the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible. + +“There are only two persons who have the key to that door,” murmured +Morrel, “Cocles and Julie.” + +At this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes +bathed with tears, appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting +himself by the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice +failed him. + +“Oh, father!” said she, clasping her hands, “forgive your child for +being the bearer of evil tidings.” + +Morrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his arms. + +“Oh, father, father!” murmured she, “courage!” + +“The _Pharaon_ has gone down, then?” said Morrel in a hoarse voice. The +young girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative sign with her +head as she lay on her father’s breast. + +“And the crew?” asked Morrel. + +“Saved,” said the girl; “saved by the crew of the vessel that has just +entered the harbor.” + +Morrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation +and sublime gratitude. + +“Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least thou strikest but me alone.” + +A tear moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman. + +“Come in, come in,” said Morrel, “for I presume you are all at the +door.” + +Scarcely had he uttered those words when Madame Morrel entered weeping +bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber were visible +the rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of +these men the Englishman started and advanced a step; then restrained +himself, and retired into the farthest and most obscure corner of the +apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her husband and took one of his +hands in hers, Julie still lay with her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel +stood in the centre of the chamber and seemed to form the link between +Morrel’s family and the sailors at the door. + +“How did this happen?” said Morrel. + +“Draw nearer, Penelon,” said the young man, “and tell us all about it.” + +An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the +remains of a hat between his hands. + +“Good-day, M. Morrel,” said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles +the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon. + +“Good-day, Penelon,” returned Morrel, who could not refrain from +smiling through his tears, “where is the captain?” + +“The captain, M. Morrel,—he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please +God, it won’t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and +hearty.” + +“Well, now tell your story, Penelon.” + +20039m + + + +Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth, +turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the +antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began. + +“You see, M. Morrel,” said he, “we were somewhere between Cape Blanc +and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a +week’s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I was at the helm I +should tell you—and says, ‘Penelon, what do you think of those clouds +coming up over there?’ I was just then looking at them myself. ‘What do +I think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they +have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they +didn’t mean mischief.’—‘That’s my opinion too,’ said the captain, ‘and +I’ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas. +Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying +jib.’ It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel. +‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘we have still too much canvas set; all hands +lower the mainsail!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed +under mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails. ‘Well, Penelon,’ said the +captain, ‘what makes you shake your head?’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘I still +think you’ve got too much on.’ ‘I think you’re right,’ answered he, ‘we +shall have a gale.’ ‘A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest, +or I don’t know what’s what.’ You could see the wind coming like the +dust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business. ‘Take +in two reefs in the top-sails,’ cried the captain; ‘let go the +bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the +reef-tackles on the yards.’” + +20041m + + + +“That was not enough for those latitudes,” said the Englishman; “I +should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker.” + +His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made everyone start. Penelon +put his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who thus +criticized the manœuvres of his captain. + +“We did better than that, sir,” said the old sailor respectfully; “we +put the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck +our top-sails and scudded under bare poles.” + +“The vessel was very old to risk that,” said the Englishman. + +“Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for +twelve hours we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘I think we +are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.’ I gave him +the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. ‘All +hands to the pumps!’ I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the +more we pumped the more came in. ‘Ah,’ said I, after four hours’ work, +‘since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.’ ‘Is that the +example you set, Penelon?’ cries the captain; ‘very well, wait a +minute.’ He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols. +‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said +he.” + +“Well done!” said the Englishman. + +20043m + + + +“There’s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,” continued +the sailor; “and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone +down, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but +still it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve +hours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five. +‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel +will have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship, +let us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.’ +Now,” continued Penelon, “you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to +his ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told +twice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to +say, ‘Get along—save yourselves.’ We soon launched the boat, and all +eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did +not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the +waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was +time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the +broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then +the other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the +_Pharaon_. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or +drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the +rest, when we saw _La Gironde_; we made signals of distress, she +perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M. +Morrel, that’s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it +true, you fellows there?” A general murmur of approbation showed that +the narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and sufferings. + +“Well, well,” said M. Morrel, “I know there was no one in fault but +destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his +name. What wages are due to you?” + +“Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.” + +“Yes, but we will talk of it.” + +“Well, then, three months,” said Penelon. + +“Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,” said +Morrel. “At another time,” added he, “I should have said, Give them, +besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed, +and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think +me mean on this account.” + +Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them. + +“As for that, M. Morrel,” said he, again turning his quid, “as for +that——” + +“As for what?” + +“The money.” + +“Well——” + +“Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present, +and that we will wait for the rest.” + +“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” cried Morrel gratefully; “take it—take +it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are +free to do so.” + +These last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon +nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered. + +“What, M. Morrel!” said he in a low voice, “you send us away; you are +then angry with us!” + +“No, no,” said M. Morrel, “I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do +not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not +want any sailors.” + +“No more ships!” returned Penelon; “well, then, you’ll build some; +we’ll wait for you.” + +“I have no money to build ships with, Penelon,” said the poor owner +mournfully, “so I cannot accept your kind offer.” + +“No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the +_Pharaon_, under bare poles.” + +“Enough, enough!” cried Morrel, almost overpowered; “leave me, I pray +you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and +see that my orders are executed.” + +“At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?” asked Penelon. + +“Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go.” He made a sign to Cocles, who went +first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear. “Now,” +said the owner to his wife and daughter, “leave me; I wish to speak +with this gentleman.” + +20045m + + + +And he glanced towards the clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained +motionless in the corner during this scene, in which he had taken no +part, except the few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at +this person whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired; +but, as she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating +glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent spectator +would have been surprised to see on his stern features. The two men +were left alone. “Well, sir,” said Morrel, sinking into a chair, “you +have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you.” + +“I see,” returned the Englishman, “that a fresh and unmerited +misfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to +serve you.” + +“Oh, sir!” cried Morrel. + +“Let me see,” continued the stranger, “I am one of your largest +creditors.” + +“Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due.” + +“Do you wish for time to pay?” + +“A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life.” + +“How long a delay do you wish for?” + +Morrel reflected. “Two months,” said he. + +“I will give you three,” replied the stranger. + +“But,” asked Morrel, “will the house of Thomson & French consent?” + +“Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June.” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of +September at eleven o’clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven), +I shall come to receive the money.” + +“I shall expect you,” returned Morrel; “and I will pay you—or I shall +be dead.” These last words were uttered in so low a tone that the +stranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the old ones +destroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with three months +before him to collect his resources. The Englishman received his thanks +with the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him +with grateful blessings, conducted him to the staircase. The stranger +met Julie on the stairs; she pretended to be descending, but in reality +she was waiting for him. “Oh, sir”—said she, clasping her hands. + +“Mademoiselle,” said the stranger, “one day you will receive a letter +signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ Do exactly what the letter bids you, +however strange it may appear.” + +“Yes, sir,” returned Julie. + +“Do you promise?” + +“I swear to you I will.” + +“It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl +you are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you +by giving you Emmanuel for a husband.” + +Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the +baluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to descend. In the +court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in +either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them. “Come +with me, my friend,” said the Englishman; “I wish to speak to you.” + + + + Chapter 30. The Fifth of September + +The extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French, at the +moment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor shipowner so +decided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared to believe that +fate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite upon him. The same +day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had occurred; +and a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity, returned to the family. +Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not only engagements with the house +of Thomson & French, who had shown themselves so considerate towards +him; and, as he had said, in business he had correspondents, and not +friends. When he thought the matter over, he could by no means account +for this generous conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him; +and could only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this: “We +had better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those +300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and get +only six or eight per cent of our money back again.” + +Unfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel’s +correspondents did not take this view; and some even came to a contrary +decision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his office with +scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted by the +Englishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality. Cocles thus +remained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel alone who +remembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000 +francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills, +for which, as well as the debt due to the inspector of prisons, he had +time granted, he must be a ruined man. + +The opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the reverses +which had successively weighed down Morrel, it was impossible for him +to remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the astonishment when at the +end of the month, he cancelled all his obligations with his usual +punctuality. Still confidence was not restored to all minds, and the +general opinion was that the complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner +had been postponed only until the end of the month. + +The month passed, and Morrel made extraordinary efforts to get in all +his resources. Formerly his paper, at any date, was taken with +confidence, and was even in request. Morrel now tried to negotiate +bills at ninety days only, and none of the banks would give him credit. +Fortunately, Morrel had some funds coming in on which he could rely; +and, as they reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his +engagements when the end of July came. + +The agent of Thomson & French had not been again seen at Marseilles; +the day after, or two days after his visit to Morrel, he had +disappeared; and as in that city he had had no intercourse but with the +mayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no +trace except in the memories of these three persons. As to the sailors +of the _Pharaon_, they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they +also had disappeared. + +Captain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from Palma. +He delayed presenting himself at Morrel’s, but the owner, hearing of +his arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon’s +recital, of the captain’s brave conduct during the storm, and tried to +console him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain +Gaumard had not dared to apply for. + +As he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up. +Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was +newly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much +embarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place, +passed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with his +great eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which Morrel +as usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel attributed +Penelon’s embarrassment to the elegance of his attire; it was evident +the good fellow had not gone to such an expense on his own account; he +was, no doubt, engaged on board some other vessel, and thus his +bashfulness arose from the fact of his not having, if we may so express +ourselves, worn mourning for the _Pharaon_ longer. Perhaps he had come +to tell Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer him employment +from his new master. + +“Worthy fellows!” said Morrel, as he went away, “may your new master +love you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!” + +20049m + + + +August rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to renew +his credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was known at +Marseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and then it was said +that the bills would go to protest at the end of the month, and that +Morrel had gone away and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier +Cocles, to meet the creditors. But, contrary to all expectation, when +the 31st of August came, the house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared +behind the grating of the counter, examined all bills presented with +the usual scrutiny, and, from first to last, paid all with the usual +precision. There came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had +fully anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills +which the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and +then, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure +was put off until the end of September. + +On the 1st, Morrel returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme +anxiety, for from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel +had thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under +great obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was owing +that Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with whom he +had laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at this moment +that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of francs, and had +unlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a crown from his +pocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his word for a loan, and +Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars, but had kept +away from some instinctive motive, and had delayed as long as possible +availing himself of this last resource. And Morrel was right, for he +returned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal. + +Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter a complaint, or say one harsh +word. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel’s +hand with friendly warmth, and then going to his private room on the +second floor had sent for Cocles. + +“Then,” said the two women to Emmanuel, “we are indeed ruined.” + +It was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie should +write to her brother, who was in garrison at Nîmes, to come to them as +speedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively that they +required all their strength to support the blow that impended. Besides, +Maximilian Morrel, though hardly two-and-twenty, had great influence +over his father. + +He was a strong-minded, upright young man. At the time when he decided +on his profession his father had no desire to choose for him, but had +consulted young Maximilian’s taste. He had at once declared for a +military life, and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly +through the Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the +53rd of the line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected +promotion on the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was +noted for his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on +a soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the name +of “the stoic.” We need hardly say that many of those who gave him this +epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know +what it meant. + +This was the young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid +to sustain them under the serious trial which they felt they would soon +have to endure. They had not mistaken the gravity of this event, for +the moment after Morrel had entered his private office with Cocles, +Julie saw the latter leave it pale, trembling, and his features +betraying the utmost consternation. She would have questioned him as he +passed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with +unusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and +exclaimed: + +“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could +ever have believed it!” + +A moment afterwards Julie saw him go upstairs carrying two or three +heavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money. + +Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted the +money. All his funds amounted to 6,000 or 8,000 francs, his bills +receivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the best of +everything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting to 287,500 +francs. He had not even the means for making a possible settlement on +account. + +However, when Morrel went down to his dinner, he appeared very calm. +This calmness was more alarming to the two women than the deepest +dejection would have been. After dinner Morrel usually went out and +used to take his coffee at the club of the Phocéens, and read the +_Semaphore_; this day he did not leave the house, but returned to his +office. + +As to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the day he +went into the courtyard, seated himself on a stone with his head bare +and exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort the women, +but his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well acquainted with +the business of the house, not to feel that a great catastrophe hung +over the Morrel family. Night came, the two women had watched, hoping +that when he left his room Morrel would come to them, but they heard +him pass before their door, and trying to conceal the noise of his +footsteps. They listened; he went into his sleeping-room, and fastened +the door inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and half an +hour after Julie had retired, she rose, took off her shoes, and went +stealthily along the passage, to see through the keyhole what her +husband was doing. + +In the passage she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy +herself, had anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame +Morrel. + +“He is writing,” she said. + +They had understood each other without speaking. Madame Morrel looked +again through the keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel +remarked, what her daughter had not observed, that her husband was +writing on stamped paper. The terrible idea that he was writing his +will flashed across her; she shuddered, and yet had not strength to +utter a word. + +Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as +usual, came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he +placed his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her +for a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her +mother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed that +her father’s heart beat violently. + +The next two days passed in much the same way. On the evening of the +4th of September, M. Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his +study. Julie trembled at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen. +Why did her father ask for this key which she always kept, and which +was only taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl +looked at Morrel. + +“What have I done wrong, father,” she said, “that you should take this +key from me?” + +“Nothing, my dear,” replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his +eyes at this simple question,—“nothing, only I want it.” + +Julie made a pretence to feel for the key. “I must have left it in my +room,” she said. + +And she went out, but instead of going to her apartment she hastened to +consult Emmanuel. + +“Do not give this key to your father,” said he, “and tomorrow morning, +if possible, do not quit him for a moment.” + +She questioned Emmanuel, but he knew nothing, or would not say what he +knew. + +During the night, between the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel +remained listening for every sound, and, until three o’clock in the +morning, she heard her husband pacing the room in great agitation. It +was three o’clock when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and +daughter passed the night together. They had expected Maximilian since +the previous evening. At eight o’clock in the morning Morrel entered +their chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible +in his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he +had slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his +daughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and +kissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel’s request, was +following her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her +quickly: + +“Remain with your mother, dearest.” Julie wished to accompany him. “I +wish you to do so,” said he. + +This was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said it in a +tone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to disobey. She +remained at the same spot standing mute and motionless. An instant +afterwards the door opened, she felt two arms encircle her, and a mouth +pressed her forehead. She looked up and uttered an exclamation of joy. + +20053m + + + +“Maximilian, my dearest brother!” she cried. + +At these words Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son’s +arms. + +“Mother,” said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel and +her daughter, “what has occurred—what has happened? Your letter has +frightened me, and I have come hither with all speed.” + +“Julie,” said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, “go and +tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.” + +The young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of +the staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand. + +“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” inquired the man, with a +strong Italian accent. + +“Yes, sir,” replied Julie with hesitation; “what is your pleasure? I do +not know you.” + +“Read this letter,” he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated. “It +concerns the best interests of your father,” said the messenger. + +The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly +and read: + +“Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask +the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the +apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in +red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should +receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly. +Remember your oath. + +“Sinbad the Sailor.” + +The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to +question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again +over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a +postscript. She read: + +“It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and +alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else +go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything +about it.” + +This postscript decreased greatly the young girl’s happiness. Was there +nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence +had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl +of her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it; +indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that +inspire the greatest terror. + +Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular +impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied, +but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on +the day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father’s, +related the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made, +and showed him the letter. + +“You must go, then, mademoiselle,” said Emmanuel. + +“Go there?” murmured Julie. + +“Yes; I will accompany you.” + +“But did you not read that I must be alone?” said Julie. + +“And you shall be alone,” replied the young man. “I will await you at +the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to +make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you +shall have cause to complain to me!” + +“Then, Emmanuel?” said the young girl with hesitation, “it is your +opinion that I should obey this invitation?” + +“Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?” + +“But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?” she asked. + +Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide +immediately made him reply. + +“Listen,” he said; “today is the 5th of September, is it not?” + +“Yes.” + +“Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred +thousand francs to pay?” + +“Yes, we know that.” + +“Well, then,” continued Emmanuel, “we have not fifteen thousand francs +in the house.” + +“What will happen then?” + +“Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone +who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to +declare himself a bankrupt.” + +“Oh, come, then, come!” cried she, hastening away with the young man. + +During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young +man knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had +befallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of +living and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached +such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the +apartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study, +but he rapped there in vain. + +While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door +open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study, +M. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment +quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of +whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot, +pressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat. +Maximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his +father’s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on +Morrel’s breast. + +“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to +do with that brace of pistols under your coat?” + +“Oh, this is what I feared!” said Morrel. + +“Father, father, in Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young man, “what are +these weapons for?” + +“Maximilian,” replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, “you are a +man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you.” + +And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian +followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed +it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on +which he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open +ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his +affairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he +possessed was 15,257 francs. + +“Read!” said Morrel. + +The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What +could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures? + +“And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this +disastrous result?” asked the young man, after a moment’s pause. + +“I have,” replied Morrel. + +“You have no money coming in on which you can rely?” + +“None.” + +“You have exhausted every resource?” + +“All.” + +“And in half an hour,” said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, “our name is +dishonored!” + +“Blood washes out dishonor,” said Morrel. + +“You are right, father; I understand you.” Then extending his hand +towards one of the pistols, he said, “There is one for you and one for +me—thanks!” + +Morrel caught his hand. “Your mother—your sister! Who will support +them?” + +A shudder ran through the young man’s frame. “Father,” he said, “do you +reflect that you are bidding me to live?” + +“Yes, I do so bid you,” answered Morrel, “it is your duty. You have a +calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I +make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as +if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.” + +The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime +resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he +took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank. + +“Be it so, then, my father,” he said, extending his hand to Morrel, +“die in peace, my father; I will live.” + +Morrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but +Maximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were +pressed against each other for a moment. + +“You know it is not my fault,” said Morrel. + +20057m + + + +Maximilian smiled. “I know, father, you are the most honorable man I +have ever known.” + +“Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your +mother and sister.” + +“My father,” said the young man, bending his knee, “bless me!” Morrel +took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and +kissing his forehead several times said: + +“Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three +generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice +which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On +seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you. +To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me. +Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work, +labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself, +your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day +to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and +fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn, +that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very +office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day +done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I +should do.’” + +“My father, my father!” cried the young man, “why should you not live?” + +“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be +converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man +who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a +bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse +is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would +avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last +home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your +head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first +time, he has been compelled to break his word.’” + +The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned. + +“And now,” said Morrel, “leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your +mother and sister away.” + +“Will you not see my sister once more?” asked Maximilian. A last but +final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this +interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head. “I +saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.” + +“Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?” inquired +Maximilian in a faltering voice. + +“Yes; my son, and a sacred command.” + +“Say it, my father.” + +“The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or, +it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had +any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to +receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted, +but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my +son, and respect this man.” + +“Father, I will,” said Maximilian. + +“And now, once more, adieu,” said Morrel. “Go, leave me; I would be +alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom.” + +The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of +will and not the power of execution. + +“Hear me, Maximilian,” said his father. “Suppose I were a soldier like +you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be +killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now, +‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable +to shame!’” + +“Yes, yes,” said the young man, “yes;” and once again embracing his +father with convulsive pressure, he said, ��Be it so, my father.” + +And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel +remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then +putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment’s interval, +Cocles appeared. + +It was no longer the same man—the fearful revelations of the three last +days had crushed him. This thought—the house of Morrel is about to stop +payment—bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise +have done. + +“My worthy Cocles,” said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, “do +you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months +ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.” + +Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the +anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes +fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The +hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion. + +What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony +cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was +surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced +himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly +plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the +world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings, +one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation +and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on. +The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and +murmured his daughter’s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and +wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient +farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, +counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds. + +He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed +on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he +cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came +forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his +heart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its +hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his +study opened. Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of +Cocles, “The agent of Thomson & French.” + +He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard +a cry—it was his daughter’s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol +fell from his hands. + +“My father!” cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with +joy—“saved, you are saved!” And she threw herself into his arms, +holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse. + +20061m + + + +“Saved, my child!” said Morrel; “what do you mean?” + +“Yes, saved—saved! See, see!” said the young girl. + +Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague +remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end +was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a +diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of +parchment: _Julie’s Dowry_. + +Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this +moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer +fell upon his heart. + +“Explain, my child,” he said, “Explain, my child,” he said, +“explain—where did you find this purse?” + +“In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a +mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.” + +“But,” cried Morrel, “this purse is not yours!” Julie handed to her +father the letter she had received in the morning. + +“And did you go alone?” asked Morrel, after he had read it. + +“Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the +corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when +I returned.” + +“Monsieur Morrel!” exclaimed a voice on the stairs; “Monsieur Morrel!” + +“It is his voice!” said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his +countenance full of animation and joy. + +“The _Pharaon_!” he cried; “the _Pharaon_!” + +“What!—what!—the _Pharaon_! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel +is lost.” + +“The _Pharaon_, sir—they signal the _Pharaon_! The _Pharaon_ is +entering the harbor!” + +Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his +understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such +incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in. + +“Father,” cried Maximilian, “how could you say the _Pharaon_ was lost? +The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into +port.” + +20063m + + + +“My dear friends,” said Morrel, “if this be so, it must be a miracle of +heaven! Impossible, impossible!” + +But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his +hand, the acceptance receipted—the splendid diamond. + +“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Cocles, “what can it mean?—the _Pharaon_?” + +“Come, dear ones,” said Morrel, rising from his seat, “let us go and +see, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!” + +They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been +afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Canebière. +There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel. +“The _Pharaon_! the _Pharaon_!” said every voice. + +And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship +bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, “The +_Pharaon_, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.” She was the exact duplicate of +the other _Pharaon_, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and +indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain +Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M. +Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of +the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the +testimony. + +As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and +amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with +his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the +sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a +low tone: + +“Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and +wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your +good deeds.” + +20064m + + + +And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his +hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights +of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted +“Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!” + +Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a +yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity +of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping +with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around +him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to +be seeking in the skies. + +“And now,” said the unknown, “farewell kindness, humanity, and +gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have +been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of +vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!” + +At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal, +the yacht instantly put out to sea. + + + + Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor + +Towards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to the +first society of Paris, the Viscount Albert de Morcerf and the Baron +Franz d’Épinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see the Carnival +at Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last three or four years +had inhabited Italy, should act as _cicerone_ to Albert. + +As it is no inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at Rome, +especially when you have no great desire to sleep on the Piazza del +Popolo, or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the +proprietor of the Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, to reserve +comfortable apartments for them. Signor Pastrini replied that he had +only two rooms and a parlor on the third floor, which he offered at the +low charge of a louis per diem. They accepted his offer; but wishing to +make the best use of the time that was left, Albert started for Naples. +As for Franz, he remained at Florence, and after having passed a few +days in exploring the paradise of the Cascine, and spending two or +three evenings at the houses of the Florentine nobility, he took a +fancy into his head (having already visited Corsica, the cradle of +Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the waiting-place of Napoleon. + +One evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron ring +that secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his coat and +lay down, and said to the crew,—“To the Island of Elba!” + +The boat shot out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning Franz +disembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after having +followed the traces which the footsteps of the giant have left, and +re-embarked for Marciana. + +Two hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was assured that +red partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in +killing a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he +returned to the boat very much out of temper. + +“Ah, if your excellency chose,” said the captain, “you might have +capital sport.” + +“Where?” + +“Do you see that island?” continued the captain, pointing to a conical +pile rising from the indigo sea. + +“Well, what is this island?” + +“The Island of Monte Cristo.” + +“But I have no permission to shoot over this island.” + +“Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is +uninhabited.” + +“Ah, indeed!” said the young man. “A desert island in the midst of the +Mediterranean must be a curiosity.” + +“It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not +contain an acre of land capable of cultivation.” + +“To whom does this island belong?” + +“To Tuscany.” + +“What game shall I find there!” + +“Thousands of wild goats.” + +“Who live upon the stones, I suppose,” said Franz with an incredulous +smile. + +“No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices +of the rocks.” + +“Where can I sleep?” + +“On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your +excellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like—we can sail as +well by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars.” + +As Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were not yet +available, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in the +affirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a low tone. +“Well,” asked he, “what now? Is there any difficulty in the way?” + +“No.” replied the captain, “but we must warn your excellency that the +island is an infected port.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge +for the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and +Africa, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have +to perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn.” + +“The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why, +that’s as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a +wait—too long.” + +“But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo?” + +“Oh, I shall not,” cried Franz. + +“Nor I, nor I,” chorused the sailors. + +“Then steer for Monte Cristo.” + +The captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat was soon +sailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until all was in +order, and when the sail was filled, and the four sailors had taken +their places—three forward, and one at the helm—he resumed the +conversation. “Gaetano,” said he to the captain, “you tell me Monte +Cristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very +different kind of game from the goats.” + +“Yes, your excellency, and it is true.” + +“I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of +Algiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in +the romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat.” + +“Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who +were believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet, +every day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency +heard that the French _chargé d’affaires_ was robbed six months ago +within five hundred paces of Velletri?” + +“Oh, yes, I heard that.” + +“Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would +hear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English +yacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita +Vecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but, +doubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has +met has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who +have surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some +desert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses +of a forest.” + +“But,” asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the +boat, “why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French, +Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?” + +“Why?” said Gaetano with a smile. + +“Yes, why?” + +“Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their +own boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand +and foot, they attach to everyone’s neck a four-and-twenty-pound ball, +a large hole is chopped in the vessel’s bottom, and then they leave +her. At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and +settle down. First one gun’l goes under, then the other. Then they lift +and sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there’s a noise +like a cannon—that’s the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes +out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last +groan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool +in the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but +the eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the +sea. Do you understand now,” said the captain, “why no complaints are +made to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port?” + +It is probable that if Gaetano had related this previous to proposing +the expedition, Franz would have hesitated, but now that they had +started, he thought it would be cowardly to draw back. He was one of +those men who do not rashly court danger, but if danger presents +itself, combat it with the most unalterable coolness. Calm and +resolute, he treated any peril as he would an adversary in a +duel,—calculated its probable method of approach; retreated, if at all, +as a point of strategy and not from cowardice; was quick to see an +opening for attack, and won victory at a single thrust. + +“Bah!” said he, “I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria—I have +sailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even the +shadow of a bandit or a pirate.” + +“I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your project,” +replied Gaetano, “but you questioned me, and I have answered; that’s +all.” + +“Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish to enjoy +it as long as possible, steer for Monte Cristo.” + +The wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an hour, and +they were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As they drew near +the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that +they could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like +cannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes and trees growing in the +crevices. As for the sailors, although they appeared perfectly tranquil +yet it was evident that they were on the alert, and that they carefully +watched the glassy surface over which they were sailing, and on which a +few fishing-boats, with their white sails, were alone visible. + +They were within fifteen miles of Monte Cristo when the sun began to +set behind Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing +their rugged peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant +Adamastor, rose dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting the +light that gilded its massive peaks so that the voyagers were in +shadow. Little by little the shadow rose higher and seemed to drive +before it the last rays of the expiring day; at last the reflection +rested on the summit of the mountain, where it paused an instant, like +the fiery crest of a volcano, then gloom gradually covered the summit +as it had covered the base, and the island now only appeared to be a +gray mountain that grew continually darker; half an hour after, the +night was quite dark. + +Fortunately, the mariners were used to these latitudes, and knew every +rock in the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst of this obscurity +Franz was not without uneasiness—Corsica had long since disappeared, +and Monte Cristo itself was invisible; but the sailors seemed, like the +lynx, to see in the dark, and the pilot who steered did not evince the +slightest hesitation. + +An hour had passed since the sun had set, when Franz fancied he saw, at +a quarter of a mile to the left, a dark mass, but he could not +precisely make out what it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the +sailors by mistaking a floating cloud for land, he remained silent; +suddenly a great light appeared on the strand; land might resemble a +cloud, but the fire was not a meteor. + +“What is this light?” asked he. + +“Hush!” said the captain; “it is a fire.” + +“But you told me the island was uninhabited?” + +“I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also that it +served sometimes as a harbor for smugglers.” + +“And for pirates?” + +“And for pirates,” returned Gaetano, repeating Franz’s words. “It is +for that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for, as you +see, the fire is behind us.” + +“But this fire?” continued Franz. “It seems to me rather reassuring +than otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would not light a +fire.” + +“Oh, that goes for nothing,” said Gaetano. “If you can guess the +position of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire +cannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the sea.” + +“You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant +neighbors?” + +“That is what we must find out,” returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on +this terrestrial star. + +“How can you find out?” + +“You shall see.” + +Gaetano consulted with his companions, and after five minutes’ +discussion a manœuvre was executed which caused the vessel to tack +about, they returned the way they had come, and in a few minutes the +fire disappeared, hidden by an elevation of the land. The pilot again +changed the course of the boat, which rapidly approached the island, +and was soon within fifty paces of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and +the boat came to rest. All this was done in silence, and from the +moment that their course was changed not a word was spoken. + +Gaetano, who had proposed the expedition, had taken all the +responsibility on himself; the four sailors fixed their eyes on him, +while they got out their oars and held themselves in readiness to row +away, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult. As for +Franz, he examined his arms with the utmost coolness; he had two +double-barrelled guns and a rifle; he loaded them, looked at the +priming, and waited quietly. + +During this time the captain had thrown off his vest and shirt, and +secured his trousers round his waist; his feet were naked, so he had no +shoes and stockings to take off; after these preparations he placed his +finger on his lips, and lowering himself noiselessly into the sea, swam +towards the shore with such precaution that it was impossible to hear +the slightest sound; he could only be traced by the phosphorescent line +in his wake. This track soon disappeared; it was evident that he had +touched the shore. + +Everyone on board remained motionless for half an hour, when the same +luminous track was again observed, and the swimmer was soon on board. + +“Well?” exclaimed Franz and the sailors in unison. + +“They are Spanish smugglers,” said he; “they have with them two +Corsican bandits.” + +“And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish +smugglers?” + +“Alas,” returned the captain with an accent of the most profound pity, +“we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits are hard +pressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a vessel, and good +fellows like us on board, they come and demand hospitality of us; you +can’t refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we receive them, and for +greater security we stand out to sea. This costs us nothing, and saves +the life, or at least the liberty, of a fellow-creature, who on the +first occasion returns the service by pointing out some safe spot where +we can land our goods without interruption.” + +“Ah!” said Franz, “then you are a smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?” + +“Your excellency, we must live somehow,” returned the other, smiling +impenetrably. + +“Then you know the men who are now on Monte Cristo?” + +“Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each other by +signs.” + +“And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land?” + +“Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves.” + +“But these two Corsican bandits?” said Franz, calculating the chances +of peril. + +“It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the +authorities.” + +“How so?” + +“Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was not in +a Corsican’s nature to revenge himself.” + +“What do you mean by having made a stiff?—having assassinated a man?” +said Franz, continuing his investigation. + +“I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different +thing,” returned the captain. + +“Well,” said the young man, “let us demand hospitality of these +smugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it?” + +“Without doubt.” + +“How many are they?” + +“Four, and the two bandits make six.” + +“Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be able +to hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to Monte Cristo.” + +“Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due precautions.” + +“By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I do +more than permit, I exhort you.” + +“Silence, then!” said Gaetano. + +Everyone obeyed. For a man who, like Franz, viewed his position in its +true light, it was a grave one. He was alone in the darkness with +sailors whom he did not know, and who had no reason to be devoted to +him; who knew that he had several thousand francs in his belt, and who +had often examined his weapons,—which were very beautiful,—if not with +envy, at least with curiosity. On the other hand, he was about to land, +without any other escort than these men, on an island which had, +indeed, a very religious name, but which did not seem to Franz likely +to afford him much hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and bandits. +The history of the scuttled vessels, which had appeared improbable +during the day, seemed very probable at night; placed as he was between +two possible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and his +gun in his hand. + +The sailors had again hoisted sail, and the vessel was once more +cleaving the waves. Through the darkness Franz, whose eyes were now +more accustomed to it, could see the looming shore along which the boat +was sailing, and then, as they rounded a rocky point, he saw the fire +more brilliant than ever, and about it five or six persons seated. The +blaze illumined the sea for a hundred paces around. Gaetano skirted the +light, carefully keeping the boat in the shadow; then, when they were +opposite the fire, he steered to the centre of the circle, singing a +fishing song, of which his companions sung the chorus. + +At the first words of the song the men seated round the fire arose and +approached the landing-place, their eyes fixed on the boat, evidently +seeking to know who the new-comers were and what were their intentions. +They soon appeared satisfied and returned (with the exception of one, +who remained at the shore) to their fire, at which the carcass of a +goat was roasting. When the boat was within twenty paces of the shore, +the man on the beach, who carried a carbine, presented arms after the +manner of a sentinel, and cried, “Who comes there?” in Sardinian. + +Franz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few words +with this man which the traveller did not understand, but which +evidently concerned him. + +“Will your excellency give your name, or remain _incognito_?” asked the +captain. + +“My name must rest unknown,” replied Franz; “merely say I am a +Frenchman travelling for pleasure.” + +As soon as Gaetano had transmitted this answer, the sentinel gave an +order to one of the men seated round the fire, who rose and disappeared +among the rocks. Not a word was spoken, everyone seemed occupied, Franz +with his disembarkment, the sailors with their sails, the smugglers +with their goat; but in the midst of all this carelessness it was +evident that they mutually observed each other. + +The man who had disappeared returned suddenly on the opposite side to +that by which he had left; he made a sign with his head to the +sentinel, who, turning to the boat, said, “_S’accommodi_.” The Italian +_s’accommodi_ is untranslatable; it means at once, “Come, enter, you +are welcome; make yourself at home; you are the master.” It is like +that Turkish phrase of Molière’s that so astonished the bourgeois +gentleman by the number of things implied in its utterance. + +The sailors did not wait for a second invitation; four strokes of the +oar brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to shore, exchanged a few +words with the sentinel, then his comrades disembarked, and lastly came +Franz. One of his guns was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had the +other, and a sailor held his rifle; his dress, half artist, half dandy, +did not excite any suspicion, and, consequently, no disquietude. The +boat was moored to the shore, and they advanced a few paces to find a +comfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the spot they chose did not suit +the smuggler who filled the post of sentinel, for he cried out: + +“Not that way, if you please.” + +Gaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced to the opposite side, while +two sailors kindled torches at the fire to light them on their way. + +They advanced about thirty paces, and then stopped at a small esplanade +surrounded with rocks, in which seats had been cut, not unlike +sentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of the rocks grew a few dwarf oaks +and thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a torch, and saw by the mass +of cinders that had accumulated that he was not the first to discover +this retreat, which was, doubtless, one of the halting-places of the +wandering visitors of Monte Cristo. + +As for his suspicions, once on _terra firma_, once that he had seen the +indifferent, if not friendly, appearance of his hosts, his anxiety had +quite disappeared, or rather, at sight of the goat, had turned to +appetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing could +be more easy than to prepare a supper when they had in their boat, +bread, wine, half a dozen partridges, and a good fire to roast them by. + +“Besides,” added he, “if the smell of their roast meat tempts you, I +will go and offer them two of our birds for a slice.” + +“You are a born diplomat,” returned Franz; “go and try.” + +Meanwhile the sailors had collected dried sticks and branches with +which they made a fire. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the aroma of +the roasted meat, when the captain returned with a mysterious air. + +“Well,” said Franz, “anything new?—do they refuse?” + +“On the contrary,” returned Gaetano, “the chief, who was told you were +a young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him.” + +“Well,” observed Franz, “this chief is very polite, and I see no +objection—the more so as I bring my share of the supper.” + +“Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper; but he +makes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he will receive +you at his house.” + +“His house? Has he built one here, then?” + +“No, but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they say.” + +“You know this chief, then?” + +“I have heard talk of him.” + +“Favorably or otherwise?” + +“Both.” + +“The deuce!—and what is this condition?” + +“That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he +himself bids you.” + +Franz looked at Gaetano, to see, if possible, what he thought of this +proposal. “Ah,” replied he, guessing Franz’s thought, “I know this is a +serious matter.” + +“What should you do in my place?” + +“I, who have nothing to lose,—I should go.” + +20075m + + + +“You would accept?” + +“Yes, were it only out of curiosity.” + +“There is something very peculiar about this chief, then?” + +“Listen,” said Gaetano, lowering his voice, “I do not know if what they +say is true”—he stopped to see if anyone was near. + +“What do they say?” + +“That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is +nothing.” + +“What nonsense!” said Franz, reseating himself. + +“It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the _Saint +Ferdinand_, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that such +treasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales.” + +“Do you know,” observed Franz, “that with such stories you make me +think of Ali Baba’s enchanted cavern?” + +“I tell you what I have been told.” + +“Then you advise me to accept?” + +“Oh, I don’t say that; your excellency will do as you please; I should +be sorry to advise you in the matter.” + +Franz pondered the matter for a few moments, concluded that a man so +rich could not have any intention of plundering him of what little he +had, and seeing only the prospect of a good supper, accepted. Gaetano +departed with the reply. Franz was prudent, and wished to learn all he +possibly could concerning his host. He turned towards the sailor, who, +during this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking the partridges with the +air of a man proud of his office, and asked him how these men had +landed, as no vessel of any kind was visible. + +“Never mind that,” returned the sailor, “I know their vessel.” + +“Is it a very beautiful vessel?” + +“I would not wish for a better to sail round the world.” + +“Of what burden is she?” + +“About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather. She is +what the English call a yacht.” + +“Where was she built?” + +“I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese.” + +“And how did a leader of smugglers,” continued Franz, “venture to build +a vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa?” + +“I did not say that the owner was a smuggler,” replied the sailor. + +“No; but Gaetano did, I thought.” + +“Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not then +spoken to anyone.” + +“And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he?” + +“A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure.” + +“Come,” thought Franz, “he is still more mysterious, since the two +accounts do not agree.” + +“What is his name?” + +“If you ask him, he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be his +real name.” + +“Sinbad the Sailor?” + +“Yes.” + +“And where does he reside?” + +“On the sea.” + +“What country does he come from?” + +“I do not know.” + +“Have you ever seen him?” + +“Sometimes.” + +“What sort of a man is he?” + +“Your excellency will judge for yourself.” + +“Where will he receive me?” + +“No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of.” + +“Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and found this +island deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace?” + +“Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the grotto +all over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any opening; +they say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic word.” + +“Decidedly,” muttered Franz, “this is an Arabian Nights’ adventure.” + +“His excellency waits for you,” said a voice, which he recognized as +that of the sentinel. He was accompanied by two of the yacht’s crew. + +Franz drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and presented it to the +man who had spoken to him. Without uttering a word, they bandaged his +eyes with a care that showed their apprehensions of his committing some +indiscretion. Afterwards he was made to promise that he would not make +the least attempt to raise the bandage. He promised. + +Then his two guides took his arms, and he went on, guided by them, and +preceded by the sentinel. After going about thirty paces, he smelt the +appetizing odor of the kid that was roasting, and knew thus that he was +passing the bivouac; they then led him on about fifty paces farther, +evidently advancing towards that part of the shore where they would not +allow Gaetano to go—a refusal he could now comprehend. + +Presently, by a change in the atmosphere, he knew that they were +entering a cave; after going on for a few seconds more he heard a +crackling, and it seemed to him as though the atmosphere again changed, +and became balmy and perfumed. At length his feet touched on a thick +and soft carpet, and his guides let go their hold of him. There was a +moment’s silence, and then a voice, in excellent French, although, with +a foreign accent, said: + +“Welcome, sir. I beg you will remove your bandage.” + +It may be supposed, then, Franz did not wait for a repetition of this +permission, but took off the handkerchief, and found himself in the +presence of a man from thirty-eight to forty years of age, dressed in a +Tunisian costume, that is to say, a red cap with a long blue silk +tassel, a vest of black cloth embroidered with gold, pantaloons of deep +red, large and full gaiters of the same color, embroidered with gold +like the vest, and yellow slippers; he had a splendid cashmere round +his waist, and a small sharp and crooked cangiar was passed through his +girdle. + +Although of a paleness that was almost livid, this man had a remarkably +handsome face; his eyes were penetrating and sparkling; his nose, quite +straight, and projecting direct from the brow, was of the pure Greek +type, while his teeth, as white as pearls, were set off to admiration +by the black moustache that encircled them. + +His pallor was so peculiar, that it seemed to pertain to one who had +been long entombed, and who was incapable of resuming the healthy glow +and hue of life. He was not particularly tall, but extremely well made, +and, like the men of the South, had small hands and feet. But what +astonished Franz, who had treated Gaetano’s description as a fable, was +the splendor of the apartment in which he found himself. + +The entire chamber was lined with crimson brocade, worked with flowers +of gold. In a recess was a kind of divan, surmounted with a stand of +Arabian swords in silver scabbards, and the handles resplendent with +gems; from the ceiling hung a lamp of Venetian glass, of beautiful +shape and color, while the feet rested on a Turkey carpet, in which +they sunk to the instep; tapestry hung before the door by which Franz +had entered, and also in front of another door, leading into a second +apartment which seemed to be brilliantly illuminated. + +The host gave Franz time to recover from his surprise, and, moreover, +returned look for look, not even taking his eyes off him. + +“Sir,” he said, after a pause, “a thousand excuses for the precaution +taken in your introduction hither; but as, during the greater portion +of the year, this island is deserted, if the secret of this abode were +discovered, I should doubtless, find on my return my temporary +retirement in a state of great disorder, which would be exceedingly +annoying, not for the loss it occasioned me, but because I should not +have the certainty I now possess of separating myself from all the rest +of mankind at pleasure. Let me now endeavor to make you forget this +temporary unpleasantness, and offer you what no doubt you did not +expect to find here—that is to say, a tolerable supper and pretty +comfortable beds.” + +“_Ma foi_, my dear sir,” replied Franz, “make no apologies. I have +always observed that they bandage people’s eyes who penetrate enchanted +palaces, for instance, those of Raoul in the _Huguenots_, and really I +have nothing to complain of, for what I see makes me think of the +wonders of the _Arabian Nights_.” + +20079m + + + +“Alas! I may say with Lucullus, if I could have anticipated the honor +of your visit, I would have prepared for it. But such as is my +hermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to +share, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready?” + +At this moment the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, black as ebony, +and dressed in a plain white tunic, made a sign to his master that all +was prepared in the dining-room. + +“Now,” said the unknown to Franz, “I do not know if you are of my +opinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or +three hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to +address one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of +hospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me +one by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself, +that I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called +‘Sinbad the Sailor.’” + +“And I,” replied Franz, “will tell you, as I only require his wonderful +lamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at +this moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from +going away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been +conveyed by some good genius.” + +“Well, then, Signor Aladdin,” replied the singular Amphitryon, “you +heard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the +dining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way?” + +At these words, moving aside the tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest. +Franz now looked upon another scene of enchantment; the table was +splendidly covered, and once convinced of this important point he cast +his eyes around him. The dining-room was scarcely less striking than +the room he had just left; it was entirely of marble, with antique +bas-reliefs of priceless value; and at the four corners of this +apartment, which was oblong, were four magnificent statues, having +baskets in their hands. These baskets contained four pyramids of most +splendid fruit; there were Sicily pine-apples, pomegranates from +Malaga, oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches from France, and dates +from Tunis. + +The supper consisted of a roast pheasant garnished with Corsican +blackbirds; a boar’s ham with jelly, a quarter of a kid with tartar +sauce, a glorious turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between these large +dishes were smaller ones containing various dainties. The dishes were +of silver, and the plates of Japanese china. + +Franz rubbed his eyes in order to assure himself that this was not a +dream. Ali alone was present to wait at table, and acquitted himself so +admirably, that the guest complimented his host thereupon. + +“Yes,” replied he, while he did the honors of the supper with much ease +and grace—“yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does +all he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he +has a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for +having kept it on his shoulders.” + +Ali approached his master, took his hand, and kissed it. + +“Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad,” said Franz, “to ask you the +particulars of this kindness?” + +20081m + + + +“Oh, they are simple enough,” replied the host. “It seems the fellow +had been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than +etiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey +to have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue +the first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always +had a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his +tongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali +a splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of +having. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the +poor devil’s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass +with which I had shivered his highness’s yataghan to pieces, the Bey +yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that +the poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless +clause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse +of the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to +appear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe.” + +Franz remained a moment silent and pensive, hardly knowing what to +think of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with which his host related +the brief narrative. + +“And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed,” he said, +by way of changing the conversation, “you pass your life in +travelling?” + +“Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be +able to accomplish it,” said the unknown with a singular smile; “and I +made some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season.” + +Although Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes +gave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity. + +“You have suffered a great deal, sir?” said Franz inquiringly. + +Sinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied, “What makes +you suppose so?” + +“Everything,” answered Franz,—“your voice, your look, your pallid +complexion, and even the life you lead.” + +“I?—I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am +king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I +get tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like +one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by +delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I +have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or +appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you +had tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never +return to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish +there.” + +“Revenge, for instance!” observed Franz. + +The unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate +into the depth of the heart and thoughts. “And why revenge?” he asked. + +“Because,” replied Franz, “you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by +society, has a fearful account to settle with it.” + +“Ah!” responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which +displayed his white and sharp teeth. “You have not guessed rightly. +Such as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I +shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little +blue cloak.” + +“And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?” + +“Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you +that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long—it will happen one +day or the other.” + +20083m + + + +“And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?” + +“I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain +arrangements.” + +“I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to +repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality +displayed to me at Monte Cristo.” + +“I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure,” replied the host, +“but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability, +_incognito_.” + +The supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the +unknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to +which his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or +rather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them +on the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with +a silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table +roused Franz’s curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of +greenish paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was +perfectly unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the +cup contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting +his eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment. + +“You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can +you?” + +“No, I really cannot.” + +“Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia +which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.” + +“But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through +mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human +name; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which, +to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?” + +“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad; +“we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without +regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing +it. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste +this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you. +Are you a man of imagination—a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of +possibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you +advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of +unfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the +greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a +king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe +like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the +universe, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you +will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not +tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is +only to do thus? look!” + +At these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance +so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his +lips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent +backwards. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite +sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired: + +“What, then, is this precious stuff?” + +“Did you ever hear,” he replied, “of the Old Man of the Mountain, who +attempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste?” + +“Of course I have.” + +“Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the +mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were +magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens +isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and +there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which +transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs, +ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took +for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous, +so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave +it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck +down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing +that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life +of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a +slight foretaste.” + +“Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that—by name at least.” + +“That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish—the purest and +most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria,—the hashish of Abou-Gor, the +celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a +palace, inscribed with these words, _A grateful world to the dealer in +happiness_.” + +“Do you know,” said Franz, “I have a very great inclination to judge +for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies.” + +“Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin—judge, but do not confine yourself +to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a +fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle +in nature against this divine substance,—in nature which is not made +for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat, +the dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme, +then the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what +changes occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with +the joys of the assumed existence, that you would desire to live no +longer, but to dream thus forever. When you return to this mundane +sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan +spring for a Lapland winter—to quit paradise for earth—heaven for hell! +Taste the hashish, guest of mine—taste the hashish.” + +Franz’s only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous +preparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and lift +it to his mouth. + +“_Diable!_” he said, after having swallowed the divine preserve. “I do +not know if the result will be as agreeable as you describe, but the +thing does not appear to me as palatable as you say.” + +“Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the +substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea, +porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did +you like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their +pheasants with assafœtida, and the Chinese eat swallows’ nests? Eh? no! +Well, it is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in +the world will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which +now appears to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the +adjoining chamber, which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us +coffee and pipes.” + +They both arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad—and whom we +have occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some +title by which to distinguish him—gave some orders to the servant, +Franz entered still another apartment. + +It was simply yet richly furnished. It was round, and a large divan +completely encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all covered +with magnificent skins as soft and downy as the richest carpets; there +were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, striped tiger-skins from +Bengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted beautifully, like those +that appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, fox-skins from Norway, +and so on; and all these skins were strewn in profusion one on the +other, so that it seemed like walking over the most mossy turf, or +reclining on the most luxurious bed. + +Both laid themselves down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes +and amber mouthpieces were within reach, and all prepared so that there +was no need to smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them took one, which +Ali lighted and then retired to prepare the coffee. + +There was a moment’s silence, during which Sinbad gave himself up to +thoughts that seemed to occupy him incessantly, even in the midst of +his conversation; and Franz abandoned himself to that mute reverie, +into which we always sink when smoking excellent tobacco, which seems +to remove with its fume all the troubles of the mind, and to give the +smoker in exchange all the visions of the soul. Ali brought in the +coffee. + +“How do you take it?” inquired the unknown; “in the French or Turkish +style, strong or weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? As you please; +it is ready in all ways.” + +“I will take it in the Turkish style,” replied Franz. + +“And you are right,” said his host; “it shows you have a tendency for +an Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know +how to live. As for me,” he added, with one of those singular smiles +which did not escape the young man, “when I have completed my affairs +in Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me +again, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan.” + +20087m + + + +“_Ma foi_,” said Franz, “it would be the easiest thing in the world; +for I feel eagle’s wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those +wings I could make a tour of the world in four-and-twenty hours.” + +“Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings, +and fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over +you; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we +are here to ease your fall.” + +He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience +and withdrew, but not to any distance. + +As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the +bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the +events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the +first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be +aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy +lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses +seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it +was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen +before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all +the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of +the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his +sailors,—songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a +divine harmony had their notes been taken down,—he saw the Island of +Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the +waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, +the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose +to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or +Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city. + +At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without +shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued +strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to +descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that +which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from +such perfumes as set the mind a-dreaming, and such fires as burn the +very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from +Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed +to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows +of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the +chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps +which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure. + +They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, +with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair. +They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated +courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian +angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm +shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow +before these marble wantons. + +Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and +approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in +their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves, +and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which +saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which +the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that +held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a +voluptuous kiss. + +It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about +him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a +dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips +of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so +that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, +love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were +pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like +embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more +his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle +that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and +exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the +enchantment of his marvellous dream. + + + + Chapter 32. The Waking + +When Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He +thought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity +scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he +rose to his seat, and found himself lying on his bournous in a bed of +dry heather, very soft and odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as if +the statues had been but shadows from the tomb, they had vanished at +his waking. + +He advanced several paces towards the point whence the light came, and +to all the excitement of his dream succeeded the calmness of reality. +He found that he was in a grotto, went towards the opening, and through +a kind of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The air and water +were shining in the beams of the morning sun; on the shore the sailors +were sitting, chatting and laughing; and at ten yards from them the +boat was at anchor, undulating gracefully on the water. + +There for some time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which played on his +brow, and listened to the dash of the waves on the beach, that left +against the rocks a lace of foam as white as silver. He was for some +time without reflection or thought for the divine charm which is in the +things of nature, specially after a fantastic dream; then gradually +this view of the outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand, reminded him +of the illusiveness of his vision, and once more awakened memory. He +recalled his arrival on the island, his presentation to a smuggler +chief, a subterranean palace full of splendor, an excellent supper, and +a spoonful of hashish. + +It seemed, however, even in the very face of open day, that at least a +year had elapsed since all these things had passed, so deep was the +impression made in his mind by the dream, and so strong a hold had it +taken of his imagination. Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid +the sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the +shadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise, +his head was perfectly clear, and his body refreshed; he was free from +the slightest headache; on the contrary, he felt a certain degree of +lightness, a faculty for absorbing the pure air, and enjoying the +bright sunshine more vividly than ever. + +He went gayly up to the sailors, who rose as soon as they perceived +him; and the patron, accosting him, said: + +“The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and +desires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his +leave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important +business calls him to Malaga.” + +“So, then, Gaetano,” said Franz, “this is, then, all reality; there +exists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right +royally, and has departed while I was asleep?” + +“He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all +her sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all +probability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew.” + +So saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction in which a small vessel was +making sail towards the southern point of Corsica. Franz adjusted his +telescope, and directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano was not mistaken. +At the stern the mysterious stranger was standing up looking towards +the shore, and holding a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as he +had been on the previous evening, and waved his pocket-handkerchief to +his guest in token of adieu. Franz returned the salute by shaking his +handkerchief as an exchange of signals. After a second, a slight cloud +of smoke was seen at the stern of the vessel, which rose gracefully as +it expanded in the air, and then Franz heard a slight report. + +“There, do you hear?” observed Gaetano; “he is bidding you adieu.” + +The young man took his carbine and fired it in the air, but without any +idea that the noise could be heard at the distance which separated the +yacht from the shore. + +“What are your excellency’s orders?” inquired Gaetano. + +“In the first place, light me a torch.” + +“Ah, yes, I understand,” replied the patron, “to find the entrance to +the enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it +would amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too +have had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has +come over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch,” +he added, “and give it to his excellency.” + +Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, and entered the subterranean +grotto, followed by Gaetano. He recognized the place where he had +awaked by the bed of heather that was there; but it was in vain that he +carried his torch all round the exterior surface of the grotto. He saw +nothing, unless that, by traces of smoke, others had before him +attempted the same thing, and, like him, in vain. Yet he did not leave +a foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without +strict scrutiny; he did not see a fissure without introducing the blade +of his hunting sword into it, or a projecting point on which he did not +lean and press in the hopes it would give way. All was vain; and he +lost two hours in his attempts, which were at last utterly useless. At +the end of this time he gave up his search, and Gaetano smiled. + +When Franz appeared again on the shore, the yacht only seemed like a +small white speck on the horizon. He looked again through his glass, +but even then he could not distinguish anything. + +Gaetano reminded him that he had come for the purpose of shooting +goats, which he had utterly forgotten. He took his fowling-piece, and +began to hunt over the island with the air of a man who is fulfilling a +duty, rather than enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter of +an hour he had killed a goat and two kids. These animals, though wild +and agile as chamois, were too much like domestic goats, and Franz +could not consider them as game. Moreover, other ideas, much more +enthralling, occupied his mind. Since, the evening before, he had +really been the hero of one of the tales of the _Thousand and One +Nights_, and he was irresistibly attracted towards the grotto. + +Then, in spite of the failure of his first search, he began a second, +after having told Gaetano to roast one of the two kids. The second +visit was a long one, and when he returned the kid was roasted and the +repast ready. Franz was sitting on the spot where he was on the +previous evening when his mysterious host had invited him to supper; +and he saw the little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the wave, +continuing her flight towards Corsica. + +“Why,” he remarked to Gaetano, “you told me that Signor Sinbad was +going to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of +Porto-Vecchio.” + +“Don’t you remember,” said the patron, “I told you that among the crew +there were two Corsican brigands?” + +“True; and he is going to land them,” added Franz. + +“Precisely so,” replied Gaetano. “Ah, he is one who fears neither God +nor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his +course to do a poor devil a service.” + +20093m + + + +“But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of +the country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,” said +Franz. + +“And what cares he for that,” replied Gaetano with a laugh, “or any +authorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the +first place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any +frigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on +the coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere?” + +It was perfectly clear that the Signor Sinbad, Franz’s host, had the +honor of being on excellent terms with the smugglers and bandits along +the whole coast of the Mediterranean, and so enjoyed exceptional +privileges. As to Franz, he had no longer any inducement to remain at +Monte Cristo. He had lost all hope of detecting the secret of the +grotto; he consequently despatched his breakfast, and, his boat being +ready, he hastened on board, and they were soon under way. At the +moment the boat began her course they lost sight of the yacht, as it +disappeared in the gulf of Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the last +trace of the preceding night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish, +statues,—all became a dream for Franz. + +The boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the +sun rose, they had lost sight of Monte Cristo. + +When Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment +at least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his +affairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he +should rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome. + +He set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane +by the mail-coach. An apartment, as we have said, had been retained +beforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini’s hotel. But +this was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with +people, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur +which precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great +events in every year,—the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the +Feast of St. Peter. + +All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy, +between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station +between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of +poetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six +times, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking. + +At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually +increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel. +On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to +hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that +there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his +card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan +succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for +having made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the +candlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller +and was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared. + +The apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms +looked on to the street—a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as +an inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very +rich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the +host was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller +belonged. + +“Very good, signor Pastrini,” said Franz; “but we must have some supper +instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.” + +“As to supper,” replied the landlord, “you shall be served immediately; +but as for the carriage——” + +“What as to the carriage?” exclaimed Albert. “Come, come, Signor +Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.” + +“Sir,” replied the host, “we will do all in our power to procure you +one—this is all I can say.” + +“And when shall we know?” inquired Franz. + +“Tomorrow morning,” answered the innkeeper. + +“Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly +enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common +days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast +days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and +there’s an end of it.” + +“I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a +carriage.” + +“Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the +journey, but that’s no matter.” + +“There are no horses.” + +Albert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not +understand. + +“Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?” he said, “but can’t +we have post-horses?” + +“They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but +those absolutely requisite for posting.” + +“What are we to say to this?” asked Franz. + +“I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am +accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is +supper ready, Signor Pastrini?” + +“Yes, your excellency.” + +“Well, then, let us sup.” + +“But the carriage and horses?” said Franz. + +“Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a +question of how much shall be charged for them.” Morcerf then, with +that delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to +a full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept +soundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a +coach with six horses. + + + + Chapter 33. Roman Bandits + +The next morning Franz woke first, and instantly rang the bell. The +sound had not yet died away when Signor Pastrini himself entered. + +“Well, excellency,” said the landlord triumphantly, and without waiting +for Franz to question him, “I feared yesterday, when I would not +promise you anything, that you were too late—there is not a single +carriage to be had—that is, for the three last days” + +“Yes,” returned Franz, “for the very three days it is most needed.” + +“What is the matter?” said Albert, entering; “no carriage to be had?” + +“Just so,” returned Franz, “you have guessed it.” + +“Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place.” + +“That is to say, excellency,” replied Pastrini, who was desirous of +keeping up the dignity of the capital of the Christian world in the +eyes of his guest, “that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday +to Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you +please.” + +“Ah, that is something,” said Albert; “today is Thursday, and who knows +what may arrive between this and Sunday?” + +“Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive,” replied Franz, “which +will make it still more difficult.” + +“My friend,” said Morcerf, “let us enjoy the present without gloomy +forebodings for the future.” + +“At least we can have a window?” + +“Where?” + +“In the Corso.” + +“Ah, a window!” exclaimed Signor Pastrini,—“utterly impossible; there +was only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has +been let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.” + +The two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction. + +“Well,” said Franz to Albert, “do you know what is the best thing we +can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of +obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.” + +“Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival, +and I will, though I see it on stilts.” + +“Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster +pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete +success.” + +“Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday +morning?” + +“_Parbleu!_” said Albert, “do you think we are going to run about on +foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers’ clerks?” + +“I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you +beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.” + +“And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next +apartments,” said Franz, “I warn you, that as I have been four times +before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give +you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then +you will make a good profit.” + +“But, excellency”—said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point. + +“Now go,” returned Franz, “or I shall go myself and bargain with your +_affettatore_, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has +plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out +of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will +lose the preference, and that will be your fault.” + +“Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency,” returned Signor +Pastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he +confesses defeat; “I will do all I can, and I hope you will be +satisfied.” + +“And now we understand each other.” + +“When do you wish the carriage to be here?” + +“In an hour.” + +“In an hour it will be at the door.” + +An hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance +which was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the +occasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would +have thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three +days of the Carnival. + +“Excellency,” cried the _cicerone_, seeing Franz approach the window, +“shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?” + +Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse +was to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was +the “excellency,” the vehicle was the “carriage,” and the Hôtel de +Londres was the “palace.” The genius for laudation characteristic of +the race was in that phrase. + +Franz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their +excellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the _cicerone_ +sprang into the seat behind. + +“Where do your excellencies wish to go?” asked he. + +“To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,” returned Albert. +But Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter’s, and a +month to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter’s alone. + +Suddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch—it +was half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz +ordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the +Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter’s by daylight. +When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same +pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been. + +He was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall, +and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the +Colosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on +the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of +Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra. + +They sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet; +he gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in +person. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and +began accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted. + +“Excellency,” said Pastrini, “I am delighted to have your approbation, +but it was not for that I came.” + +“Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?” asked Albert, +lighting his cigar. + +“No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any +longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told +anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.” + +“It is much more convenient at Paris,—when anything cannot be done, you +pay double, and it is done directly.” + +“That is what all the French say,” returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat +piqued; “for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.” + +“But,” said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair +on its hind legs, “only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel. +Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their +walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Café de Paris.” + +It is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street, +appeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the +only restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good +terms with its waiters. + +Signor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he +was musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear. + +“But,” said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host’s meditations, +“you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?” + +20099m + + + +“Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?” + +“I have.” + +“You intend visiting _Il Colosseo_.” + +“You mean the Colosseum?” + +“It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by +the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the +Porta San Giovanni?” + +“These are my words exactly.” + +“Well, this route is impossible.” + +“Impossible!” + +“Very dangerous, to say the least.” + +“Dangerous!—and why?” + +“On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.” + +“Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?” inquired Albert; “he may be +very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at +Paris.” + +“What! do you not know him?” + +“I have not that honor.” + +“You have never heard his name?” + +“Never.” + +“Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the +Gasparones were mere children.” + +“Now then, Albert,” cried Franz, “here is a bandit for you at last.” + +“I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of +what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin. ‘Once upon +a time——’ Well, go on.” + +Signor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more +reasonable of the two; we must do him justice,—he had had a great many +Frenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them. + +“Excellency,” said he gravely, addressing Franz, “if you look upon me +as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your +interest I——” + +“Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “but +that he will not believe what you are going to tell us,—but I will +believe all you say; so proceed.” + +“But if your excellency doubt my veracity——” + +“Signor Pastrini,” returned Franz, “you are more susceptible than +Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while +you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come, +sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.” + +“I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had +since the days of Mastrilla.” + +“Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the +coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to re-enter by +the Porta San Giovanni?” + +20101m + + + +“This,” replied Signor Pastrini, “that you will go out by one, but I +very much doubt your returning by the other.” + +“Why?” asked Franz. + +“Because, after nightfall, you are not safe fifty yards from the +gates.” + +“On your honor, is that true?” cried Albert. + +“Count,” returned Signor Pastrini, hurt at Albert’s repeated doubts of +the truth of his assertions, “I do not say this to you, but to your +companion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to +be laughed at.” + +“My dear fellow,” said Albert, turning to Franz, “here is an admirable +adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and +double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him—we +bring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who +asks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a +carriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage, +and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and +proclaim us, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, the preservers of their +country.” + +Whilst Albert proposed this scheme, Signor Pastrini’s face assumed an +expression impossible to describe. + +“And pray,” asked Franz, “where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and +other deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage?” + +“Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my +hunting-knife. And you?” + +“I shared the same fate at Aquapendente.” + +“Do you know, Signor Pastrini,” said Albert, lighting a second cigar at +the first, “that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that +it seems to be due to an arrangement of their own.” + +Doubtless Signor Pastrini found this pleasantry compromising, for he +only answered half the question, and then he spoke to Franz, as the +only one likely to listen with attention. “Your excellency knows that +it is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits.” + +“What!” cried Albert, whose courage revolted at the idea of being +plundered tamely, “not make any resistance!” + +“No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits +who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces +at you?” + +“Eh, _parbleu!_—they should kill me.” + +The innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say, “Your +friend is decidedly mad.” + +“My dear Albert,” returned Franz, “your answer is sublime, and worthy +the ‘_Let him die_,’ of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer, +the safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify +a whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a +motive.” + +Albert poured himself out a glass of _lacryma Christi_, which he sipped +at intervals, muttering some unintelligible words. + +“Well, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “now that my companion is quieted, +and you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this +Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman?—young or old?—tall or +short? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Jean +Sbogar or Lara, we may recognize him.” + +“You could not apply to anyone better able to inform you on all these +points, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell +into his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me, +recollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a +present of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me.” + +“Let us see the watch,” said Albert. + +Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a magnificent Bréguet, bearing the +name of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and a count’s coronet. + +“Here it is,” said he. + +“_Peste!_” returned Albert, “I compliment you on it; I have its +fellow”—he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket—“and it cost me +3,000 francs.” + +“Let us hear the history,” said Franz, motioning Signor Pastrini to +seat himself. + +“Your excellencies permit it?” asked the host. + +“_Pardieu!_” cried Albert, “you are not a preacher, to remain +standing!” + +The host sat down, after having made each of them a respectful bow, +which meant that he was ready to tell them all they wished to know +concerning Luigi Vampa. + +“You tell me,” said Franz, at the moment Signor Pastrini was about to +open his mouth, “that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child—he is +still a young man, then?” + +“A young man? he is only two-and-twenty;—he will gain himself a +reputation.” + +“What do you think of that, Albert?—at two-and-twenty to be thus +famous?” + +“Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Cæsar, and Napoleon, who have all made +some noise in the world, were quite behind him.” + +“So,” continued Franz, “the hero of this history is only +two-and-twenty?” + +“Scarcely so much.” + +“Is he tall or short?” + +“Of the middle height—about the same stature as his excellency,” +returned the host, pointing to Albert. + +“Thanks for the comparison,” said Albert, with a bow. + +“Go on, Signor Pastrini,” continued Franz, smiling at his friend’s +susceptibility. “To what class of society does he belong?” + +“He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice, +situated between Palestrina and the Lake of Gabri; he was born at +Pampinara, and entered the count’s service when he was five years old; +his father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by +the wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the +little Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he +was seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to +be taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his +flock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little +hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was +called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and +that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be +short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child +accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road +that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the +morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and +the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At +the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough—he +must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make +three alphabets—one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out +to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the +letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the +flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at +Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a +sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of +slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write. +The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a +present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but +nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well +with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to +the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him +read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with +the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi +purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to +everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep, +houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of +objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had +commenced. + +20105m + + + +“A girl of six or seven—that is, a little younger than Vampa—tended +sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone +and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other, +let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed +together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock +from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their +respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they +kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and +Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself. +Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as +he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness +and enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic. +None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able +to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His +disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make +them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a +look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded +beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might +have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and +gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received +every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of +all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in +ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her +friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired +peasant near Rome. + +“The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each +other, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different +characters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their +conversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an +army, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly +attired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they +had thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated +their flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the +reality of their humble position. + +“One day the young shepherd told the count’s steward that he had seen a +wolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The +steward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an +excellent barrel, made at Brescia, and carrying a ball with the +precision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock, +and had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a +sculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what +change it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a +fresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen +or twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be +farther from his thoughts. + +“For a long time a gun had been the young man’s greatest ambition. In +every country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the +first desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once +renders him capable of defence or attack, and, by rendering its owner +terrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all +his leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious +weapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a +mark—the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the +Sabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding +excursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon +became so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at +the report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever +he pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand. + +20107m + + + +“One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood near which they were +usually stationed, but the wolf had scarcely advanced ten yards ere he +was dead. Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the dead animal on his +shoulders, and carried him to the farm. These exploits had gained Luigi +considerable reputation. The man of superior abilities always finds +admirers, go where he will. He was spoken of as the most adroit, the +strongest, and the most courageous _contadino_ for ten leagues around; +and although Teresa was universally allowed to be the most beautiful +girl of the Sabines, no one had ever spoken to her of love, because it +was known that she was beloved by Vampa. And yet the two young people +had never declared their affection; they had grown together like two +trees whose roots are mingled, whose branches intertwined, and whose +intermingled perfume rises to the heavens. Only their wish to see each +other had become a necessity, and they would have preferred death to a +day’s separation. + +“Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this time, a band of +brigands that had established itself in the Lepini mountains began to +be much spoken of. The brigands have never been really extirpated from +the neighborhood of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but when a chief +presents himself he rarely has to wait long for a band of followers. + +“The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in the Abruzzo, driven out of the +kingdom of Naples, where he had carried on a regular war, had crossed +the Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken refuge on the banks of the +Amasine between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove to collect a band of +followers, and followed the footsteps of Decesaris and Gasparone, whom +he hoped to surpass. Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, and +Pampinara had disappeared. Their disappearance at first caused much +disquietude; but it was soon known that they had joined Cucumetto. +After some time Cucumetto became the object of universal attention; the +most extraordinary traits of ferocious daring and brutality were +related of him. + +“One day he carried off a young girl, the daughter of a surveyor of +Frosinone. The bandit’s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first +to him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is +abandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings. When +their parents are sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a messenger is +sent to negotiate; the prisoner is hostage for the security of the +messenger; should the ransom be refused, the prisoner is irrevocably +lost. The young girl’s lover was in Cucumetto’s troop; his name was +Carlini. When she recognized her lover, the poor girl extended her arms +to him, and believed herself safe; but Carlini felt his heart sink, for +he but too well knew the fate that awaited her. However, as he was a +favorite with Cucumetto, as he had for three years faithfully served +him, and as he had saved his life by shooting a dragoon who was about +to cut him down, he hoped the chief would have pity on him. He took +Cucumetto one side, while the young girl, seated at the foot of a huge +pine that stood in the centre of the forest, made a veil of her +picturesque head-dress to hide her face from the lascivious gaze of the +bandits. There he told the chief all—his affection for the prisoner, +their promises of mutual fidelity, and how every night, since he had +been near, they had met in some neighboring ruins. + +20109m + + + +“It so happened that night that Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a +village, so that he had been unable to go to the place of meeting. +Cucumetto had been there, however, by accident, as he said, and had +carried the maiden off. Carlini besought his chief to make an exception +in Rita’s favor, as her father was rich, and could pay a large ransom. +Cucumetto seemed to yield to his friend’s entreaties, and bade him find +a shepherd to send to Rita’s father at Frosinone. + +“Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling her she was saved, and bidding +her write to her father, to inform him what had occurred, and that her +ransom was fixed at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours’ delay was all +that was granted—that is, until nine the next morning. The instant the +letter was written, Carlini seized it, and hastened to the plain to +find a messenger. He found a young shepherd watching his flock. The +natural messengers of the bandits are the shepherds who live between +the city and the mountains, between civilized and savage life. The boy +undertook the commission, promising to be in Frosinone in less than an +hour. Carlini returned, anxious to see his mistress, and announce the +joyful intelligence. He found the troop in the glade, supping off the +provisions exacted as contributions from the peasants; but his eye +vainly sought Rita and Cucumetto among them. + +“He inquired where they were, and was answered by a burst of laughter. +A cold perspiration burst from every pore, and his hair stood on end. +He repeated his question. One of the bandits rose, and offered him a +glass filled with Orvietto, saying, ‘To the health of the brave +Cucumetto and the fair Rita.’ At this moment Carlini heard a woman’s +cry; he divined the truth, seized the glass, broke it across the face +of him who presented it, and rushed towards the spot whence the cry +came. After a hundred yards he turned the corner of the thicket; he +found Rita senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini, +Cucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. The two brigands looked at each +other for a moment—the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips, +the other with the pallor of death on his brow. A terrible battle +between the two men seemed imminent; but by degrees Carlini’s features +relaxed, his hand, which had grasped one of the pistols in his belt, +fell to his side. Rita lay between them. The moon lighted the group. + +“‘Well,’ said Cucumetto, ‘have you executed your commission?’ + +“‘Yes, captain,’ returned Carlini. ‘At nine o’clock tomorrow Rita’s +father will be here with the money.’ + +“‘It is well; in the meantime, we will have a merry night; this young +girl is charming, and does credit to your taste. Now, as I am not +egotistical, we will return to our comrades and draw lots for her.’ + +“‘You have determined, then, to abandon her to the common law?’ said +Carlini. + +“‘Why should an exception be made in her favor?’ + +“‘I thought that my entreaties——’ + +“‘What right have you, any more than the rest, to ask for an +exception?’ + +“‘It is true.’ + +“‘But never mind,’ continued Cucumetto, laughing, ‘sooner or later your +turn will come.’ Carlini’s teeth clenched convulsively. + +“‘Now, then,’ said Cucumetto, advancing towards the other bandits, ‘are +you coming?’ + +“‘I follow you.’ + +20111m + + + +“Cucumetto departed, without losing sight of Carlini, for, doubtless, +he feared lest he should strike him unawares; but nothing betrayed a +hostile design on Carlini’s part. He was standing, his arms folded, +near Rita, who was still insensible. Cucumetto fancied for a moment the +young man was about to take her in his arms and fly; but this mattered +little to him now Rita had been his; and as for the money, three +hundred piastres distributed among the band was so small a sum that he +cared little about it. He continued to follow the path to the glade; +but, to his great surprise, Carlini arrived almost as soon as himself. + +“‘Let us draw lots! let us draw lots!’ cried all the brigands, when +they saw the chief. + +“Their demand was fair, and the chief inclined his head in sign of +acquiescence. The eyes of all shone fiercely as they made their demand, +and the red light of the fire made them look like demons. The names of +all, including Carlini, were placed in a hat, and the youngest of the +band drew forth a ticket; the ticket bore the name of Diavolaccio. He +was the man who had proposed to Carlini the health of their chief, and +to whom Carlini replied by breaking the glass across his face. A large +wound, extending from the temple to the mouth, was bleeding profusely. +Diavolaccio, seeing himself thus favored by fortune, burst into a loud +laugh. + +“‘Captain,’ said he, ‘just now Carlini would not drink your health when +I proposed it to him; propose mine to him, and let us see if he will be +more condescending to you than to me.’ + +“Everyone expected an explosion on Carlini’s part; but to their great +surprise, he took a glass in one hand and a flask in the other, and +filling it,— + +“‘Your health, Diavolaccio,’ said he calmly, and he drank it off, +without his hand trembling in the least. Then sitting down by the fire, +‘My supper,’ said he; ‘my expedition has given me an appetite.’ + +“‘Well done, Carlini!’ cried the brigands; ‘that is acting like a good +fellow;’ and they all formed a circle round the fire, while Diavolaccio +disappeared. + +“Carlini ate and drank as if nothing had happened. The bandits looked +on with astonishment at this singular conduct until they heard +footsteps. They turned round, and saw Diavolaccio bearing the young +girl in his arms. Her head hung back, and her long hair swept the +ground. As they entered the circle, the bandits could perceive, by the +firelight, the unearthly pallor of the young girl and of Diavolaccio. +This apparition was so strange and so solemn, that everyone rose, with +the exception of Carlini, who remained seated, and ate and drank +calmly. Diavolaccio advanced amidst the most profound silence, and laid +Rita at the captain’s feet. Then everyone could understand the cause of +the unearthly pallor in the young girl and the bandit. A knife was +plunged up to the hilt in Rita’s left breast. Everyone looked at +Carlini; the sheath at his belt was empty. + +“‘Ah, ah,’ said the chief, ‘I now understand why Carlini stayed +behind.’ + +“All savage natures appreciate a desperate deed. No other of the +bandits would, perhaps, have done the same; but they all understood +what Carlini had done. + +“‘Now, then,’ cried Carlini, rising in his turn, and approaching the +corpse, his hand on the butt of one of his pistols, ‘does anyone +dispute the possession of this woman with me?’ + +“‘No,’ returned the chief, ‘she is thine.’ + +“Carlini raised her in his arms, and carried her out of the circle of +firelight. Cucumetto placed his sentinels for the night, and the +bandits wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay down before the +fire. At midnight the sentinel gave the alarm, and in an instant all +were on the alert. It was Rita’s father, who brought his daughter’s +ransom in person. + +“‘Here,’ said he, to Cucumetto, ‘here are three hundred piastres; give +me back my child. + +“But the chief, without taking the money, made a sign to him to follow. +The old man obeyed. They both advanced beneath the trees, through whose +branches streamed the moonlight. Cucumetto stopped at last, and pointed +to two persons grouped at the foot of a tree. + +“‘There,’ said he, ‘demand thy child of Carlini; he will tell thee what +has become of her;’ and he returned to his companions. + +“The old man remained motionless; he felt that some great and +unforeseen misfortune hung over his head. At length he advanced toward +the group, the meaning of which he could not comprehend. As he +approached, Carlini raised his head, and the forms of two persons +became visible to the old man’s eyes. A woman lay on the ground, her +head resting on the knees of a man, who was seated by her; as he raised +his head, the woman’s face became visible. The old man recognized his +child, and Carlini recognized the old man. + +“‘I expected thee,’ said the bandit to Rita’s father. + +“‘Wretch!’ returned the old man, ‘what hast thou done?’ and he gazed +with terror on Rita, pale and bloody, a knife buried in her bosom. A +ray of moonlight poured through the trees, and lighted up the face of +the dead. + +“‘Cucumetto had violated thy daughter,’ said the bandit; ‘I loved her, +therefore I slew her; for she would have served as the sport of the +whole band.’ The old man spoke not, and grew pale as death. ‘Now,’ +continued Carlini, ‘if I have done wrongly, avenge her;’ and +withdrawing the knife from the wound in Rita’s bosom, he held it out to +the old man with one hand, while with the other he tore open his vest. + +“‘Thou hast done well!’ returned the old man in a hoarse voice; +‘embrace me, my son.’ + +20115m + + + +Carlini threw himself, sobbing like a child, into the arms of his +mistress’s father. These were the first tears the man of blood had ever +wept. + +“‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘aid me to bury my child.’ Carlini fetched +two pickaxes; and the father and the lover began to dig at the foot of +a huge oak, beneath which the young girl was to repose. When the grave +was formed, the father embraced her first, and then the lover; +afterwards, one taking the head, the other the feet, they placed her in +the grave. Then they knelt on each side of the grave, and said the +prayers of the dead. Then, when they had finished, they cast the earth +over the corpse, until the grave was filled. Then, extending his hand, +the old man said; ‘I thank you, my son; and now leave me alone.’ + +“‘Yet——’ replied Carlini. + +“‘Leave me, I command you.’ + +“Carlini obeyed, rejoined his comrades, folded himself in his cloak, +and soon appeared to sleep as soundly as the rest. It had been resolved +the night before to change their encampment. An hour before daybreak, +Cucumetto aroused his men, and gave the word to march. But Carlini +would not quit the forest, without knowing what had become of Rita’s +father. He went toward the place where he had left him. He found the +old man suspended from one of the branches of the oak which shaded his +daughter’s grave. He then took an oath of bitter vengeance over the +dead body of the one and the tomb of the other. But he was unable to +complete this oath, for two days afterwards, in an encounter with the +Roman carbineers, Carlini was killed. There was some surprise, however, +that, as he was with his face to the enemy, he should have received a +ball between his shoulders. That astonishment ceased when one of the +brigands remarked to his comrades that Cucumetto was stationed ten +paces in Carlini’s rear when he fell. On the morning of the departure +from the forest of Frosinone he had followed Carlini in the darkness, +and heard this oath of vengeance, and, like a wise man, anticipated it. + +“They told ten other stories of this bandit chief, each more singular +than the other. Thus, from Fondi to Perusia, everyone trembles at the +name of Cucumetto. + +“These narratives were frequently the theme of conversation between +Luigi and Teresa. The young girl trembled very much at hearing the +stories; but Vampa reassured her with a smile, tapping the butt of his +good fowling-piece, which threw its ball so well; and if that did not +restore her courage, he pointed to a crow, perched on some dead branch, +took aim, touched the trigger, and the bird fell dead at the foot of +the tree. Time passed on, and the two young people had agreed to be +married when Vampa should be twenty and Teresa nineteen years of age. +They were both orphans, and had only their employers’ leave to ask, +which had been already sought and obtained. One day when they were +talking over their plans for the future, they heard two or three +reports of firearms, and then suddenly a man came out of the wood, near +which the two young persons used to graze their flocks, and hurried +towards them. When he came within hearing, he exclaimed: + +‘I am pursued; can you conceal me?’ + +“They knew full well that this fugitive must be a bandit; but there is +an innate sympathy between the Roman brigand and the Roman peasant and +the latter is always ready to aid the former. Vampa, without saying a +word, hastened to the stone that closed up the entrance to their +grotto, drew it away, made a sign to the fugitive to take refuge there, +in a retreat unknown to everyone, closed the stone upon him, and then +went and resumed his seat by Teresa. Instantly afterwards four +carbineers, on horseback, appeared on the edge of the wood; three of +them appeared to be looking for the fugitive, while the fourth dragged +a brigand prisoner by the neck. The three carbineers looked about +carefully on every side, saw the young peasants, and galloping up, +began to question them. They had seen no one. + +“‘That is very annoying,’ said the brigadier; for the man we are +looking for is the chief.’ + +“‘Cucumetto?’ cried Luigi and Teresa at the same moment. + +“‘Yes,’ replied the brigadier; ‘and as his head is valued at a thousand +Roman crowns, there would have been five hundred for you, if you had +helped us to catch him.’ The two young persons exchanged looks. The +brigadier had a moment’s hope. Five hundred Roman crowns are three +thousand lire, and three thousand lire are a fortune for two poor +orphans who are going to be married. + +“‘Yes, it is very annoying,’ said Vampa; ‘but we have not seen him.’ + +“Then the carbineers scoured the country in different directions, but +in vain; then, after a time, they disappeared. Vampa then removed the +stone, and Cucumetto came out. Through the crevices in the granite he +had seen the two young peasants talking with the carbineers, and +guessed the subject of their parley. He had read in the countenances of +Luigi and Teresa their steadfast resolution not to surrender him, and +he drew from his pocket a purse full of gold, which he offered to them. +But Vampa raised his head proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes sparkled when +she thought of all the fine gowns and gay jewellery she could buy with +this purse of gold. + +“Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had assumed the form of a brigand +instead of a serpent, and this look from Teresa showed to him that she +was a worthy daughter of Eve, and he returned to the forest, pausing +several times on his way, under the pretext of saluting his protectors. + +“Several days elapsed, and they neither saw nor heard of Cucumetto. The +time of the Carnival was at hand. The Count of San-Felice announced a +grand masked ball, to which all that were distinguished in Rome were +invited. Teresa had a great desire to see this ball. Luigi asked +permission of his protector, the steward, that she and he might be +present amongst the servants of the house. This was granted. The ball +was given by the Count for the particular pleasure of his daughter +Carmela, whom he adored. Carmela was precisely the age and figure of +Teresa, and Teresa was as handsome as Carmela. On the evening of the +ball Teresa was attired in her best, her most brilliant ornaments in +her hair, and gayest glass beads,—she was in the costume of the women +of Frascati. Luigi wore the very picturesque garb of the Roman peasant +at holiday time. They both mingled, as they had leave to do, with the +servants and peasants. + +“The _festa_ was magnificent; not only was the villa brilliantly +illuminated, but thousands of colored lanterns were suspended from the +trees in the garden; and very soon the palace overflowed to the +terraces, and the terraces to the garden-walks. At each cross-path was +an orchestra, and tables spread with refreshments; the guests stopped, +formed quadrilles, and danced in any part of the grounds they pleased. +Carmela was attired like a woman of Sonnino. Her cap was embroidered +with pearls, the pins in her hair were of gold and diamonds, her girdle +was of Turkey silk, with large embroidered flowers, her bodice and +skirt were of cashmere, her apron of Indian muslin, and the buttons of +her corset were of jewels. Two of her companions were dressed, the one +as a woman of Nettuno, and the other as a woman of La Riccia. Four +young men of the richest and noblest families of Rome accompanied them +with that Italian freedom which has not its parallel in any other +country in the world. They were attired as peasants of Albano, +Velletri, Civita-Castellana, and Sora. We need hardly add that these +peasant costumes, like those of the young women, were brilliant with +gold and jewels. + +“Carmela wished to form a quadrille, but there was one lady wanting. +Carmela looked all around her, but not one of the guests had a costume +similar to her own, or those of her companions. The Count of San-Felice +pointed out Teresa, who was hanging on Luigi’s arm in a group of +peasants. + +“‘Will you allow me, father?’ said Carmela. + +“‘Certainly,’ replied the count, ‘are we not in Carnival time?’ + +“Carmela turned towards the young man who was talking with her, and +saying a few words to him, pointed with her finger to Teresa. The young +man looked, bowed in obedience, and then went to Teresa, and invited +her to dance in a quadrille directed by the count’s daughter. Teresa +felt a flush pass over her face; she looked at Luigi, who could not +refuse his assent. Luigi slowly relinquished Teresa’s arm, which he had +held beneath his own, and Teresa, accompanied by her elegant cavalier, +took her appointed place with much agitation in the aristocratic +quadrille. Certainly, in the eyes of an artist, the exact and strict +costume of Teresa had a very different character from that of Carmela +and her companions; and Teresa was frivolous and coquettish, and thus +the embroidery and muslins, the cashmere waist-girdles, all dazzled +her, and the reflection of sapphires and diamonds almost turned her +giddy brain. + +“Luigi felt a sensation hitherto unknown arising in his mind. It was +like an acute pain which gnawed at his heart, and then thrilled through +his whole body. He followed with his eye each movement of Teresa and +her cavalier; when their hands touched, he felt as though he should +swoon; every pulse beat with violence, and it seemed as though a bell +were ringing in his ears. When they spoke, although Teresa listened +timidly and with downcast eyes to the conversation of her cavalier, as +Luigi could read in the ardent looks of the good-looking young man that +his language was that of praise, it seemed as if the whole world was +turning round with him, and all the voices of hell were whispering in +his ears ideas of murder and assassination. Then fearing that his +paroxysm might get the better of him, he clutched with one hand the +branch of a tree against which he was leaning, and with the other +convulsively grasped the dagger with a carved handle which was in his +belt, and which, unwittingly, he drew from the scabbard from time to +time. + +“Luigi was jealous! + +“He felt that, influenced by her ambitions and coquettish disposition, +Teresa might escape him. + +“The young peasant girl, at first timid and scared, soon recovered +herself. We have said that Teresa was handsome, but this is not all; +Teresa was endowed with all those wild graces which are so much more +potent than our affected and studied elegancies. She had almost all the +honors of the quadrille, and if she were envious of the Count of +San-Felice’s daughter, we will not undertake to say that Carmela was +not jealous of her. And with overpowering compliments her handsome +cavalier led her back to the place whence he had taken her, and where +Luigi awaited her. Twice or thrice during the dance the young girl had +glanced at Luigi, and each time she saw that he was pale and that his +features were agitated, once even the blade of his knife, half drawn +from its sheath, had dazzled her eyes with its sinister glare. Thus, it +was almost tremblingly that she resumed her lover’s arm. The quadrille +had been most perfect, and it was evident there was a great demand for +a repetition, Carmela alone objecting to it, but the Count of +San-Felice besought his daughter so earnestly, that she acceded. + +“One of the cavaliers then hastened to invite Teresa, without whom it +was impossible for the quadrille to be formed, but the young girl had +disappeared. + +“The truth was, that Luigi had not felt the strength to support another +such trial, and, half by persuasion and half by force, he had removed +Teresa toward another part of the garden. Teresa had yielded in spite +of herself, but when she looked at the agitated countenance of the +young man, she understood by his silence and trembling voice that +something strange was passing within him. She herself was not exempt +from internal emotion, and without having done anything wrong, yet +fully comprehended that Luigi was right in reproaching her. Why, she +did not know, but yet she did not the less feel that these reproaches +were merited. + +“However, to Teresa’s great astonishment, Luigi remained mute, and not +a word escaped his lips the rest of the evening. When the chill of the +night had driven away the guests from the gardens, and the gates of the +villa were closed on them for the _festa_ in-doors, he took Teresa +quite away, and as he left her at her home, he said: + +“‘Teresa, what were you thinking of as you danced opposite the young +Countess of San-Felice?’ + +“‘I thought,’ replied the young girl, with all the frankness of her +nature, ‘that I would give half my life for a costume such as she +wore.’ + +“‘And what said your cavalier to you?’ + +“‘He said it only depended on myself to have it, and I had only one +word to say.’ + +“‘He was right,’ said Luigi. ‘Do you desire it as ardently as you say?’ + +“‘Yes.’ + +“‘Well, then, you shall have it!’ + +“The young girl, much astonished, raised her head to look at him, but +his face was so gloomy and terrible that her words froze to her lips. +As Luigi spoke thus, he left her. Teresa followed him with her eyes +into the darkness as long as she could, and when he had quite +disappeared, she went into the house with a sigh. + +20121m + + + +“That night a memorable event occurred, due, no doubt, to the +imprudence of some servant who had neglected to extinguish the lights. +The Villa of San-Felice took fire in the rooms adjoining the very +apartment of the lovely Carmela. Awakened in the night by the light of +the flames, she sprang out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, +and attempted to escape by the door, but the corridor by which she +hoped to fly was already a prey to the flames. She then returned to her +room, calling for help as loudly as she could, when suddenly her +window, which was twenty feet from the ground, was opened, a young +peasant jumped into the chamber, seized her in his arms, and with +superhuman skill and strength conveyed her to the turf of the +grass-plot, where she fainted. When she recovered, her father was by +her side. All the servants surrounded her, offering her assistance. An +entire wing of the villa was burnt down; but what of that, as long as +Carmela was safe and uninjured? + +“Her preserver was everywhere sought for, but he did not appear; he was +inquired after, but no one had seen him. Carmela was greatly troubled +that she had not recognized him. + +“As the count was immensely rich, excepting the danger Carmela had +run,—and the marvellous manner in which she had escaped, made that +appear to him rather a favor of Providence than a real misfortune,—the +loss occasioned by the conflagration was to him but a trifle. + +“The next day, at the usual hour, the two young peasants were on the +borders of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He came toward Teresa in +high spirits, and seemed to have completely forgotten the events of the +previous evening. The young girl was very pensive, but seeing Luigi so +cheerful, she on her part assumed a smiling air, which was natural to +her when she was not excited or in a passion. + +“Luigi took her arm beneath his own, and led her to the door of the +grotto. Then he paused. The young girl, perceiving that there was +something extraordinary, looked at him steadfastly. + +“‘Teresa,’ said Luigi, ‘yesterday evening you told me you would give +all the world to have a costume similar to that of the count’s +daughter.’ + +“‘Yes,’ replied Teresa with astonishment; ‘but I was mad to utter such +a wish.’ + +“‘And I replied, “Very well, you shall have it.”’ + +“‘Yes,’ replied the young girl, whose astonishment increased at every +word uttered by Luigi, ‘but of course your reply was only to please +me.’ + +“‘I have promised no more than I have given you, Teresa,’ said Luigi +proudly. ‘Go into the grotto and dress yourself.’ + +“At these words he drew away the stone, and showed Teresa the grotto, +lighted up by two wax lights, which burnt on each side of a splendid +mirror; on a rustic table, made by Luigi, were spread out the pearl +necklace and the diamond pins, and on a chair at the side was laid the +rest of the costume. + +“Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and, without inquiring whence this attire +came, or even thanking Luigi, darted into the grotto, transformed into +a dressing-room. + +“Luigi pushed the stone behind her, for on the crest of a small +adjacent hill which cut off the view toward Palestrina, he saw a +traveller on horseback, stopping a moment, as if uncertain of his road, +and thus presenting against the blue sky that perfect outline which is +peculiar to distant objects in southern climes. When he saw Luigi, he +put his horse into a gallop and advanced toward him. + +“Luigi was not mistaken. The traveller, who was going from Palestrina +to Tivoli, had mistaken his way; the young man directed him; but as at +a distance of a quarter of a mile the road again divided into three +ways, and on reaching these the traveller might again stray from his +route, he begged Luigi to be his guide. + +“Luigi threw his cloak on the ground, placed his carbine on his +shoulder, and freed from his heavy covering, preceded the traveller +with the rapid step of a mountaineer, which a horse can scarcely keep +up with. In ten minutes Luigi and the traveller reached the +cross-roads. On arriving there, with an air as majestic as that of an +emperor, he stretched his hand towards that one of the roads which the +traveller was to follow. + +“‘That is your road, excellency, and now you cannot again mistake.’ + +“‘And here is your recompense,’ said the traveller, offering the young +herdsman some small pieces of money. + +“‘Thank you,’ said Luigi, drawing back his hand; ‘I render a service, I +do not sell it.’ + +“‘Well,’ replied the traveller, who seemed used to this difference +between the servility of a man of the cities and the pride of the +mountaineer, ‘if you refuse wages, you will, perhaps, accept a gift.’ + +“‘Ah, yes, that is another thing.’ + +“‘Then,’ said the traveller, ‘take these two Venetian sequins and give +them to your bride, to make herself a pair of earrings.’ + +“‘And then do you take this poniard,’ said the young herdsman; ‘you +will not find one better carved between Albano and Civita-Castellana.’ + +“‘I accept it,’ answered the traveller, ‘but then the obligation will +be on my side, for this poniard is worth more than two sequins.’ + +“‘For a dealer perhaps; but for me, who engraved it myself, it is +hardly worth a piastre.’ + +“‘What is your name?’ inquired the traveller. + +“‘Luigi Vampa,’ replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would +have replied, Alexander, King of Macedon. ‘And yours?’ + +“‘I,’ said the traveller, ‘am called Sinbad the Sailor.’” + +Franz d’Épinay started with surprise. + +“Sinbad the Sailor?” he said. + +“Yes,” replied the narrator; “that was the name which the traveller +gave to Vampa as his own.” + +“Well, and what may you have to say against this name?” inquired +Albert; “it is a very pretty name, and the adventures of the gentleman +of that name amused me very much in my youth, I must confess.” + +Franz said no more. The name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may well be +supposed, awakened in him a world of recollections, as had the name of +the Count of Monte Cristo on the previous evening. + +“Proceed!” said he to the host. + +“Vampa put the two sequins haughtily into his pocket, and slowly +returned by the way he had gone. As he came within two or three hundred +paces of the grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He listened to know +whence this sound could proceed. A moment afterwards he thought he +heard his own name pronounced distinctly. + +“The cry proceeded from the grotto. He bounded like a chamois, cocking +his carbine as he went, and in a moment reached the summit of a hill +opposite to that on which he had perceived the traveller. Three cries +for help came more distinctly to his ear. He cast his eyes around him +and saw a man carrying off Teresa, as Nessus, the centaur, carried +Deianira. + +“This man, who was hastening towards the wood, was already +three-quarters of the way on the road from the grotto to the forest. +Vampa measured the distance; the man was at least two hundred paces in +advance of him, and there was not a chance of overtaking him. The young +shepherd stopped, as if his feet had been rooted to the ground; then he +put the butt of his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at the ravisher, +followed him for a second in his track, and then fired. + +“The ravisher stopped suddenly, his knees bent under him, and he fell +with Teresa in his arms. The young girl rose instantly, but the man lay +on the earth struggling in the agonies of death. Vampa then rushed +towards Teresa; for at ten paces from the dying man her legs had failed +her, and she had dropped on her knees, so that the young man feared +that the ball that had brought down his enemy, had also wounded his +betrothed. + +“Fortunately, she was unscathed, and it was fright alone that had +overcome Teresa. When Luigi had assured himself that she was safe and +unharmed, he turned towards the wounded man. He had just expired, with +clenched hands, his mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair on end in +the sweat of death. His eyes remained open and menacing. Vampa +approached the corpse, and recognized Cucumetto. + +“From the day on which the bandit had been saved by the two young +peasants, he had been enamoured of Teresa, and had sworn she should be +his. From that time he had watched them, and profiting by the moment +when her lover had left her alone, had carried her off, and believed he +at length had her in his power, when the ball, directed by the unerring +skill of the young herdsman, had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on him +for a moment without betraying the slightest emotion; while, on the +contrary, Teresa, shuddering in every limb, dared not approach the +slain ruffian but by degrees, and threw a hesitating glance at the dead +body over the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly Vampa turned toward his +mistress: + +“‘Ah,’ said he—‘good, good! You are dressed; it is now my turn to dress +myself.’ + +20125m + + + +“Teresa was clothed from head to foot in the garb of the Count of +San-Felice’s daughter. Vampa took Cucumetto’s body in his arms and +conveyed it to the grotto, while in her turn Teresa remained outside. +If a second traveller had passed, he would have seen a strange thing,—a +shepherdess watching her flock, clad in a cashmere grown, with +ear-rings and necklace of pearls, diamond pins, and buttons of +sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. He would, no doubt, have believed that +he had returned to the times of Florian, and would have declared, on +reaching Paris, that he had met an Alpine shepherdess seated at the +foot of the Sabine Hill. + +“At the end of a quarter of an hour Vampa quitted the grotto; his +costume was no less elegant than that of Teresa. He wore a vest of +garnet-colored velvet, with buttons of cut gold; a silk waistcoat +covered with embroidery; a Roman scarf tied round his neck; a +cartridge-box worked with gold, and red and green silk; sky-blue velvet +breeches, fastened above the knee with diamond buckles; garters of +deerskin, worked with a thousand arabesques, and a hat whereon hung +ribbons of all colors; two watches hung from his girdle, and a splendid +poniard was in his belt. + +“Teresa uttered a cry of admiration. Vampa in this attire resembled a +painting by Léopold Robert or Schnetz. He had assumed the entire +costume of Cucumetto. The young man saw the effect produced on his +betrothed, and a smile of pride passed over his lips. + +“‘Now,’ he said to Teresa, ‘are you ready to share my fortune, whatever +it may be?’ + +“‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed the young girl enthusiastically. + +“‘And follow me wherever I go?’ + +“‘To the world’s end.’ + +“‘Then take my arm, and let us on; we have no time to lose.’ + +“The young girl did so without questioning her lover as to where he was +conducting her, for he appeared to her at this moment as handsome, +proud, and powerful as a god. They went towards the forest, and soon +entered it. + +“We need scarcely say that all the paths of the mountain were known to +Vampa; he therefore went forward without a moment’s hesitation, +although there was no beaten track, but he knew his path by looking at +the trees and bushes, and thus they kept on advancing for nearly an +hour and a half. At the end of this time they had reached the thickest +part of the forest. A torrent, whose bed was dry, led into a deep +gorge. Vampa took this wild road, which, enclosed between two ridges, +and shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the pines, seemed, but for the +difficulties of its descent, that path to Avernus of which Virgil +speaks. Teresa had become alarmed at the wild and deserted look of the +plain around her, and pressed closely against her guide, not uttering a +syllable; but as she saw him advance with even step and composed +countenance, she endeavored to repress her emotion. + +“Suddenly, about ten paces from them, a man advanced from behind a tree +and aimed at Vampa. + +“‘Not another step,’ he said, ‘or you are a dead man.’ + +“‘What, then,’ said Vampa, raising his hand with a gesture of disdain, +while Teresa, no longer able to restrain her alarm, clung closely to +him, ‘do wolves rend each other?’ + +“‘Who are you?’ inquired the sentinel. + +“‘I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice farm.’ + +“‘What do you want?’ + +“‘I would speak with your companions who are in the glade at Rocca +Bianca.’ + +“‘Follow me, then,’ said the sentinel; ‘or, as you know your way, go +first.’ + +“Vampa smiled disdainfully at this precaution on the part of the +bandit, went before Teresa, and continued to advance with the same firm +and easy step as before. At the end of ten minutes the bandit made them +a sign to stop. The two young persons obeyed. Then the bandit thrice +imitated the cry of a crow; a croak answered this signal. + +“‘Good!’ said the sentry, ‘you may now go on.’ + +“Luigi and Teresa again set forward; as they went on Teresa clung +tremblingly to her lover at the sight of weapons and the glistening of +carbines through the trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was at the top +of a small mountain, which no doubt in former days had been a +volcano—an extinct volcano before the days when Remus and Romulus had +deserted Alba to come and found the city of Rome. + +“Teresa and Luigi reached the summit, and all at once found themselves +in the presence of twenty bandits. + +“‘Here is a young man who seeks and wishes to speak to you,’ said the +sentinel. + +“‘What has he to say?’ inquired the young man who was in command in the +chief’s absence. + +“‘I wish to say that I am tired of a shepherd’s life,’ was Vampa’s +reply. + +“‘Ah, I understand,’ said the lieutenant; ‘and you seek admittance into +our ranks?’ + +“‘Welcome!’ cried several bandits from Ferrusino, Pampinara, and +Anagni, who had recognized Luigi Vampa. + +“‘Yes, but I came to ask something more than to be your companion.’ + +“‘And what may that be?’ inquired the bandits with astonishment. + +“‘I come to ask to be your captain,’ said the young man. + +“The bandits shouted with laughter. + +“‘And what have you done to aspire to this honor?’ demanded the +lieutenant. + +“‘I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I +set fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my +betrothed.’ + +“An hour afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen captain, vice Cucumetto, +deceased.” + +20129m + + + +“Well, my dear Albert,” said Franz, turning towards his friend; “what +think you of citizen Luigi Vampa?” + +“I say he is a myth,” replied Albert, “and never had an existence.” + +“And what may a myth be?” inquired Pastrini. + +“The explanation would be too long, my dear landlord,” replied Franz. + +“And you say that Signor Vampa exercises his profession at this moment +in the environs of Rome?” + +“And with a boldness of which no bandit before him ever gave an +example.” + +“Then the police have vainly tried to lay hands on him?” + +“Why, you see, he has a good understanding with the shepherds in the +plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and the smugglers of the coast. +They seek for him in the mountains, and he is on the waters; they +follow him on the waters, and he is on the open sea; then they pursue +him, and he has suddenly taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio, +Giannutri, or Monte Cristo; and when they hunt for him there, he +reappears suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La Riccia.” + +“And how does he behave towards travellers?” + +“Alas! his plan is very simple. It depends on the distance he may be +from the city, whether he gives eight hours, twelve hours, or a day +wherein to pay their ransom; and when that time has elapsed he allows +another hour’s grace. At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money +is not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner’s brains with a +pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the +account.” + +“Well, Albert,” inquired Franz of his companion, “are you still +disposed to go to the Colosseum by the outer wall?” + +“Quite so,” said Albert, “if the way be picturesque.” + +The clock struck nine as the door opened, and a coachman appeared. + +“Excellencies,” said he, “the coach is ready.” + +“Well, then,” said Franz, “let us to the Colosseum.” + +“By the Porta del Popolo or by the streets, your excellencies?” + +“By the streets, _morbleu!_ by the streets!” cried Franz. + +“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Albert, rising, and lighting his third +cigar, “really, I thought you had more courage.” + +So saying, the two young men went down the staircase, and got into the +carriage. + +20131m + + + + + Chapter 34. The Colosseum + +Franz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the Colosseum +they passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no preliminary +impression interfered to mitigate the colossal proportions of the +gigantic building they came to admire. The road selected was a +continuation of the Via Sistina; then by cutting off the right angle of +the street in which stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the +Via Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find +themselves directly opposite the Colosseum. + +This itinerary possessed another great advantage,—that of leaving Franz +at full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject of Signor +Pastrini’s story, in which his mysterious host of Monte Cristo was so +strangely mixed up. Seated with folded arms in a corner of the +carriage, he continued to ponder over the singular history he had so +lately listened to, and to ask himself an interminable number of +questions touching its various circumstances without, however, arriving +at a satisfactory reply to any of them. + +One fact more than the rest brought his friend “Sinbad the Sailor” back +to his recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy that +seemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors; and Pastrini’s +account of Vampa’s having found refuge on board the vessels of +smugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits he +had found supping so amicably with the crew of the little yacht, which +had even deviated from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the +sole purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host of +Monte Cristo and again repeated by the landlord of the Hôtel de +Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island friend was playing +his philanthropic part on the shores of Piombino, Civita Vecchia, +Ostia, and Gaëta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and +further, Franz bethought him of having heard his singular entertainer +speak both of Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle +of acquaintances extended. + +But however the mind of the young man might be absorbed in these +reflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight of the dark +frowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum, through the various +openings of which the pale moonlight played and flickered like the +unearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead. The carriage +stopped near the Meta Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men, +eagerly alighting, found themselves opposite a _cicerone_, who appeared +to have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected was his appearance. + +The usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they had paid two +conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to avoid this abundant supply +of guides; besides the ordinary _cicerone_, who seizes upon you +directly you set foot in your hotel, and never quits you while you +remain in the city, there is also a special _cicerone_ belonging to +each monument—nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may, +therefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides at the +Colosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial thus eulogizes: + +“Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and +the wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to +the superiority of the gigantic labor of the Cæsars, and the many +voices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this +incomparable monument.” + +As for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from their +_ciceronian_ tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so much the more +difficult to break their bondage, as the guides alone are permitted to +visit these monuments with torches in their hands. Thus, then, the +young men made no attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly +surrendered themselves into the care and custody of their conductors. + +Franz had already made seven or eight similar excursions to the +Colosseum, while his less favored companion trod for the first time in +his life the classic ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian; +and, to his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib loquacity +of the guides, was duly and deeply touched with awe and enthusiastic +admiration of all he saw; and certainly no adequate notion of these +stupendous ruins can be formed save by such as have visited them, and +more especially by moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the +building appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious beams of a +southern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently clear and vivid to +light the horizon with a glow equal to the soft twilight of a western +clime. + +Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps +beneath the interior porticoes of the ruin, when, abandoning Albert to +the guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive right of +carrying their victims through the routine regularly laid down, and as +regularly followed by them, but dragged the unconscious visitor to the +various objects with a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal, +beginning, as a matter of course, with the “Lions’ Den”, the “Hall of +the Gladiators” and finishing with “Cæsar’s Podium”), to escape a +jargon and mechanical survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded, +Franz ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to +follow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of a column, +and immediately opposite a large aperture, which permitted him to enjoy +a full and undisturbed view of the gigantic dimensions of the majestic +ruin. + +Franz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly hidden by +the shadow of the vast column at whose base he had found a +resting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the motions of Albert +and his guides, who, holding torches in their hands, had emerged from a +vomitorium at the opposite extremity of the Colosseum, and then again +disappeared down the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the +Vestal virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless shades +following the flickering glare of so many _ignes fatui_. All at once +his ear caught a sound resembling that of a stone rolling down the +staircase opposite the one by which he had himself ascended. There was +nothing remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite giving +way and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him that the substance +that fell gave way beneath the pressure of a foot, and also that +someone, who endeavored as much as possible to prevent his footsteps +from being heard, was approaching the spot where he sat. + +Conjecture soon became certainty, for the figure of a man was +distinctly visible to Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase +opposite, upon which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of +silvery brightness. + +The stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person who, like +Franz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his own thoughts to the +frivolous gabble of the guides. And his appearance had nothing +extraordinary in it; but the hesitation with which he proceeded, +stopping and listening with anxious attention at every step he took, +convinced Franz that he expected the arrival of some person. + +By a sort of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible +behind his pillar. + +About ten feet from the spot where he and the stranger were, the roof +had given way, leaving a large round opening, through which might be +seen the blue vault of heaven, thickly studded with stars. + +Around this opening, which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free +entrance to the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile, +grew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green branches stood +out in bold relief against the clear azure of the firmament, while +large masses of thick, strong fibrous shoots forced their way through +the chasm, and hung floating to and fro, like so many waving strings. + +The person whose mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of +Franz stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible to +distinguish his features, although his dress was easily made out. He +wore a large brown mantle, one fold of which, thrown over his left +shoulder, served likewise to mask the lower part of his countenance, +while the upper part was completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat. +The lower part of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright +rays of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling, shed +their refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made boots of polished +leather, over which descended fashionably cut trousers of black cloth. + +20135m + + + +From the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only come to +one conclusion,—that the person whom he was thus watching certainly +belonged to no inferior station of life. + +Some few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show manifest +signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard outside the aperture +in the roof, and almost immediately a dark shadow seemed to obstruct +the flood of light that had entered it, and the figure of a man was +clearly seen gazing with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath +him; then, as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a +floating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by their help +to within three or four feet of the ground, and then leaped lightly on +his feet. The man who had performed this daring act with so much +indifference wore the Transtevere costume. + +“I beg your excellency’s pardon for keeping you waiting,” said the man, +in the Roman dialect, “but I don’t think I’m many minutes after my +time, ten o’clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran.” + +“Say not a word about being late,” replied the stranger in purest +Tuscan; “’tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait +a little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not +occasioned by any fault of yours.” + +“Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking,” said the man; “I +came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense +deal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo.” + +“And who is Beppo?” + +“Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to +let me know what is going on within his holiness’s castle.” + +“Indeed! You are a provident person, I see.” + +“Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days +I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some +little nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out +of prison.” + +“Briefly, what did you learn?” + +“That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day +after tomorrow at two o’clock, as is customary at Rome at the +commencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be +_mazzolato_;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who +brought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer +is sentenced to be _decapitato_;4 and he, your excellency, is poor +Peppino.” + +“The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical +government, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear, +that they are glad of all opportunity of making an example.” + +“But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor +shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions.” + +“Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark +the distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on +the head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply +sentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the +day are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every +spectator.” + +“Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise +them with.” + +“My good friend,” said the man in the cloak, “excuse me for saying that +you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant +act.” + +“Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop +at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this +scrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself +as a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity.” + +“And what do you mean to do?” + +“To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal +from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution, +and, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and +carry off the prisoner.” + +“That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my +scheme is far better than yours.” + +“And what is your excellency’s project?” + +“Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the +person receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for +Peppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres +will afford him the means of escaping from his prison.” + +“And do you feel sure of succeeding?” + +“_Pardieu!_” exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly expressing +himself in French. + +“What did your excellency say?” inquired the other. + +“I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the +means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos, +pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act, +and have no fears for the result.” + +“At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness, +in case your excellency should fail.” + +“None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any +satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I +seek.” + +“Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that +you have but one day to work in.” + +“And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each +hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty +seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done.” + +“And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not.” + +“Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower +windows at the Café Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite +pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow +damasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked +on it.” + +“And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer +directing the execution?” + +“Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give +it to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the +scaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer, +who, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it +will be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if +it be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because +in either case a very useless expense will have been incurred.” + +“Your excellency,” said the man, “you are fully persuaded of my entire +devotion to you, are you not?” + +“Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,” replied the +cavalier in the cloak. + +“Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and +henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute +obedience from myself and those under me that one human being can +render to another.” + +“Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may +remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period, +when I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence.” + +“Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I +have found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of +the world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may +regard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of——” + +“Hush!” interrupted the stranger; “I hear a noise.” + +“’Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight.” + +“’Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing +but spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be +honored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our +intimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit +would suffer thereby.” + +“Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?” + +“The middle window at the Café Rospoli will be hung with white damask, +bearing a red cross.” + +“And if you fail?” + +“Then all three windows will have yellow draperies.” + +“And then?” + +“And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and +I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.” + +“We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency; +depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you.” + +Saying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the staircase, +while his companion, muffling his features more closely than before in +the folds of his mantle, passed almost close to Franz, and descended to +the arena by an outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard +himself called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with the +sound of his friend’s name. Franz, however, did not obey the summons +till he had satisfied himself that the two men whose conversation he +had overheard were at a sufficient distance to prevent his encountering +them in his descent. In ten minutes after the strangers had departed, +Franz was on the road to the Piazza di Spagna, listening with studied +indifference to the learned dissertation delivered by Albert, after the +manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the iron-pointed nets used to +prevent the ferocious beasts from springing on the spectators. + +Franz let him proceed without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear +what was said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all that +had occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious meeting in the +Colosseum he had so unintentionally witnessed, was an entire stranger +to him, but not so the other; and though Franz had been unable to +distinguish his features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle +or obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too powerful +an impression on him the first time he had heard them for him ever +again to forget them, hear them when or where he might. It was more +especially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half +bitter, that Franz’s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet +well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte +Cristo, and which he heard for the second time amid the darkness and +ruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the more he thought, the more +entire was his conviction, that the person who wore the mantle was no +other than his former host and entertainer, “Sinbad the Sailor.” + +20139m + + + +Under any other circumstances, Franz would have found it impossible to +resist his extreme curiosity to know more of so singular a personage, +and with that intent have sought to renew their short acquaintance; but +in the present instance, the confidential nature of the conversation he +had overheard made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at +such a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen, +therefore, he permitted his former host to retire without attempting a +recognition, but fully promising himself a rich indemnity for his +present forbearance should chance afford him another opportunity. + +In vain did Franz endeavor to forget the many perplexing thoughts which +assailed him; in vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber +refused to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish +contemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove the +identity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum with the +inhabitant of the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the more he thought, the +firmer grew his opinion on the subject. + +Worn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not awake till +late. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had employed his time in +arranging for the evening’s diversion; he had sent to engage a box at +the Teatro Argentina; and Franz, having a number of letters to write, +relinquished the carriage to Albert for the whole of the day. + +At five o’clock Albert returned, delighted with his day’s work; he had +been occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had received +in return more invitations to balls and routs than it would be possible +for him to accept; besides this, he had seen (as he called it) all the +remarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a single day he had accomplished +what his more serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to +effect. Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece to +be played that night at the Teatro Argentina, and also what performers +appeared in it. The opera of _Parisina_ was announced for +representation, and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La +Specchia. + +The young men, therefore, had reason to consider themselves fortunate +in having the opportunity of hearing one of the best works by the +composer of _Lucia di Lammermoor_, supported by three of the most +renowned vocalists of Italy. + +Albert had never been able to endure the Italian theatres, with their +orchestras from which it is impossible to see, and the absence of +balconies, or open boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who +had had his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the +Opera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most dazzling and +effective costumes each time he visited the theatres; but, alas, his +elegant toilet was wholly thrown away, and one of the most worthy +representatives of Parisian fashion had to carry with him the +mortifying reflection that he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting +with a single adventure. + +Sometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of success; +but internally he was deeply wounded, and his self-love immensely +piqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired and most +sought after of any young person of his day, should thus be passed +over, and merely have his labor for his pains. And the thing was so +much the more annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of +a Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction that he +had only to show himself in Italy to carry all before him, and that +upon his return he should astonish the Parisian world with the recital +of his numerous love-affairs. + +Alas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his +way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all +faithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers, and +thought not of changing even for the splendid appearance of Albert de +Morcerf; and all he gained was the painful conviction that the ladies +of Italy have this advantage over those of France, that they are +faithful even in their infidelity. + +Yet he could not restrain a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there +might be an exception to the general rule. + +Albert, besides being an elegant, well-looking young man, was also +possessed of considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a +viscount—a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day it +is not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a descent, and a +genealogical tree is equally estimated, whether dated from 1399 or +merely 1815; but to crown all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf +commanded an income of 50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to +render him a personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was +therefore no small mortification to him to have visited most of the +principal cities in Italy without having excited the most trifling +observation. + +Albert, however, hoped to indemnify himself for all these slights and +indifferences during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the +different states and kingdoms in which this festivity is celebrated, +Rome is the spot where even the wisest and gravest throw off the usual +rigidity of their lives, and deign to mingle in the follies of this +time of liberty and relaxation. The Carnival was to commence on the +morrow; therefore Albert had not an instant to lose in setting forth +the programme of his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice. + +With this design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of +the theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal attractions by +the aid of the most rich and elaborate toilet. The box taken by Albert +was in the first circle; although each of the three tiers of boxes is +deemed equally aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled +the “nobility’s boxes,” and although the box engaged for the two +friends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a dozen persons, +it had cost less than would be paid at some of the French theatres for +one admitting merely four occupants. + +Another motive had influenced Albert’s selection of his seat,—who knew +but that, thus advantageously placed, he might not in truth attract the +notice of some fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would +procure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in a princely +balcony, from which he might behold the gayeties of the Carnival? + +These united considerations made Albert more lively and anxious to +please than he had hitherto been. Totally disregarding the business of +the stage, he leaned from his box and began attentively scrutinizing +the beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but, +alas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even curiosity +had been excited, and it was but too apparent that the lovely +creatures, into whose good graces he was desirous of stealing, were all +so much engrossed with themselves, their lovers, or their own thoughts, +that they had not so much as noticed him or the manipulation of his +glass. + +The truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the Carnival, with the +“Holy Week” that was to succeed it, so filled every fair breast, as to +prevent the least attention being bestowed even on the business of the +stage. The actors made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought +of; at certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly +cease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their musings, to +listen to some brilliant effort of Moriani’s, a well-executed +recitative by Coselli, or to join in loud applause at the wonderful +powers of La Specchia; but that momentary excitement over, they quickly +relapsed into their former state of preoccupation or interesting +conversation. + +Towards the close of the first act, the door of a box which had been +hitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom Franz had been +introduced in Paris, where indeed, he had imagined she still was. The +quick eye of Albert caught the involuntary start with which his friend +beheld the new arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily: + +“Do you know the woman who has just entered that box?” + +“Yes; what do you think of her?” + +“Oh, she is perfectly lovely—what a complexion! And such magnificent +hair! Is she French?” + +“No; a Venetian.” + +“And her name is——” + +“Countess G——.” + +“Ah, I know her by name!” exclaimed Albert; “she is said to possess as +much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her +when I met her at Madame Villefort’s ball.” + +“Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?” asked Franz. + +“My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to +venture to take me to her box?” + +“Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing +with her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an +acquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask.” + +At that instant, the countess perceived Franz, and graciously waved her +hand to him, to which he replied by a respectful inclination of the +head. “Upon my word,” said Albert, “you seem to be on excellent terms +with the beautiful countess.” + +“You are mistaken in thinking so,” returned Franz calmly; “but you +merely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen +to commit the most egregious blunders,—I mean that of judging the +habits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe +me, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree +of intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar +terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant +between ourselves and the countess—nothing more.” + +“Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of +heart?” + +“No; of taste,” continued Franz gravely. + +“And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced?” + +“By the countess’s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by +moonlight, and nearly alone.” + +“You were with her, then?” + +“I was.” + +“And what did you say to her?” + +“Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is +a glorious monument!” + +“Upon my word,” cried Albert, “you must have been a very entertaining +companion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a +place of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to +talk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a +chance, the living should be my theme.” + +20143m + + + +“And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen.” + +“But,” said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse, “never mind the +past; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your +promise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks?” + +“Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage.” + +“What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my +soul, that they never mean to finish it.” + +“Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How +exquisitely Coselli sings his part.” + +“But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is.” + +“Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything +more perfect than her acting?” + +“Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to +Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don’t make the same +impression on you they perhaps do on others.” + +“At least, you must admire Moriani’s style and execution.” + +“I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a +voice like a woman’s.” + +“My good friend,” said Franz, turning to him, while Albert continued to +point his glass at every box in the theatre, “you seem determined not +to approve; you are really too difficult to please.” + +The curtain at length fell on the performances, to the infinite +satisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly +passed his fingers through his hair, arranged his cravat and +wristbands, and signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead +the way. + +Franz, who had mutely interrogated the countess, and received from her +a gracious smile in token that he would be welcome, sought not to +retard the gratification of Albert’s eager impatience, but began at +once the tour of the house, closely followed by Albert, who availed +himself of the few minutes required to reach the opposite side of the +theatre to settle the height and smoothness of his collar, and to +arrange the lappets of his coat. This important task was just completed +as they arrived at the countess’s box. + +At the knock, the door was immediately opened, and the young man who +was seated beside the countess, in obedience to the Italian custom, +instantly rose and surrendered his place to the strangers, who, in +turn, would be expected to retire upon the arrival of other visitors. + +Franz presented Albert as one of the most distinguished young men of +the day, both as regarded his position in society and extraordinary +talents; nor did he say more than the truth, for in Paris and the +circle in which the viscount moved, he was looked upon and cited as a +model of perfection. Franz added that his companion, deeply grieved at +having been prevented the honor of being presented to the countess +during her sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to make up for it, and +had requested him (Franz) to remedy the past misfortune by conducting +him to her box, and concluded by asking pardon for his presumption in +having taken it upon himself to do so. + +The countess, in reply, bowed gracefully to Albert, and extended her +hand with cordial kindness to Franz; then, inviting Albert to take the +vacant seat beside her, she recommended Franz to take the next best, if +he wished to view the ballet, and pointed to the one behind her own +chair. + +Albert was soon deeply engrossed in discoursing upon Paris and Parisian +matters, speaking to the countess of the various persons they both knew +there. Franz perceived how completely he was in his element; and, +unwilling to interfere with the pleasure he so evidently felt, took up +Albert’s glass, and began in his turn to survey the audience. + +Sitting alone, in the front of a box immediately opposite, but situated +on the third row, was a woman of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek +costume, which evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore +it, was her national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was the +outline of a masculine figure; but the features of this latter +personage it was not possible to distinguish. Franz could not forbear +breaking in upon the apparently interesting conversation passing +between the countess and Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew +who was the fair Albanian opposite, since beauty such as hers was well +worthy of being observed by either sex. + +“All I can tell about her,” replied the countess, “is, that she has +been at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where she +now sits the very first night of the season, and since then she has +never missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the person +who is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a black +servant.” + +“And what do you think of her personal appearance?” + +“Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely—she is just my idea of what Medora +must have been.” + +Franz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the latter resumed +her conversation with Albert, while Franz returned to his previous +survey of the house and company. The curtain rose on the ballet, which +was one of those excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably +arranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established for himself +a great reputation throughout Italy for his taste and skill in the +choreographic art—one of those masterly productions of grace, method, +and elegance in which the whole _corps de ballet_, from the principal +dancers to the humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at +the same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen exhibiting +the same attitude, or elevating the same arm or leg with a simultaneous +movement, that would lead you to suppose that but one mind, one act of +volition, influenced the moving mass. + +The ballet was called _Poliska_. + +However much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was too +deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any note of it; while +she seemed to experience an almost childlike delight in watching it, +her eager, animated looks contrasting strongly with the utter +indifference of her companion, who, during the whole time the piece +lasted, never even moved, not even when the furious, crashing din +produced by the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells sounded their +loudest from the orchestra. Of this he took no heed, but was, as far as +appearances might be trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright celestial +dreams. + +The ballet at length came to a close, and the curtain fell amid the +loud, unanimous plaudits of an enthusiastic and delighted audience. + +Owing to the very judicious plan of dividing the two acts of the opera +with a ballet, the pauses between the performances are very short, the +singers in the opera having time to repose themselves and change their +costume, when necessary, while the dancers are executing their +pirouettes and exhibiting their graceful steps. + +The overture to the second act began; and, at the first sound of the +leader’s bow across his violin, Franz observed the sleeper slowly arise +and approach the Greek girl, who turned around to say a few words to +him, and then, leaning forward again on the railing of her box, she +became as absorbed as before in what was going on. + +The countenance of the person who had addressed her remained so +completely in the shade, that, though Franz tried his utmost, he could +not distinguish a single feature. The curtain rose, and the attention +of Franz was attracted by the actors; and his eyes turned from the box +containing the Greek girl and her strange companion to watch the +business of the stage. + +Most of my readers are aware that the second act of _Parisina_ opens +with the celebrated and effective duet in which Parisina, while +sleeping, betrays to Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. The injured +husband goes through all the emotions of jealousy, until conviction +seizes on his mind, and then, in a frenzy of rage and indignation, he +awakens his guilty wife to tell her that he knows her guilt and to +threaten her with his vengeance. + +This duet is one of the most beautiful, expressive and terrible +conceptions that has ever emanated from the fruitful pen of Donizetti. +Franz now listened to it for the third time; yet its notes, so tenderly +expressive and fearfully grand as the wretched husband and wife give +vent to their different griefs and passions, thrilled through the soul +of Franz with an effect equal to his first emotions upon hearing it. +Excited beyond his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with the audience, +and was about to join the loud, enthusiastic applause that followed; +but suddenly his purpose was arrested, his hands fell by his sides, and +the half-uttered “bravos” expired on his lips. + +The occupant of the box in which the Greek girl sat appeared to share +the universal admiration that prevailed; for he left his seat to stand +up in front, so that, his countenance being fully revealed, Franz had +no difficulty in recognizing him as the mysterious inhabitant of Monte +Cristo, and the very same person he had encountered the preceding +evening in the ruins of the Colosseum, and whose voice and figure had +seemed so familiar to him. + +All doubt of his identity was now at an end; his singular host +evidently resided at Rome. The surprise and agitation occasioned by +this full confirmation of Franz’s former suspicion had no doubt +imparted a corresponding expression to his features; for the countess, +after gazing with a puzzled look at his face, burst into a fit of +laughter, and begged to know what had happened. + +“Countess,” returned Franz, totally unheeding her raillery, “I asked +you a short time since if you knew any particulars respecting the +Albanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me who and +what is her husband?” + +“Nay,” answered the countess, “I know no more of him than yourself.” + +“Perhaps you never before noticed him?” + +“What a question—so truly French! Do you not know that we Italians have +eyes only for the man we love?” + +“True,” replied Franz. + +“All I can say is,” continued the countess, taking up the _lorgnette_, +and directing it toward the box in question, “that the gentleman, whose +history I am unable to furnish, seems to me as though he had just been +dug up; he looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly +grave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of +ours, than anything human. How ghastly pale he is!” + +“Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him,” said Franz. + +“Then you know him?” almost screamed the countess. “Oh, pray do, for +heaven’s sake, tell us all about—is he a vampire, or a resuscitated +corpse, or what?” + +“I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me.” + +“And I can well understand,” said the countess, shrugging up her +beautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder passed through +her veins, “that those who have once seen that man will never be likely +to forget him.” + +The sensation experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to +himself; another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same +unaccountable awe and misgiving. + +“Well.” inquired Franz, after the countess had a second time directed +her _lorgnette_ at the box, “what do you think of our opposite +neighbor?” + +20147m + + + +“Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.” + +This fresh allusion to Byron5 drew a smile to Franz’s countenance; +although he could but allow that if anything was likely to induce +belief in the existence of vampires, it would be the presence of such a +man as the mysterious personage before him. + +“I must positively find out who and what he is,” said Franz, rising +from his seat. + +“No, no,” cried the countess; “you must not leave me. I depend upon you +to escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot permit you to go.” + +“Is it possible,” whispered Franz, “that you entertain any fear?” + +“I’ll tell you,” answered the countess. “Byron had the most perfect +belief in the existence of vampires, and even assured me that he had +seen them. The description he gave me perfectly corresponds with the +features and character of the man before us. Oh, he is the exact +personification of what I have been led to expect! The coal-black hair, +large bright, glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems +burning,—the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too, that the woman +with him is altogether unlike all others of her sex. She is a +foreigner—a stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from. +No doubt she belongs to the same horrible race he does, and is, like +himself, a dealer in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near +him—at least tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as +great, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight you neither can +nor shall. For that purpose I mean to keep you all to myself.” + +Franz protested he could not defer his pursuit till the following day, +for many reasons. + +“Listen to me,” said the countess, “and do not be so very headstrong. I +am going home. I have a party at my house tonight, and therefore cannot +possibly remain till the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for one +instant believe you so devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your +escort when she even condescends to ask you for it.” + +There was nothing else left for Franz to do but to take up his hat, +open the door of the box, and offer the countess his arm. It was quite +evident, by her manner, that her uneasiness was not feigned; and Franz +himself could not resist a feeling of superstitious dread—so much the +stronger in him, as it arose from a variety of corroborative +recollections, while the terror of the countess sprang from an +instinctive belief, originally created in her mind by the wild tales +she had listened to till she believed them truths. Franz could even +feel her arm tremble as he assisted her into the carriage. Upon +arriving at her hotel, Franz perceived that she had deceived him when +she spoke of expecting company; on the contrary, her own return before +the appointed hour seemed greatly to astonish the servants. + +“Excuse my little subterfuge,” said the countess, in reply to her +companion’s half-reproachful observation on the subject; “but that +horrid man had made me feel quite uncomfortable, and I longed to be +alone, that I might compose my startled mind.” + +Franz essayed to smile. + +“Nay,” said she, “do not smile; it ill accords with the expression of +your countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from your heart. +However, promise me one thing.” + +“What is it?” + +“Promise me, I say.” + +“I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my determination of +finding out who this man is. I have more reasons than you can imagine +for desiring to know who he is, from whence he came, and whither he is +going.” + +“Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell you where he +is going to, and that is down below, without the least doubt.” + +“Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,” said Franz. + +“Well, then, you must give me your word to return immediately to your +hotel, and make no attempt to follow this man tonight. There are +certain affinities between the persons we quit and those we meet +afterwards. For heaven’s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that +man and me. Pursue your chase after him tomorrow as eagerly as you +please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of +terror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and try to sleep away +all recollections of this evening. For my own part, I am quite sure I +shall not be able to close my eyes.” + +So saying, the countess quitted Franz, leaving him unable to decide +whether she were merely amusing herself at his expense, or whether her +fears and agitations were genuine. + +Upon his return to the hotel, Franz found Albert in his dressing-gown +and slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa, smoking a cigar. + +“My dear fellow!” cried he, springing up, “is it really you? Why, I did +not expect to see you before tomorrow.” + +“My dear Albert,” replied Franz, “I am glad of this opportunity to tell +you, once and forever, that you entertain a most erroneous notion +concerning Italian women. I should have thought the continual failures +you have met with in all your own love affairs might have taught you +better by this time.” + +“Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them +aright. Why, here—they give you their hand—they press yours in +return—they keep up a whispering conversation—permit you to accompany +them home. Why, if a Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these +marks of flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever.” + +“And the very reason why the women of this fine country, ‘where sounds +the _si_,’ as Dante writes, put so little restraint on their words and +actions, is because they live so much in public, and have really +nothing to conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess +was really alarmed.” + +“At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite +to us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl? Now, for my part, I +met them in the lobby after the conclusion of the piece; and hang me, +if I can guess where you took your notions of the other world from. I +can assure you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking +fellow—admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from the cut of +his clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris tailor—probably Blin +or Humann. He was rather too pale, certainly; but then, you know, +paleness is always looked upon as a strong proof of aristocratic +descent and distinguished breeding.” + +Franz smiled; for he well remembered that Albert particularly prided +himself on the entire absence of color in his own complexion. + +“Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas,” said Franz, “that the +countess’s suspicions were destitute alike of sense and reason. Did he +speak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words?” + +“I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from +the mixture of Greek words. I don’t know whether I ever told you that +when I was at college I was rather—rather strong in Greek.” + +“He spoke the Romaic language, did he?” + +“I think so.” + +“That settles it,” murmured Franz. “’Tis he, past all doubt.” + +“What do you say?” + +“Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I +came in?” + +“Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you.” + +“Indeed. Of what nature?” + +“Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage.” + +“Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means +afforded to endeavor to get one.” + +“Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my +brain.” + +Franz looked at Albert as though he had not much confidence in the +suggestions of his imagination. + +“I tell you what, M. Franz,” cried Albert, “you deserve to be called +out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were +pleased to bestow on me just now.” + +“And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your +scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert.” + +“Well, then, hearken to me.” + +“I listen.” + +“You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the +question?” + +“I do.” + +“Neither can we procure horses?” + +“True; we have offered any sum, but have failed.” + +“Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be +had.” + +“Very possibly.” + +“And a pair of oxen?” + +“As easily found as the cart.” + +“Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our +business can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if +you and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a +striking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by Léopold +Robert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join +us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group +would then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite +beautiful enough to represent a Madonna.” + +“Well,” said Franz, “this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you +credit for having hit upon a most capital idea.” + +“And quite a national one, too,” replied Albert with gratified pride. +“A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans! +you thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your +processions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are +to be had in your beggarly city. But you don’t know us; when we can’t +have one thing we invent another.” + +“And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?” + +“Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then +explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing +would be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry +for; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me +there would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so +you see we must do without this little superfluity.” + +“And where is he now?” + +“Who?” + +“Our host.” + +“Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late.” + +“Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight.” + +“Oh, I expect him every minute.” + +At this instant the door opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini +appeared. “_Permesso_?” inquired he. + +“Certainly—certainly,” cried Franz. “Come in, my host.” + +“Now, then,” asked Albert eagerly, “have you found the desired cart and +oxen?” + +“Better than that!” replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of a man +perfectly well satisfied with himself. + +“Take care, my worthy host,” said Albert, “_better_ is a sure enemy to +_well_.” + +“Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,” returned Signor +Pastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded self-confidence. + +“But what _have_ you done?” asked Franz. “Speak out, there’s a worthy +fellow.” + +“Your excellencies are aware,” responded the landlord, swelling with +importance, “that the Count of Monte Cristo is living on the same floor +with yourselves!” + +“I should think we did know it,” exclaimed Albert, “since it is owing +to that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like +two poor students in the back streets of Paris.” + +“When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the dilemma in which +you are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two +places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.” The friends looked at +each other with unutterable surprise. + +“But do you think,” asked Albert, “that we ought to accept such offers +from a perfect stranger?” + +“What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?” asked Franz of his +host. + +“A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot +exactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich +as a gold mine.” + +“It seems to me,” said Franz, speaking in an undertone to Albert, “that +if this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would +have conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted +it to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have +written—or——” + +At this instant someone knocked at the door. + +“Come in,” said Franz. + +A servant, wearing a livery of considerable style and richness, +appeared at the threshold, and, placing two cards in the landlord’s +hands, who forthwith presented them to the two young men, he said: + +“Please to deliver these, from the Count of Monte Cristo to Vicomte +Albert de Morcerf and M. Franz d’Épinay. The Count of Monte Cristo,” +continued the servant, “begs these gentlemen’s permission to wait upon +them as their neighbor, and he will be honored by an intimation of what +time they will please to receive him.” + +“Faith, Franz,” whispered Albert, “there is not much to find fault with +here.” + +“Tell the count,” replied Franz, “that we will do ourselves the +pleasure of calling on him.” + +The servant bowed and retired. + +“That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,” said Albert, “You were +quite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte +Cristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of +the world.” + +“Then you accept his offer?” said the host. + +“Of course we do,” replied Albert. “Still, I must own I am sorry to be +obliged to give up the cart and the group of reapers—it would have +produced such an effect! And were it not for the windows at the Palazzo +Rospoli, by way of recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I +don’t know but what I should have held on by my original plan. What say +you, Franz?” + +“Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided +me.” + +The truth was, that the mention of two places in the Palazzo Rospoli +had recalled to Franz the conversation he had overheard the preceding +evening in the ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown +and the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had undertaken +to obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal; and if this muffled-up +individual proved (as Franz felt sure he would) the same as the person +he had just seen in the Teatro Argentina, then he should be able to +establish his identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting +him with perfect facility and freedom. + +Franz passed the night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings +he had already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking +speculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next day must +clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend, +the Count of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its +power was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he +could not escape this time. + +Eight o’clock found Franz up and dressed, while Albert, who had not the +same motives for early rising, was still soundly asleep. The first act +of Franz was to summon his landlord, who presented himself with his +accustomed obsequiousness. + +“Pray, Signor Pastrini,” asked Franz, “is not some execution appointed +to take place today?” + +“Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may +procure a window to view it from, you are much too late.” + +“Oh, no,” answered Franz, “I had no such intention; and even if I had +felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte +Pincio; could I not?” + +“Ah!” exclaimed mine host, “I did not think it likely your excellency +would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected +on that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to +themselves.” + +“Very possibly I may not go,” answered Franz; “but in case I feel +disposed, give me some particulars of today’s executions.” + +“What particulars would your excellency like to hear?” + +“Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and +description of the death they are to die.” + +“That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few minutes ago they +brought me the _tavolettas_.” + +“What are they?” + +“Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening +before an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names +of the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The +reason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and +faithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate +culprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere +repentance.” + +“And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to +those of the faithful, are they?” asked Franz somewhat incredulously. + +“Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody’s affairs +but my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement +with the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he +would the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should +like to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information +concerning the time and place etc.” + +“Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor +Pastrini,” cried Franz. + +“Why, your excellency,” returned the landlord, chuckling and rubbing +his hands with infinite complacency, “I think I may take upon myself to +say I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble +visitors to this poor hotel.” + +“I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely +upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your +guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these +_tavolettas_.” + +“Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency’s wish,” +said the landlord, opening the door of the chamber; “I have caused one +to be placed on the landing, close by your apartment.” + +Then, taking the tablet from the wall, he handed it to Franz, who read +as follows: + +“‘The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the +first day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del +Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named +Andrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former +found guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named +Don César Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the +latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary +bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be +_mazzolato_, the second culprit _decapitato_. + +“‘The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these +unfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of +their guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for +their crimes.’” + +This was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before in the ruins +of the Colosseum. No part of the programme differed,—the names of the +condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment, all agreed +with his previous information. In all probability, therefore, the +Transteverin was no other than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the +man shrouded in the mantle the same he had known as “Sinbad the +Sailor,” but who, no doubt, was still pursuing his philanthropic +expedition in Rome, as he had already done at Porto-Vecchio and Tunis. + +Time was getting on, however, and Franz deemed it advisable to awaken +Albert; but at the moment he prepared to proceed to his chamber, his +friend entered the room in perfect costume for the day. The anticipated +delights of the Carnival had so run in his head as to make him leave +his pillow long before his usual hour. + +“Now, my excellent Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, addressing his +landlord, “since we are both ready, do you think we may proceed at once +to visit the Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“Most assuredly,” replied he. “The Count of Monte Cristo is always an +early riser; and I can answer for his having been up these two hours.” + +“Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we pay our +respects to him directly?” + +20155m + + + +“Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all the blame on myself if you find I +have led you into an error.” + +“Well, then, if it be so, are you ready, Albert?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy.” + +“Yes, let us do so.” + +The landlord preceded the friends across the landing, which was all +that separated them from the apartments of the count, rang at the bell, +and, upon the door being opened by a servant, said: + +“_I signori Francesi_.” + +The domestic bowed respectfully, and invited them to enter. They passed +through two rooms, furnished in a luxurious manner they had not +expected to see under the roof of Signor Pastrini, and were shown into +an elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The richest Turkey carpets covered +the floor, and the softest and most inviting couches, easy-chairs, and +sofas, offered their high-piled and yielding cushions to such as +desired repose or refreshment. Splendid paintings by the first masters +were ranged against the walls, intermingled with magnificent trophies +of war, while heavy curtains of costly tapestry were suspended before +the different doors of the room. + +“If your excellencies will please to be seated,” said the man, “I will +let the count know that you are here.” + +And with these words he disappeared behind one of the tapestried +_portières_. As the door opened, the sound of a _guzla_ reached the +ears of the young men, but was almost immediately lost, for the rapid +closing of the door merely allowed one rich swell of harmony to enter. +Franz and Albert looked inquiringly at each other, then at the gorgeous +furnishings of the apartment. Everything seemed more magnificent at a +second view than it had done at their first rapid survey. + +“Well,” said Franz to his friend, “what think you of all this?” + +“Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our elegant and +attentive neighbor must either be some successful stock-jobber who has +speculated in the fall of the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling +_incog_.” + +“Hush, hush!” replied Franz; “we shall ascertain who and what he is—he +comes!” + +As Franz spoke, he heard the sound of a door turning on its hinges, and +almost immediately afterwards the tapestry was drawn aside, and the +owner of all these riches stood before the two young men. Albert +instantly rose to meet him, but Franz remained, in a manner, spellbound +on his chair; for in the person of him who had just entered he +recognized not only the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum, and the +occupant of the box at the Teatro Argentina, but also his extraordinary +host of Monte Cristo. + +20157m + + + + + Chapter 35. La Mazzolata + +Gentlemen,” said the Count of Monte Cristo as he entered, “I pray you +excuse me for suffering my visit to be anticipated; but I feared to +disturb you by presenting myself earlier at your apartments; besides, +you sent me word that you would come to me, and I have held myself at +your disposal.” + +“Franz and I have to thank you a thousand times, count,” returned +Albert; “you extricated us from a great dilemma, and we were on the +point of inventing a very fantastic vehicle when your friendly +invitation reached us.” + +“Indeed,” returned the count, motioning the two young men to sit down. +“It was the fault of that blockhead Pastrini, that I did not sooner +assist you in your distress. He did not mention a syllable of your +embarrassment to me, when he knows that, alone and isolated as I am, I +seek every opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. As +soon as I learned I could in any way assist you, I most eagerly seized +the opportunity of offering my services.” + +The two young men bowed. Franz had, as yet, found nothing to say; he +had come to no determination, and as nothing in the count’s manner +manifested the wish that he should recognize him, he did not know +whether to make any allusion to the past, or wait until he had more +proof; besides, although sure it was he who had been in the box the +previous evening, he could not be equally positive that this was the +man he had seen at the Colosseum. He resolved, therefore, to let things +take their course without making any direct overture to the count. +Moreover, he had this advantage, he was master of the count’s secret, +while the count had no hold on Franz, who had nothing to conceal. +However, he resolved to lead the conversation to a subject which might +possibly clear up his doubts. + +“Count,” said he, “you have offered us places in your carriage, and at +your windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we can obtain +a sight of the Piazza del Popolo?” + +“Ah,” said the count negligently, looking attentively at Morcerf, “is +there not something like an execution upon the Piazza del Popolo?” + +“Yes,” returned Franz, finding that the count was coming to the point +he wished. + +“Stay, I think I told my steward yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I +can render you this slight service also.” + +He extended his hand, and rang the bell thrice. + +“Did you ever occupy yourself,” said he to Franz, “with the employment +of time and the means of simplifying the summoning your servants? I +have. When I ring once, it is for my valet; twice, for my majordomo; +thrice, for my steward,—thus I do not waste a minute or a word. Here he +is.” + +A man of about forty-five or fifty entered, exactly resembling the +smuggler who had introduced Franz into the cavern; but he did not +appear to recognize him. It was evident he had his orders. + +“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “you have procured me windows +looking on the Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you yesterday.” + +“Yes, excellency,” returned the steward; “but it was very late.” + +“Did I not tell you I wished for one?” replied the count, frowning. + +“And your excellency has one, which was let to Prince Lobanieff; but I +was obliged to pay a hundred——” + +“That will do—that will do, Monsieur Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen +all such domestic arrangements. You have the window, that is +sufficient. Give orders to the coachman; and be in readiness on the +stairs to conduct us to it.” + +The steward bowed, and was about to quit the room. + +“Ah!” continued the count, “be good enough to ask Pastrini if he has +received the _tavoletta_, and if he can send us an account of the +execution.” + +“There is no need to do that,” said Franz, taking out his tablets; “for +I saw the account, and copied it down.” + +“Very well, you can retire, M. Bertuccio; I need you no longer. Let us +know when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen,” added he, turning to +the two friends, “will, I trust, do me the honor to breakfast with me?” + +“But, my dear count,” said Albert, “we shall abuse your kindness.” + +“Not at all; on the contrary, you will give me great pleasure. You +will, one or other of you, perhaps both, return it to me at Paris. M. +Bertuccio, lay covers for three.” + +He then took Franz’s tablets out of his hand. “‘We announce,’ he read, +in the same tone with which he would have read a newspaper, ‘that +today, the 23rd of February, will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of +murder on the person of the respected and venerated Don César Torlini, +canon of the church of St. John Lateran, and Peppino, called Rocca +Priori, convicted of complicity with the detestable bandit Luigi Vampa, +and the men of his band.’ + +“Hum! ‘The first will be _mazzolato_, the second _decapitato_.’ Yes,” +continued the count, “it was at first arranged in this way; but I think +since yesterday some change has taken place in the order of the +ceremony.” + +“Really?” said Franz. + +“Yes, I passed the evening at the Cardinal Rospigliosi’s, and there +mention was made of something like a pardon for one of the two men.” + +“For Andrea Rondolo?” asked Franz. + +“No,” replied the count, carelessly; “for the other (he glanced at the +tablets as if to recall the name), for Peppino, called Rocca Priori. +You are thus deprived of seeing a man guillotined; but the _mazzolata_ +still remains, which is a very curious punishment when seen for the +first time, and even the second, while the other, as you must know, is +very simple. The _mandaïa_6 never fails, never trembles, never strikes +thirty times ineffectually, like the soldier who beheaded the Count of +Chalais, and to whose tender mercy Richelieu had doubtless recommended +the sufferer. Ah,” added the count, in a contemptuous tone, “do not +tell me of European punishments, they are in the infancy, or rather the +old age, of cruelty.” + +“Really, count,” replied Franz, “one would think that you had studied +the different tortures of all the nations of the world.” + +“There are, at least, few that I have not seen,” said the count coldly. + +“And you took pleasure in beholding these dreadful spectacles?” + +“My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third +curiosity.” + +“Curiosity—that is a terrible word.” + +“Why so? In life, our greatest preoccupation is death; is it not then, +curious to study the different ways by which the soul and body can +part; and how, according to their different characters, temperaments, +and even the different customs of their countries, different persons +bear the transition from life to death, from existence to annihilation? +As for myself, I can assure you of one thing,—the more men you see die, +the easier it becomes to die yourself; and in my opinion, death may be +a torture, but it is not an expiation.” + +“I do not quite understand you,” replied Franz; “pray explain your +meaning, for you excite my curiosity to the highest pitch.” + +“Listen,” said the count, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the +blood would to the face of any other. “If a man had by unheard-of and +excruciating tortures destroyed your father, your mother, your +betrothed,—a being who, when torn from you, left a desolation, a wound +that never closes, in your breast,—do you think the reparation that +society gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the +guillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of +the murderer, and allows him who has caused us years of moral +sufferings to escape with a few moments of physical pain?” + +“Yes, I know,” said Franz, “that human justice is insufficient to +console us; she can give blood in return for blood, that is all; but +you must demand from her only what it is in her power to grant.” + +“I will put another case to you,” continued the count; “that where +society, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death. But +are there not a thousand tortures by which a man may be made to suffer +without society taking the least cognizance of them, or offering him +even the insufficient means of vengeance, of which we have just spoken? +Are there not crimes for which the impalement of the Turks, the augers +of the Persians, the stake and the brand of the Iroquois Indians, are +inadequate tortures, and which are unpunished by society? Answer me, do +not these crimes exist?” + +“Yes,” answered Franz; “and it is to punish them that duelling is +tolerated.” + +“Ah, duelling,” cried the count; “a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of +arriving at your end when that end is vengeance! A man has carried off +your mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonored your +daughter; he has rendered the whole life of one who had the right to +expect from Heaven that portion of happiness God has promised to +everyone of his creatures, an existence of misery and infamy; and you +think you are avenged because you send a ball through the head, or pass +a sword through the breast, of that man who has planted madness in your +brain, and despair in your heart. And remember, moreover, that it is +often he who comes off victorious from the strife, absolved of all +crime in the eyes of the world. No, no,” continued the count, “had I to +avenge myself, it is not thus I would take revenge.” + +“Then you disapprove of duelling? You would not fight a duel?” asked +Albert in his turn, astonished at this strange theory. + +“Oh, yes,” replied the count; “understand me, I would fight a duel for +a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my +skill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have +gradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man. Oh, I +would fight for such a cause; but in return for a slow, profound, +eternal torture, I would give back the same, were it possible; an eye +for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the Orientalists say,—our masters +in everything,—those favored creatures who have formed for themselves a +life of dreams and a paradise of realities.” + +“But,” said Franz to the count, “with this theory, which renders you at +once judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to +adopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power +of the law. Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours +out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.” + +“Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced, not if he be rich and skilful; +besides, the worst that could happen to him would be the punishment of +which we have already spoken, and which the philanthropic French +Revolution has substituted for being torn to pieces by horses or broken +on the wheel. What matters this punishment, as long as he is avenged? +On my word, I almost regret that in all probability this miserable +Peppino will not be beheaded, as you might have had an opportunity then +of seeing how short a time the punishment lasts, and whether it is +worth even mentioning; but, really this is a most singular conversation +for the Carnival, gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I recollect, you +asked for a place at my window; you shall have it; but let us first sit +down to table, for here comes the servant to inform us that breakfast +is ready.” + +As he spoke, a servant opened one of the four doors of the apartment, +saying: + +“_Al suo commodo!_” + +The two young men arose and entered the breakfast-room. + +During the meal, which was excellent, and admirably served, Franz +looked repeatedly at Albert, in order to observe the impressions which +he doubted not had been made on him by the words of their entertainer; +but whether with his usual carelessness he had paid but little +attention to him, whether the explanation of the Count of Monte Cristo +with regard to duelling had satisfied him, or whether the events which +Franz knew of had had their effect on him alone, he remarked that his +companion did not pay the least regard to them, but on the contrary ate +like a man who for the last four or five months had been condemned to +partake of Italian cookery—that is, the worst in the world. + +As for the count, he just touched the dishes; he seemed to fulfil the +duties of a host by sitting down with his guests, and awaited their +departure to be served with some strange or more delicate food. This +brought back to Franz, in spite of himself, the recollection of the +terror with which the count had inspired the Countess G——, and her firm +conviction that the man in the opposite box was a vampire. + +At the end of the breakfast Franz took out his watch. + +“Well,” said the count, “what are you doing?” + +“You must excuse us, count,” returned Franz, “but we have still much to +do.” + +“What may that be?” + +“We have no masks, and it is absolutely necessary to procure them.” + +“Do not concern yourself about that; we have, I think, a private room +in the Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever costumes you choose +brought to us, and you can dress there.” + +“After the execution?” cried Franz. + +“Before or after, whichever you please.” + +“Opposite the scaffold?” + +“The scaffold forms part of the _fête_.” + +“Count, I have reflected on the matter,” said Franz, “I thank you for +your courtesy, but I shall content myself with accepting a place in +your carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace, and I leave you +at liberty to dispose of my place at the Piazza del Popolo.” + +“But I warn you, you will lose a very curious sight,” returned the +count. + +“You will describe it to me,” replied Franz, “and the recital from your +lips will make as great an impression on me as if I had witnessed it. I +have more than once intended witnessing an execution, but I have never +been able to make up my mind; and you, Albert?” + +“I,” replied the viscount,—“I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was +rather intoxicated that day, for I had quitted college the same +morning, and we had passed the previous night at a tavern.” + +“Besides, it is no reason because you have not seen an execution at +Paris, that you should not see one anywhere else; when you travel, it +is to see everything. Think what a figure you will make when you are +asked, ‘How do they execute at Rome?’ and you reply, ‘I do not know!’ +And, besides, they say that the culprit is an infamous scoundrel, who +killed with a log of wood a worthy canon who had brought him up like +his own son. _Diable!_ when a churchman is killed, it should be with a +different weapon than a log, especially when he has behaved like a +father. If you went to Spain, would you not see the bull-fights? Well, +suppose it is a bull-fight you are going to see? Recollect the ancient +Romans of the Circus, and the sports where they killed three hundred +lions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand applauding +spectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming +Vestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign +that said, ‘Come, despatch the dying.’” + +“Shall you go, then, Albert?” asked Franz. + +“_Ma foi_, yes; like you, I hesitated, but the count’s eloquence +decides me.” + +“Let us go, then,” said Franz, “since you wish it; but on our way to +the Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass through the Corso. Is this +possible, count?” + +“On foot, yes, in a carriage, no.” + +“I will go on foot, then.” + +“Is it important that you should go that way?” + +“Yes, there is something I wish to see.” + +“Well, we will go by the Corso. We will send the carriage to wait for +us on the Piazza del Popolo, by the Via del Babuino, for I shall be +glad to pass, myself, through the Corso, to see if some orders I have +given have been executed.” + +“Excellency,” said a servant, opening the door, “a man in the dress of +a penitent wishes to speak to you.” + +“Ah! yes,” returned the count, “I know who he is, gentlemen; will you +return to the salon? you will find good cigars on the centre table. I +will be with you directly.” + +The young men rose and returned into the salon, while the count, again +apologizing, left by another door. Albert, who was a great smoker, and +who had considered it no small sacrifice to be deprived of the cigars +of the Café de Paris, approached the table, and uttered a cry of joy at +perceiving some veritable _puros_. + +“Well,” asked Franz, “what think you of the Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“What do I think?” said Albert, evidently surprised at such a question +from his companion; “I think he is a delightful fellow, who does the +honors of his table admirably; who has travelled much, read much, is, +like Brutus, of the Stoic school, and moreover,” added he, sending a +volume of smoke up towards the ceiling, “that he has excellent cigars.” + +Such was Albert’s opinion of the count, and as Franz well knew that +Albert professed never to form an opinion except upon long reflection, +he made no attempt to change it. + +“But,” said he, “did you observe one very singular thing?” + +“What?” + +“How attentively he looked at you.” + +“At me?” + +“Yes.” + +Albert reflected. “Ah,” replied he, sighing, “that is not very +surprising; I have been more than a year absent from Paris, and my +clothes are of a most antiquated cut; the count takes me for a +provincial. The first opportunity you have, undeceive him, I beg, and +tell him I am nothing of the kind.” + +Franz smiled; an instant after the count entered. + +“I am now quite at your service, gentlemen,” said he. “The carriage is +going one way to the Piazza del Popolo, and we will go another; and, if +you please, by the Corso. Take some more of these cigars, M. de +Morcerf.” + +“With all my heart,” returned Albert; “Italian cigars are horrible. +When you come to Paris, I will return all this.” + +“I will not refuse; I intend going there soon, and since you allow me, +I will pay you a visit. Come, we have not any time to lose, it is +half-past twelve—let us set off.” + +All three descended; the coachman received his master’s orders, and +drove down the Via del Babuino. While the three gentlemen walked along +the Piazza di Spagna and the Via Frattina, which led directly between +the Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz’s attention was directed towards +the windows of that last palace, for he had not forgotten the signal +agreed upon between the man in the mantle and the Transtevere peasant. + +“Which are your windows?” asked he of the count, with as much +indifference as he could assume. + +“The three last,” returned he, with a negligence evidently unaffected, +for he could not imagine with what intention the question was put. + +Franz glanced rapidly towards the three windows. The side windows were +hung with yellow damask, and the centre one with white damask and a red +cross. The man in the mantle had kept his promise to the Transteverin, +and there could now be no doubt that he was the count. + +The three windows were still untenanted. Preparations were making on +every side; chairs were placed, scaffolds were raised, and windows were +hung with flags. The masks could not appear; the carriages could not +move about; but the masks were visible behind the windows, the +carriages, and the doors. + +Franz, Albert, and the count continued to descend the Corso. As they +approached the Piazza del Popolo, the crowd became more dense, and +above the heads of the multitude two objects were visible: the obelisk, +surmounted by a cross, which marks the centre of the square, and in +front of the obelisk, at the point where the three streets, del +Babuino, del Corso, and di Ripetta, meet, the two uprights of the +scaffold, between which glittered the curved knife of the _mandaïa_. + +At the corner of the street they met the count’s steward, who was +awaiting his master. The window, let at an exorbitant price, which the +count had doubtless wished to conceal from his guests, was on the +second floor of the great palace, situated between the Via del Babuino +and the Monte Pincio. It consisted, as we have said, of a small +dressing-room, opening into a bedroom, and, when the door of +communication was shut, the inmates were quite alone. On chairs were +laid elegant masquerade costumes of blue and white satin. + +20167m + + + +“As you left the choice of your costumes to me,” said the count to the +two friends, “I have had these brought, as they will be the most worn +this year; and they are most suitable, on account of the _confetti_ +(sweetmeats), as they do not show the flour.” + +Franz heard the words of the count but imperfectly, and he perhaps did +not fully appreciate this new attention to their wishes; for he was +wholly absorbed by the spectacle that the Piazza del Popolo presented, +and by the terrible instrument that was in the centre. + +It was the first time Franz had ever seen a guillotine,—we say +guillotine, because the Roman _mandaïa_ is formed on almost the same +model as the French instrument.7 The knife, which is shaped like a +crescent, that cuts with the convex side, falls from a less height, and +that is all the difference. + +Two men, seated on the movable plank on which the victim is laid, were +eating their breakfasts, while waiting for the criminal. Their repast +consisted apparently of bread and sausages. One of them lifted the +plank, took out a flask of wine, drank some, and then passed it to his +companion. These two men were the executioner’s assistants. + +At this sight Franz felt the perspiration start forth upon his brow. + +The prisoners, transported the previous evening from the Carceri Nuove +to the little church of Santa Maria del Popolo, had passed the night, +each accompanied by two priests, in a chapel closed by a grating, +before which were two sentinels, who were relieved at intervals. A +double line of carbineers, placed on each side of the door of the +church, reached to the scaffold, and formed a circle around it, leaving +a path about ten feet wide, and around the guillotine a space of nearly +a hundred feet. + +All the rest of the square was paved with heads. Many women held their +infants on their shoulders, and thus the children had the best view. +The Monte Pincio seemed a vast amphitheatre filled with spectators; the +balconies of the two churches at the corner of the Via del Babuino and +the Via di Ripetta were crammed; the steps even seemed a parti-colored +sea, that was impelled towards the portico; every niche in the wall +held its living statue. What the count said was true—the most curious +spectacle in life is that of death. + +And yet, instead of the silence and the solemnity demanded by the +occasion, laughter and jests arose from the crowd. It was evident that +the execution was, in the eyes of the people, only the commencement of +the Carnival. + +Suddenly the tumult ceased, as if by magic, and the doors of the church +opened. A brotherhood of penitents, clothed from head to foot in robes +of gray sackcloth, with holes for the eyes, and holding in their hands +lighted tapers, appeared first; the chief marched at the head. + +20169m + + + +Behind the penitents came a man of vast stature and proportions. He was +naked, with the exception of cloth drawers at the left side of which +hung a large knife in a sheath, and he bore on his right shoulder a +heavy iron sledge-hammer. + +This man was the executioner. + +He had, moreover, sandals bound on his feet by cords. + +Behind the executioner came, in the order in which they were to die, +first Peppino and then Andrea. Each was accompanied by two priests. +Neither had his eyes bandaged. + +Peppino walked with a firm step, doubtless aware of what awaited him. +Andrea was supported by two priests. Each of them, from time to time, +kissed the crucifix a confessor held out to them. + +At this sight alone Franz felt his legs tremble under him. He looked at +Albert—he was as white as his shirt, and mechanically cast away his +cigar, although he had not half smoked it. The count alone seemed +unmoved—nay, more, a slight color seemed striving to rise in his pale +cheeks. His nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast that scents its +prey, and his lips, half opened, disclosed his white teeth, small and +sharp like those of a jackal. And yet his features wore an expression +of smiling tenderness, such as Franz had never before witnessed in +them; his black eyes especially were full of kindness and pity. + +However, the two culprits advanced, and as they approached their faces +became visible. Peppino was a handsome young man of four or +five-and-twenty, bronzed by the sun; he carried his head erect, and +seemed on the watch to see on which side his liberator would appear. +Andrea was short and fat; his visage, marked with brutal cruelty, did +not indicate age; he might be thirty. In prison he had suffered his +beard to grow; his head fell on his shoulder, his legs bent beneath +him, and his movements were apparently automatic and unconscious. + +“I thought,” said Franz to the count, “that you told me there would be +but one execution.” + +“I told you true,” replied he coldly. + +“And yet here are two culprits.” + +“Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many +years to live.” + +“If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose.” + +“And see, here it is,” said the count. At the moment when Peppino +reached the foot of the _mandaïa_, a priest arrived in some haste, +forced his way through the soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of the +brotherhood, gave him a folded paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had +noticed all. The chief took the paper, unfolded it, and, raising his +hand, “Heaven be praised, and his Holiness also,” said he in a loud +voice; “here is a pardon for one of the prisoners!” + +“A pardon!” cried the people with one voice; “a pardon!” + +At this cry Andrea raised his head. + +“Pardon for whom?” cried he. + +Peppino remained breathless. + +“A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca Priori,” said the principal friar. +And he passed the paper to the officer commanding the carbineers, who +read and returned it to him. + +“For Peppino!” cried Andrea, who seemed roused from the torpor in which +he had been plunged. “Why for him and not for me? We ought to die +together. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to +put me to death alone. I will not die alone—I will not!” + +And he broke from the priests struggling and raving like a wild beast, +and striving desperately to break the cords that bound his hands. The +executioner made a sign, and his two assistants leaped from the +scaffold and seized him. + +“What is going on?” asked Franz of the count; for, as all the talk was +in the Roman dialect, he had not perfectly understood it. + +“Do you not see?” returned the count, “that this human creature who is +about to die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with +him? and, were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his +teeth and nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be +deprived of. Oh, man, man—race of crocodiles,” cried the count, +extending his clenched hands towards the crowd, “how well do I +recognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of +yourselves!” + +Meanwhile Andrea and the two executioners were struggling on the +ground, and he kept exclaiming, “He ought to die!—he shall die!—I will +not die alone!” + +“Look, look,” cried the count, seizing the young men’s hands; “look, +for on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to +his fate, who was going to the scaffold to die—like a coward, it is +true, but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave +him strength? do you know what consoled him? It was, that another +partook of his punishment—that another partook of his anguish—that +another was to die before him! Lead two sheep to the butcher’s, two +oxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his +companion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will +bellow with joy. But man—man, whom God created in his own image—man, +upon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his +neighbor—man, to whom God has given a voice to express his +thoughts—what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A +blasphemy. Honor to man, this masterpiece of nature, this king of the +creation!” + +And the count burst into a laugh; a terrible laugh, that showed he must +have suffered horribly to be able thus to laugh. + +However, the struggle still continued, and it was dreadful to witness. +The two assistants carried Andrea up to the scaffold; the people all +took part against Andrea, and twenty thousand voices cried, “Put him to +death! put him to death!” + +Franz sprang back, but the count seized his arm, and held him before +the window. + +“What are you doing?” said he. “Do you pity him? If you heard the cry +of ‘Mad dog!’ you would take your gun—you would unhesitatingly shoot +the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten +by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one +of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to +kill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion +in captivity perish. No, no—look, look!” + +20172m + + + +The recommendation was needless. Franz was fascinated by the horrible +spectacle. + +The two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and there, in +spite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced him to his +knees. During this time the executioner had raised his mace, and signed +to them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise, but, ere he +had time, the mace fell on his left temple. A dull and heavy sound was +heard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then turned over +on his back. + +The executioner let fall his mace, drew his knife, and with one stroke +opened his throat, and mounting on his stomach, stamped violently on it +with his feet. At every stroke a jet of blood sprang from the wound. + +This time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half +fainting, into a seat. + +Albert, with his eyes closed, was standing grasping the +window-curtains. + +The count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel! + + + + Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome + +When Franz recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of +water, of which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need; and +the count, who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced +mechanically towards the piazza—the scene was wholly changed; scaffold, +executioners, victims, all had disappeared; only the people remained, +full of noise and excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only +sounds on the pope’s decease and the opening of the Carnival, was +ringing a joyous peal. + +“Well,” asked he of the count, “what has, then, happened?” + +“Nothing,” replied the count; “only, as you see, the Carnival has +commenced. Make haste and dress yourself.” + +“In fact,” said Franz, “this horrible scene has passed away like a +dream.” + +“It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you.” + +“Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit?” + +“That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have +awakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate?” + +“But Peppino—what has become of him?” + +“Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in +proportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general +attention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this +distraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the +worthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and +egotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the +example.” + +Albert was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black trousers and +varnished boots. + +“Well, Albert,” said Franz, “do you feel much inclined to join the +revels? Come, answer frankly.” + +“_Ma foi_, no,” returned Albert. “But I am really glad to have seen +such a sight; and I understand what the count said—that when you have +once habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one +that causes you any emotion.” + +20175m + + + +“Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study +character,” said the count; “on the steps of the scaffold death tears +off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is +disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the +hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress +yourselves.” + +Franz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two companions’ +example. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that scarcely +equalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they +descended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with +sweetmeats and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages. + +It is difficult to form an idea of the perfect change that had taken +place. Instead of the spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza +del Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A +crowd of masks flowed in from all sides, emerging from the doors, +descending from the windows. From every street and every corner drove +carriages filled with clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers, +pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and peasants, screaming, +fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with flour, confetti, +nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their missiles, friends +and foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately, and no one took +offence, or did anything but laugh. + +Franz and Albert were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow, +have recourse to wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated, +feel a thick veil drawn between the past and the present. They saw, or +rather continued to see, the image of what they had witnessed; but +little by little the general vertigo seized them, and they felt +themselves obliged to take part in the noise and confusion. + +A handful of confetti that came from a neighboring carriage, and which, +while it covered Morcerf and his two companions with dust, pricked his +neck and that portion of his face uncovered by his mask like a hundred +pins, incited him to join in the general combat, in which all the masks +around him were engaged. He rose in his turn, and seizing handfuls of +confetti and sweetmeats, with which the carriage was filled, cast them +with all the force and skill he was master of. + +20177m + + + +The strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen +half an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men’s minds, +so much were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they +now beheld. + +As for the Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for an instant shown any +appearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and splendid Corso, +bordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces, with their +balconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At these +balconies are three hundred thousand spectators—Romans, Italians, +strangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth, +wealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the +scene, bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and +shower down confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems +darkened with the falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets +the lively crowd is dressed in the most fantastic costumes—gigantic +cabbages walk gravely about, buffaloes’ heads bellow from men’s +shoulders, dogs walk on their hind legs; in the midst of all this a +mask is lifted, and, as in Callot’s Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely +face is exhibited, which we would fain follow, but from which we are +separated by troops of fiends. This will give a faint idea of the +Carnival at Rome. + +At the second turn, the count stopped the carriage, and requested +permission to withdraw, leaving the vehicle at their disposal. Franz +looked up—they were opposite the Rospoli Palace. At the centre window, +the one hung with white damask with a red cross, was a blue domino, +beneath which Franz’s imagination easily pictured the beautiful Greek +of the Argentina. + +“Gentlemen,” said the count, springing out, “when you are tired of +being actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you +have places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my +carriage, and my servants.” + +We have forgotten to mention, that the count’s coachman was attired in +a bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry’s in _The Bear and the Pasha_; and +the two footmen behind were dressed up as green monkeys, with spring +masks, with which they made grimaces at everyone who passed. + +Franz thanked the count for his attention. As for Albert, he was busily +occupied throwing bouquets at a carriage full of Roman peasants that +was passing near him. Unfortunately for him, the line of carriages +moved on again, and while he descended the Piazza del Popolo, the other +ascended towards the Palazzo di Venezia. + +“Ah, my dear fellow,” said he to Franz; “you did not see?” + +“What?” + +“There,—that calash filled with Roman peasants.” + +“No.” + +“Well, I am convinced they are all charming women.” + +“How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert,” said Franz; “here was +an opportunity of making up for past disappointments.” + +“Oh,” replied he, half laughing, half serious; “I hope the Carnival +will not pass without some amends in one shape or the other.” + +But, in spite of Albert’s hope, the day passed unmarked by any +incident, excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of +Roman peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely, +Albert’s mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the +bouquets into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females +Albert had detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by +his gallantry; for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she +threw a bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason +to suppose it was meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it. +Albert placed it in his button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly +on. + +“Well,” said Franz to him; “there is the beginning of an adventure.” + +“Laugh if you please—I really think so. So I will not abandon this +bouquet.” + +“_Pardieu_,” returned Franz, laughing, “in token of your ingratitude.” + +The jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and +Franz again encountered the carriage with the _contadini_, the one who +had thrown the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld +them in his button-hole. + +“Bravo, bravo,” said Franz; “things go wonderfully. Shall I leave you? +Perhaps you would prefer being alone?” + +“No,” replied he; “I will not be caught like a fool at a first +disclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the +opera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further, +we shall find her, or rather, she will find us tomorrow; then she will +give me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do.” + +“On my word,” said Franz, “you are as wise as Nestor and prudent as +Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if +she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind.” + +Albert was right; the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry +the intrigue no farther; for although the young men made several more +turns, they did not again see the calash, which had turned up one of +the neighboring streets. Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but +the count and the blue domino had also disappeared; the two windows, +hung with yellow damask, were still occupied by the persons whom the +count had invited. + +At this moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the +mascherata sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line, +and in a second all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert +were opposite the Via delle Muratte; the coachman, without saying a +word, drove up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagna and the Rospoli +Palace and stopped at the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to +the door to receive his guests. + +Franz hastened to inquire after the count, and to express regret that +he had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini reassured him by +saying that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a second carriage for +himself, and that it had gone at four o’clock to fetch him from the +Rospoli Palace. + +The count had, moreover, charged him to offer the two friends the key +of his box at the Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to his +intentions; but Albert had great projects to put into execution before +going to the theatre; and instead of making any answer, he inquired if +Signor Pastrini could procure him a tailor. + +“A tailor,” said the host; “and for what?” + +“To make us between now and tomorrow two Roman peasant costumes,” +returned Albert. + +The host shook his head. + +“To make you two costumes between now and tomorrow? I ask your +excellencies’ pardon, but this is quite a French demand; for the next +week you will not find a single tailor who would consent to sew six +buttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a crown a piece for each +button.” + +“Then I must give up the idea?” + +“No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and tomorrow, when you +awake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be +satisfied.” + +“My dear Albert,” said Franz, “leave all to our host; he has already +proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards +go and see _l’Italienne à Alger!_ + +“Agreed,” returned Albert; “but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my +friend and myself attach the greatest importance to having tomorrow the +costumes we have asked for.” + +The host again assured them they might rely on him, and that their +wishes should be attended to; upon which Franz and Albert mounted to +their apartments, and proceeded to disencumber themselves of their +costumes. Albert, as he took off his dress, carefully preserved the +bunch of violets; it was his token reserved for the morrow. + +The two friends sat down to table; but they could not refrain from +remarking the difference between the Count of Monte Cristo’s table and +that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in spite of the dislike +he seemed to have taken to the count, to confess that the advantage was +not on Pastrini’s side. During dessert, the servant inquired at what +time they wished for the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at each +other, fearing really to abuse the count’s kindness. The servant +understood them. + +“His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo had,” he said, “given +positive orders that the carriage was to remain at their lordships’ +orders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without fear of +indiscretion.” + +They resolved to profit by the count’s courtesy, and ordered the horses +to be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which +they had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats +they had sustained. + +20181m + + + +This precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed +themselves in the count’s box. During the first act, the Countess G—— +entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count the +previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place +of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an +opinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them, +that Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and, +availing himself of one of the privileges of the spectators of the +Italian theatres, who use their boxes to hold receptions, the two +friends went to pay their respects to the countess. Scarcely had they +entered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat of honor. +Albert, in his turn, sat behind. + +“Well,” said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, “it seems you +have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new +Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.” + +“Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess,” returned +Franz, “I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day.” + +“All day?” + +“Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all +day, and now we have taken possession of his box.” + +“You know him, then?” + +“Yes, and no.” + +“How so?” + +“It is a long story.” + +“Tell it to me.” + +“It would frighten you too much.” + +“So much the more reason.” + +“At least wait until the story has a conclusion.” + +“Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his +acquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him?” + +“No; it was he who introduced himself to us.” + +“When?” + +“Last night, after we left you.” + +“Through what medium?” + +“The very prosaic one of our landlord.” + +“He is staying, then, at the Hôtel de Londres with you?” + +“Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor.” + +“What is his name; for, of course, you know?” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo.” + +“That is not a family name?” + +“No, it is the name of the island he has purchased.” + +“And he is a count?” + +“A Tuscan count.” + +“Well, we must put up with that,” said the countess, who was herself +from one of the oldest Venetian families. “What sort of a man is he?” + +“Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf.” + +“You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,” said the countess. + +“We should be very hard to please, madam,” returned Albert, “did we not +think him delightful. A friend of ten years’ standing could not have +done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy.” + +“Come,” observed the countess, smiling, “I see my vampire is only some +millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid +being confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?” + +“Her?” + +20183m + + + +“The beautiful Greek of yesterday.” + +“No; we heard, I think, the sound of her _guzla_, but she remained +perfectly invisible.” + +“When you say invisible,” interrupted Albert, “it is only to keep up +the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with +the white curtains?” + +“Where was this window with white hangings?” asked the countess. + +“At the Rospoli Palace.” + +“The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?” + +“Yes. Did you pass through the Corso?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with +white damask with a red cross? Those were the count’s windows.” + +“Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were +worth?” + +“Two or three hundred Roman crowns?” + +“Two or three thousand.” + +“The deuce!” + +“Does his island produce him such a revenue?” + +“It does not bring him a bajocco.” + +“Then why did he purchase it?” + +“For a whim.” + +“He is an original, then?” + +“In reality,” observed Albert, “he seemed to me somewhat eccentric; +were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was +a poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits +worthy of Didier or Anthony.” + +At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and, according to custom, Franz +gave up his seat to him. This circumstance had, moreover, the effect of +changing the conversation; an hour afterwards the two friends returned +to their hotel. + +Signor Pastrini had already set about procuring their disguises for the +morrow; and he assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The +next morning, at nine o’clock, he entered Franz’s room, followed by a +tailor, who had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they +selected two exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of +their hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the +long silk sashes of different colors with which the lower orders +decorate themselves on fête days. + +Albert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress—a jacket and +breeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes with +buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off to +great advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist, and +when his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his shoulder +a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume has much +to do with the physical superiority we accord to certain nations. The +Turks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing robes, but +are they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up to the +chin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of wine +with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself in +the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus +engaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered. + +20185m + + + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “although a companion is agreeable, perfect +freedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today, +and for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at +your disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so +that you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray +you, for your pleasure or your business.” + +The young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for +refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte +Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all +subjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said, +perfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A +glance at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was +a connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he +was no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with +chemistry. The two friends did not venture to return the count the +breakfast he had given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him +in exchange for his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor +Pastrini. They told him so frankly, and he received their excuses with +the air of a man who appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed +with the count’s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing +him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge. + +The permission to do what he liked with the carriage pleased him above +all, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most elegant carriage the +preceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be upon an equal footing +with them. At half-past one they descended, the coachman and footman +had put on their livery over their disguises, which gave them a more +ridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them the applause of +Franz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his +button-hole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened into the +Corso by the Via Vittoria. + +At the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage +filled with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his +friend, the peasants had changed their costume also; and whether it was +the result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them +both, while he had donned their costume, they had assumed his. + +Albert placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the +faded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it +to his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair +lady who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as +gay as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the +count appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed +he had disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation +between Albert and the fair peasant continued all day. + +In the evening, on his return, Franz found a letter from the embassy, +informing him that he would have the honor of being received by his +holiness the next day. At each previous visit he had made to Rome, he +had solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as much by a +religious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital +of the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the feet +of one of St. Peter’s successors who has set the rare example of all +the virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his +condescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one’s self +without awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI. + +On his return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he +brought away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad +gayety of the maskers would have been profanation. + +At ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had +reassumed her peasant’s costume, and as she passed she raised her mask. +She was charming. Franz congratulated Albert, who received his +congratulations with the air of a man conscious that they are merited. +He had recognized by certain unmistakable signs, that his fair +_incognita_ belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his mind to +write to her the next day. + +Franz remarked, while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have +something to ask of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He +insisted upon it, declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any +sacrifice the other wished. + +Albert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and +then avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him +to occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz’s +absence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask. +Franz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of +an adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and +so flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect +indiscretion of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened; +and as, during three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a +similar piece of good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was +by no means sorry to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore +promised Albert that he would content himself the morrow with +witnessing the Carnival from the windows of the Rospoli Palace. + +The next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous +bouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous +epistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the +bouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a +charming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin. + +The evening was no longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but +that the fair unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated +his wishes by saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should +pass the next day in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was +not deceived, for the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly +shaking a folded paper which he held by one corner. + +“Well,” said he, “was I mistaken?” + +“She has answered you!” cried Franz. + +“Read.” + +This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took +the letter, and read: + +“Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite +the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your +torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San +Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the +shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be +recognized. Until then you will not see me. —Constancy and Discretion.” + +“Well,” asked he, when Franz had finished, “what do you think of that?” + +“I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance.” + +“I think so, also,” replied Albert; “and I very much fear you will go +alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s ball.” + +Franz and Albert had received that morning an invitation from the +celebrated Roman banker. + +“Take care, Albert,” said Franz. “All the nobility of Rome will be +present, and if your fair _incognita_ belong to the higher class of +society, she must go there.” + +“Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same,” returned +Albert. “You have read the letter?” + +“Yes.” + +“You know how imperfectly the women of the _mezzo cito_ are educated in +Italy?” (This is the name of the lower class.) + +“Yes.” + +“Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can, +any blemish in the language or orthography.” The writing was, in +reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable. + +“You are born to good fortune,” said Franz, as he returned the letter. + +“Laugh as much as you will,” replied Albert, “I am in love.” + +“You alarm me,” cried Franz. “I see that I shall not only go alone to +the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.” + +“If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,” said Albert, “I +shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I +have always had a great taste for archæology.” + +20189m + + + +“Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of +seeing you a member of the Academy.” + +Doubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the +academic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert’s +love had not taken away his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat +himself, free to recommence the discussion after dinner. After dinner, +the Count of Monte Cristo was announced. They had not seen him for two +days. Signor Pastrini informed them that business had called him to +Civita Vecchia. He had started the previous evening, and had only +returned an hour since. He was charming. Whether he kept a watch over +himself, or whether by accident he did not sound the acrimonious chords +that in other circumstances had been touched, he was tonight like +everybody else. + +The man was an enigma to Franz. The count must feel sure that Franz +recognized him; and yet he had not let fall a single word indicating +any previous acquaintance between them. On his side, however great +Franz’s desire was to allude to their former interview, the fear of +being disagreeable to the man who had loaded him and his friend with +kindness prevented him from mentioning it. + +The count had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at +the Argentina Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence, +he brought them the key of his own—at least such was the apparent +motive of his visit. Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging +their fear of depriving him of it; but the count replied that, as he +was going to the Palli Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would +be lost if they did not profit by it. This assurance determined the two +friends to accept it. + +Franz had by degrees become accustomed to the count’s pallor, which had +so forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain +from admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or +rather the principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic +hero! Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him +without imagining his stern head upon Manfred’s shoulders, or beneath +Lara’s helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the +constant presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem +to penetrate to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip +that gives to the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses +them on the minds of those to whom they are addressed. + +The count was no longer young. He was at least forty; and yet it was +easy to understand that he was formed to rule the young men with whom +he associated at present. And, to complete his resemblance with the +fantastic heroes of the English poet, the count seemed to have the +power of fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating on their good +fortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the +count exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always +acquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of the +project the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that, +with his eccentric character, his characteristic face, and his colossal +fortune, he would produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish +to be at Paris when the count was there. + +The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that +is, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing. +The Countess G—— wished to revive the subject of the count, but Franz +announced he had something far newer to tell her, and, in spite of +Albert’s demonstrations of false modesty, he informed the countess of +the great event which had preoccupied them for the last three days. As +similar intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may credit +travellers, the comtess did not manifest the least incredulity, but +congratulated Albert on his success. They promised, upon separating, to +meet at the Duke of Bracciano’s ball, to which all Rome was invited. + +The heroine of the bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of +her existence the morrow or the day after. + +At length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the +Carnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o’clock in the morning, +as Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through +want of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival +before, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to the noise and +excitement. From two o’clock till five Franz and Albert followed in the +_fête_, exchanging handfuls of _confetti_ with the other carriages and +the pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses’ feet and the carriage +wheels without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight. + +The _fêtes_ are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of +this history, who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not +recollect to have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those +events so common in other countries. Albert was triumphant in his +harlequin costume. A knot of rose-colored ribbons fell from his +shoulder almost to the ground. In order that there might be no +confusion, Franz wore his peasant’s costume. + +As the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the +pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was +silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up +of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs, +oranges, and nosegays. + +At three o’clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the Piazza del +Popolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din +and confusion) announced that the races were about to begin. + +The races, like the _moccoli_, are one of the episodes peculiar to the +last days of the Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages +instantly broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these +evolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous +rapidity, without the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians +ranged themselves against the walls; then the trampling of horses and +the clashing of steel were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen +abreast, galloped up the Corso in order to clear it for the _barberi_. +When the detachment arrived at the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley +of fireworks was discharged, to announce that the street was clear. + +Almost instantly, in the midst of a tremendous and general outcry, +seven or eight horses, excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand +spectators, passed by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo +fired three cannon to indicate that number three had won. + +Immediately, without any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing +on towards the Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a +while, which again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream +again continued its course between its two granite banks. + +A new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers +of _moccoletti_ entered on the scene. The _moccoli_, or _moccoletti_, +are candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight, +and which give to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival +two very serious problems to grapple with,—first, how to keep his own +_moccoletto_ alight; and secondly, how to extinguish the _moccoletti_ +of others. The _moccoletto_ is like life: man has found but one means +of transmitting it, and that one comes from God. But he has discovered +a thousand means of taking it away, and the devil has somewhat aided +him. The _moccoletto_ is kindled by approaching it to a light. But who +can describe the thousand means of extinguishing the _moccoletto_?—the +gigantic bellows, the monstrous extinguishers, the superhuman fans. +Everyone hastened to purchase _moccoletti_—Franz and Albert among the +rest. + +The night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of +“_Moccoletti_!” repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors, +two or three stars began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At +the end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from +the Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the +Piazza del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the _fête_ +of Jack-o’-lanterns. + +It is impossible to form any idea of it without having seen it. Suppose +that all the stars had descended from the sky and mingled in a wild +dance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied by cries that +were never heard in any other part of the world. The _facchino_ follows +the prince, the Transteverin the citizen, everyone blowing, +extinguishing, relighting. Had old Æolus appeared at this moment, he +would have been proclaimed king of the _moccoli_, and Aquilo the +heir-presumptive to the throne. + +This battle of folly and flame continued for two hours; the Corso was +light as day; the features of the spectators on the third and fourth +stories were visible. + +Every five minutes Albert took out his watch; at length it pointed to +seven. The two friends were in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang +out, bearing his _moccoletto_ in his hand. Two or three masks strove to +knock his _moccoletto_ out of his hand; but Albert, a first-rate +pugilist, sent them rolling in the street, one after the other, and +continued his course towards the church of San Giacomo. + +The steps were crowded with masks, who strove to snatch each other’s +torches. Franz followed Albert with his eyes, and saw him mount the +first step. + +Instantly a mask, wearing the well-known costume of a peasant woman, +snatched his _moccoletto_ from him without his offering any resistance. +Franz was too far off to hear what they said; but, without doubt, +nothing hostile passed, for he saw Albert disappear arm-in-arm with the +peasant girl. He watched them pass through the crowd for some time, but +at length he lost sight of them in the Via Macello. + +Suddenly the bell that gives the signal for the end of the Carnival +sounded, and at the same instant all the _moccoletti_ were extinguished +as if by enchantment. It seemed as though one immense blast of the wind +had extinguished everyone. + +Franz found himself in utter darkness. No sound was audible save that +of the carriages that were carrying the maskers home; nothing was +visible save a few lights that burnt behind the windows. + +The Carnival was over. + +20193m + + + + + Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian + +In his whole life, perhaps, Franz had never before experienced so +sudden an impression, so rapid a transition from gayety to sadness, as +in this moment. It seemed as though Rome, under the magic breath of +some demon of the night, had suddenly changed into a vast tomb. By a +chance, which added yet more to the intensity of the darkness, the +moon, which was on the wane, did not rise until eleven o’clock, and the +streets which the young man traversed were plunged in the deepest +obscurity. + +The distance was short, and at the end of ten minutes his carriage, or +rather the count’s, stopped before the Hôtel de Londres. + +Dinner was waiting, but as Albert had told him that he should not +return so soon, Franz sat down without him. Signor Pastrini, who had +been accustomed to see them dine together, inquired into the cause of +his absence, but Franz merely replied that Albert had received on the +previous evening an invitation which he had accepted. + +The sudden extinction of the _moccoletti_, the darkness which had +replaced the light, and the silence which had succeeded the turmoil, +had left in Franz’s mind a certain depression which was not free from +uneasiness. He therefore dined very silently, in spite of the officious +attention of his host, who presented himself two or three times to +inquire if he wanted anything. + +Franz resolved to wait for Albert as late as possible. He ordered the +carriage, therefore, for eleven o’clock, desiring Signor Pastrini to +inform him the moment that Albert returned to the hotel. + +At eleven o’clock Albert had not come back. Franz dressed himself, and +went out, telling his host that he was going to pass the night at the +Duke of Bracciano’s. The house of the Duke of Bracciano is one of the +most delightful in Rome, the duchess, one of the last heiresses of the +Colonnas, does its honors with the most consummate grace, and thus +their _fêtes_ have a European celebrity. + +Franz and Albert had brought to Rome letters of introduction to them, +and their first question on his arrival was to inquire the whereabouts +of his travelling companion. Franz replied that he had left him at the +moment they were about to extinguish the _moccoli_, and that he had +lost sight of him in the Via Macello. + +“Then he has not returned?” said the duke. + +“I waited for him until this hour,” replied Franz. + +“And do you know whither he went?” + +“No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a +rendezvous.” + +“_Diavolo!_” said the duke, “this is a bad day, or rather a bad night, +to be out late; is it not, countess?” + +These words were addressed to the Countess G——, who had just arrived, +and was leaning on the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke’s brother. + +“I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,” replied the +countess, “and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that +of its too rapid flight.” + +“I am not speaking,” said the duke with a smile, “of the persons who +are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with +you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely; +I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.” + +“Ah,” asked the countess, “who is out in the streets of Rome at this +hour, unless it be to go to a ball?” + +“Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his +unknown about seven o’clock this evening,” said Franz, “and whom I have +not seen since.” + +“And don’t you know where he is?” + +“Not at all.” + +“Is he armed?” + +“He is in masquerade.” + +“You should not have allowed him to go,” said the duke to Franz; “you, +who know Rome better than he does.” + +“You might as well have tried to stop number three of the _barberi_, +who gained the prize in the race today,” replied Franz; “and then +moreover, what could happen to him?” + +“Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via +Macello.” Franz felt a shudder run through his veins at observing that +the feeling of the duke and the countess was so much in unison with his +own personal disquietude. + +“I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night +here, duke,” said Franz, “and desired them to come and inform me of his +return.” + +“Ah,” replied the duke, “here I think, is one of my servants who is +seeking you.” + +The duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to +him. + +“Your excellency,” he said, “the master of the Hôtel de Londres has +sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from +the Viscount of Morcerf.” + +“A letter from the viscount!” exclaimed Franz. + +“Yes.” + +“And who is the man?” + +“I do not know.” + +“Why did he not bring it to me here?” + +“The messenger did not say.” + +“And where is the messenger?” + +“He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you.” + +“Oh,” said the countess to Franz, “go with all speed—poor young man! +Perhaps some accident has happened to him.” + +“I will hasten,” replied Franz. + +“Shall we see you again to give us any information?” inquired the +countess. + +“Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to +what I may do myself.” + +“Be prudent, in any event,” said the countess. + +“Oh! pray be assured of that.” + +Franz took his hat and went away in haste. He had sent away his +carriage with orders for it to fetch him at two o’clock; fortunately +the Palazzo Bracciano, which is on one side in the Corso, and on the +other in the Square of the Holy Apostles, is hardly ten minutes’ walk +from the Hôtel de Londres. + +As he came near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the middle of the street. +He had no doubt that it was the messenger from Albert. The man was +wrapped up in a large cloak. He went up to him, but, to his extreme +astonishment, the stranger first addressed him. + +“What wants your excellency of me?” inquired the man, retreating a step +or two, as if to keep on his guard. + +“Are not you the person who brought me a letter,” inquired Franz, “from +the Viscount of Morcerf?” + +“Your excellency lodges at Pastrini’s hotel?” + +“I do.” + +“Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount?” + +“I am.” + +“Your excellency’s name——” + +“Is the Baron Franz d’Épinay.” + +20199m + + + +“Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed.” + +“Is there any answer?” inquired Franz, taking the letter from him. + +“Yes—your friend at least hopes so.” + +“Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you.” + +“I prefer waiting here,” said the messenger, with a smile. + +“And why?” + +“Your excellency will know when you have read the letter.” + +“Shall I find you here, then?” + +“Certainly.” + +Franz entered the hotel. On the staircase he met Signor Pastrini. +“Well?” said the landlord. + +“Well—what?” responded Franz. + +“You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend?” +he asked of Franz. + +“Yes, I have seen him,” he replied, “and he has handed this letter to +me. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please.” + +The innkeeper gave orders to a servant to go before Franz with a light. +The young man had found Signor Pastrini looking very much alarmed, and +this had only made him the more anxious to read Albert’s letter; and so +he went instantly towards the waxlight, and unfolded it. It was written +and signed by Albert. Franz read it twice before he could comprehend +what it contained. It was thus worded: + +“My dear Fellow, + +“The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the +letter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square +drawer of the _secrétaire_; add your own to it, if it be not +sufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand +piastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have +this money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may +rely on me. + +“Your friend, + +“Albert de Morcerf. + +“P.S.—I now believe in Italian _banditti_.” + +Below these lines were written, in a strange hand, the following in +Italian: + +“_Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie +mani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere_. + +“Luigi Vampa.” + +“_If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my +hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live_.” + +This second signature explained everything to Franz, who now understood +the objection of the messenger to coming up into the apartment; the +street was safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen into the hands of +the famous bandit chief, in whose existence he had for so long a time +refused to believe. + +There was no time to lose. He hastened to open the _secrétaire_, and +found the pocket-book in the drawer, and in it the letter of credit. +There were in all six thousand piastres, but of these six thousand +Albert had already expended three thousand. + +As to Franz, he had no letter of credit, as he lived at Florence, and +had only come to Rome to pass seven or eight days; he had brought but a +hundred louis, and of these he had not more than fifty left. Thus seven +or eight hundred piastres were wanting to them both to make up the sum +that Albert required. True, he might in such a case rely on the +kindness of Signor Torlonia. He was, therefore, about to return to the +Palazzo Bracciano without loss of time, when suddenly a luminous idea +crossed his mind. + +He remembered the Count of Monte Cristo. Franz was about to ring for +Signor Pastrini, when that worthy presented himself. + +“My dear sir,” he said, hastily, “do you know if the count is within?” + +“Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned.” + +“Is he in bed?” + +“I should say no.” + +“Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as +to give me an audience.” + +Signor Pastrini did as he was desired, and returning five minutes +after, he said: + +“The count awaits your excellency.” + +Franz went along the corridor, and a servant introduced him to the +count. He was in a small room which Franz had not yet seen, and which +was surrounded with divans. The count came towards him. + +“Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour?” said he; “have +you come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you.” + +“No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter.” + +“A serious matter,” said the count, looking at Franz with the +earnestness usual to him; “and what may it be?” + +“Are we alone?” + +“Yes,” replied the count, going to the door, and returning. Franz gave +him Albert’s letter. + +“Read that,” he said. + +The count read it. + +“Well, well!” said he. + +“Did you see the postscript?” + +“I did, indeed. + +“_‘Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle +mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere. _ + +“‘Luigi Vampa.’” + +“What think you of that?” inquired Franz. + +“Have you the money he demands?” + +“Yes, all but eight hundred piastres.” + +The count went to his _secrétaire_, opened it, and pulling out a drawer +filled with gold, said to Franz, “I hope you will not offend me by +applying to anyone but myself.” + +“You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,” replied +Franz. + +“And I thank you; have what you will;” and he made a sign to Franz to +take what he pleased. + +“Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa?” +asked the young man, looking fixedly in his turn at the count. + +“Judge for yourself,” replied he. “The postscript is explicit.” + +“I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could +find a way of simplifying the negotiation,” said Franz. + +“How so?” returned the count, with surprise. + +“If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not +refuse you Albert’s freedom.” + +“What influence can I possibly have over a bandit?” + +“Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten?” + +“What is that?” + +“Have you not saved Peppino’s life?” + +“Well, well,” said the count, “who told you that?” + +“No matter; I know it.” The count knit his brows, and remained silent +an instant. + +“And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me?” + +“If my society would not be disagreeable.” + +“Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us +both good.” + +“Shall I take any arms?” + +“For what purpose?” + +“Any money?” + +“It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter?” + +“In the street.” + +“He awaits the answer?” + +“Yes.” + +“I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither.” + +“It is useless; he would not come up.” + +“To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at +entering mine.” + +The count went to the window of the apartment that looked on to the +street, and whistled in a peculiar manner. The man in the mantle +quitted the wall, and advanced into the middle of the street. +“_Salite!_” said the count, in the same tone in which he would have +given an order to his servant. The messenger obeyed without the least +hesitation, but rather with alacrity, and, mounting the steps at a +bound, entered the hotel; five seconds afterwards he was at the door of +the room. + +“Ah, it is you, Peppino,” said the count. But Peppino, instead of +answering, threw himself on his knees, seized the count’s hand, and +covered it with kisses. “Ah,” said the count, “you have, then, not +forgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week +ago.” + +20203m + + + +“No, excellency; and never shall I forget it,” returned Peppino, with +an accent of profound gratitude. + +“Never? That is a long time; but it is something that you believe so. +Rise and answer.” + +Peppino glanced anxiously at Franz. + +“Oh, you may speak before his excellency,” said he; “he is one of my +friends. You allow me to give you this title?” continued the count in +French, “it is necessary to excite this man’s confidence.” + +“You can speak before me,” said Franz; “I am a friend of the count’s.” + +“Good!” returned Peppino. “I am ready to answer any questions your +excellency may address to me.” + +“How did the Viscount Albert fall into Luigi’s hands?” + +“Excellency, the Frenchman’s carriage passed several times the one in +which was Teresa.” + +“The chief’s mistress?” + +“Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet; Teresa returned it—all this +with the consent of the chief, who was in the carriage.” + +“What?” cried Franz, “was Luigi Vampa in the carriage with the Roman +peasants?” + +“It was he who drove, disguised as the coachman,” replied Peppino. + +“Well?” said the count. + +“Well, then, the Frenchman took off his mask; Teresa, with the chief’s +consent, did the same. The Frenchman asked for a rendezvous; Teresa +gave him one—only, instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was on the steps +of the church of San Giacomo.” + +“What!” exclaimed Franz, “the peasant girl who snatched his _mocoletto_ +from him——” + +“Was a lad of fifteen,” replied Peppino. “But it was no disgrace to +your friend to have been deceived; Beppo has taken in plenty of +others.” + +“And Beppo led him outside the walls?” said the count. + +“Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at the end of the Via Macello. +Beppo got in, inviting the Frenchman to follow him, and he did not wait +to be asked twice. He gallantly offered the right-hand seat to Beppo, +and sat by him. Beppo told him he was going to take him to a villa a +league from Rome; the Frenchman assured him he would follow him to the +end of the world. The coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and the Porta +San Paolo; and when they were two hundred yards outside, as the +Frenchman became somewhat too forward, Beppo put a brace of pistols to +his head, the coachman pulled up and did the same. At the same time, +four of the band, who were concealed on the banks of the Almo, +surrounded the carriage. The Frenchman made some resistance, and nearly +strangled Beppo; but he could not resist five armed men, and was forced +to yield. They made him get out, walk along the banks of the river, and +then brought him to Teresa and Luigi, who were waiting for him in the +catacombs of St. Sebastian.” + +“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “it seems to me that +this is a very likely story. What do you say to it?” + +“Why, that I should think it very amusing,” replied Franz, “if it had +happened to anyone but poor Albert.” + +“And, in truth, if you had not found me here,” said the count, “it +might have proved a gallant adventure which would have cost your friend +dear; but now, be assured, his alarm will be the only serious +consequence.” + +“And shall we go and find him?” inquired Franz. + +“Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very picturesque place—do you know the +catacombs of St. Sebastian?” + +“I was never in them; but I have often resolved to visit them.” + +“Well, here is an opportunity made to your hand, and it would be +difficult to contrive a better. Have you a carriage?” + +“No.” + +“That is of no consequence; I always have one ready, day and night.” + +“Always ready?” + +“Yes. I am a very capricious being, and I should tell you that +sometimes when I rise, or after my dinner, or in the middle of the +night, I resolve on starting for some particular point, and away I go.” + +The count rang, and a footman appeared. + +“Order out the carriage,” he said, “and remove the pistols which are in +the holsters. You need not awaken the coachman; Ali will drive.” + +In a very short time the noise of wheels was heard, and the carriage +stopped at the door. The count took out his watch. + +“Half-past twelve,” he said. “We might start at five o’clock and be in +time, but the delay may cause your friend to pass an uneasy night, and +therefore we had better go with all speed to extricate him from the +hands of the infidels. Are you still resolved to accompany me?” + +“More determined than ever.” + +“Well, then, come along.” + +Franz and the count went downstairs, accompanied by Peppino. At the +door they found the carriage. Ali was on the box, in whom Franz +recognized the dumb slave of the grotto of Monte Cristo. Franz and the +count got into the carriage. Peppino placed himself beside Ali, and +they set off at a rapid pace. Ali had received his instructions, and +went down the Corso, crossed the Campo Vaccino, went up the Strada San +Gregorio, and reached the gates of St. Sebastian. Then the porter +raised some difficulties, but the Count of Monte Cristo produced a +permit from the governor of Rome, allowing him to leave or enter the +city at any hour of the day or night; the portcullis was therefore +raised, the porter had a louis for his trouble, and they went on their +way. + +The road which the carriage now traversed was the ancient Appian Way, +and bordered with tombs. From time to time, by the light of the moon, +which began to rise, Franz imagined that he saw something like a +sentinel appear at various points among the ruins, and suddenly retreat +into the darkness on a signal from Peppino. + +A short time before they reached the Baths of Caracalla the carriage +stopped, Peppino opened the door, and the count and Franz alighted. + +“In ten minutes,” said the count to his companion, “we shall be there.” + +He then took Peppino aside, gave him an order in a low voice, and +Peppino went away, taking with him a torch, brought with them in the +carriage. Five minutes elapsed, during which Franz saw the shepherd +going along a narrow path that led over the irregular and broken +surface of the Campagna; and finally he disappeared in the midst of the +tall red herbage, which seemed like the bristling mane of an enormous +lion. + +“Now,” said the count, “let us follow him.” + +Franz and the count in their turn then advanced along the same path, +which, at the distance of a hundred paces, led them over a declivity to +the bottom of a small valley. They then perceived two men conversing in +the obscurity. + +“Ought we to go on?” asked Franz of the count; “or should we pause?” + +“Let us go on; Peppino will have warned the sentry of our coming.” + +One of the two men was Peppino, and the other a bandit on the lookout. +Franz and the count advanced, and the bandit saluted them. + +“Your excellency,” said Peppino, addressing the count, “if you will +follow me, the opening of the catacombs is close at hand.” + +“Go on, then,” replied the count. They came to an opening behind a +clump of bushes and in the midst of a pile of rocks, by which a man +could scarcely pass. Peppino glided first into this crevice; after they +got along a few paces the passage widened. Peppino passed, lighted his +torch, and turned to see if they came after him. The count first +reached an open space and Franz followed him closely. The passageway +sloped in a gentle descent, enlarging as they proceeded; still Franz +and the count were compelled to advance in a stooping posture, and were +scarcely able to proceed abreast of one another. They went on a hundred +and fifty paces in this way, and then were stopped by, “Who comes +there?” At the same time they saw the reflection of a torch on a +carbine barrel. + +“A friend!” responded Peppino; and, advancing alone towards the sentry, +he said a few words to him in a low tone; and then he, like the first, +saluted the nocturnal visitors, making a sign that they might proceed. + +Behind the sentinel was a staircase with twenty steps. Franz and the +count descended these, and found themselves in a mortuary chamber. Five +corridors diverged like the rays of a star, and the walls, dug into +niches, which were arranged one above the other in the shape of +coffins, showed that they were at last in the catacombs. Down one of +the corridors, whose extent it was impossible to determine, rays of +light were visible. The count laid his hand on Franz’s shoulder. + +“Would you like to see a camp of bandits in repose?” he inquired. + +“Exceedingly,” replied Franz. + +“Come with me, then. Peppino, put out the torch.” Peppino obeyed, and +Franz and the count were in utter darkness, except that fifty paces in +advance of them a reddish glare, more evident since Peppino had put out +his torch, was visible along the wall. + +They advanced silently, the count guiding Franz as if he had the +singular faculty of seeing in the dark. Franz himself, however, saw his +way more plainly in proportion as he went on towards the light, which +served in some manner as a guide. Three arcades were before them, and +the middle one was used as a door. These arcades opened on one side +into the corridor where the count and Franz were, and on the other into +a large square chamber, entirely surrounded by niches similar to those +of which we have spoken. + +In the midst of this chamber were four stones, which had formerly +served as an altar, as was evident from the cross which still +surmounted them. A lamp, placed at the base of a pillar, lighted up +with its pale and flickering flame the singular scene which presented +itself to the eyes of the two visitors concealed in the shadow. + +A man was seated with his elbow leaning on the column, and was reading +with his back turned to the arcades, through the openings of which the +new-comers contemplated him. This was the chief of the band, Luigi +Vampa. Around him, and in groups, according to their fancy, lying in +their mantles, or with their backs against a sort of stone bench, which +went all round the columbarium, were to be seen twenty brigands or +more, each having his carbine within reach. At the other end, silent, +scarcely visible, and like a shadow, was a sentinel, who was walking up +and down before a grotto, which was only distinguishable because in +that spot the darkness seemed more dense than elsewhere. + +When the count thought Franz had gazed sufficiently on this picturesque +tableau, he raised his finger to his lips, to warn him to be silent, +and, ascending the three steps which led to the corridor of the +columbarium, entered the chamber by the middle arcade, and advanced +towards Vampa, who was so intent on the book before him that he did not +hear the noise of his footsteps. + +“Who comes there?” cried the sentinel, who was less abstracted, and who +saw by the lamp-light a shadow approaching his chief. At this +challenge, Vampa rose quickly, drawing at the same moment a pistol from +his girdle. In a moment all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty +carbines were levelled at the count. + +“Well,” said he in a voice perfectly calm, and no muscle of his +countenance disturbed, “well, my dear Vampa, it appears to me that you +receive a friend with a great deal of ceremony.” + +20207m + + + +“Ground arms,” exclaimed the chief, with an imperative sign of the +hand, while with the other he took off his hat respectfully; then, +turning to the singular personage who had caused this scene, he said, +“Your pardon, your excellency, but I was so far from expecting the +honor of a visit, that I did not really recognize you.” + +“It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,” said +the count, “and that not only do you forget people’s faces, but also +the conditions you make with them.” + +“What conditions have I forgotten, your excellency?” inquired the +bandit, with the air of a man who, having committed an error, is +anxious to repair it. + +“Was it not agreed,” asked the count, “that not only my person, but +also that of my friends, should be respected by you?” + +“And how have I broken that treaty, your excellency?” + +“You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount +Albert de Morcerf. Well,” continued the count, in a tone that made +Franz shudder, “this young gentleman is one of _my friends_—this young +gentleman lodges in the same hotel as myself—this young gentleman has +been up and down the Corso for eight hours in my private carriage, and +yet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off, and conveyed him +hither, and,” added the count, taking the letter from his pocket, “you +have set a ransom on him, as if he were an utter stranger.” + +“Why did you not tell me all this—you?” inquired the brigand chief, +turning towards his men, who all retreated before his look. “Why have +you caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the +count, who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought one +of you knew that the young gentleman was the friend of his excellency, +I would blow his brains out with my own hand!” + +20211m + + + +“Well,” said the count, turning towards Franz, “I told you there was +some mistake in this.” + +“Are you not alone?” asked Vampa with uneasiness. + +“I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I +desired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, your +excellency,” the count added, turning to Franz, “here is Luigi Vampa, +who will himself express to you his deep regret at the mistake he has +committed.” + +Franz approached, the chief advancing several steps to meet him. + +“Welcome among us, your excellency,” he said to him; “you heard what +the count just said, and also my reply; let me add that I would not for +the four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend’s ransom, +that this had happened.” + +“But,” said Franz, looking round him uneasily, “where is the +viscount?—I do not see him.” + +“Nothing has happened to him, I hope,” said the count frowningly. + +“The prisoner is there,” replied Vampa, pointing to the hollow space in +front of which the bandit was on guard, “and I will go myself and tell +him he is free.” + +The chief went towards the place he had pointed out as Albert’s prison, +and Franz and the count followed him. + +“What is the prisoner doing?” inquired Vampa of the sentinel. + +“_Ma foi_, captain,” replied the sentry, “I do not know; for the last +hour I have not heard him stir.” + +“Come in, your excellency,” said Vampa. The count and Franz ascended +seven or eight steps after the chief, who drew back a bolt and opened a +door. Then, by the gleam of a lamp, similar to that which lighted the +columbarium, Albert was to be seen wrapped up in a cloak which one of +the bandits had lent him, lying in a corner in profound slumber. + +“Come,” said the count, smiling with his own peculiar smile, “not so +bad for a man who is to be shot at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” + +Vampa looked at Albert with a kind of admiration; he was not insensible +to such a proof of courage. + +“You are right, your excellency,” he said; “this must be one of your +friends.” + +Then going to Albert, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Will +your excellency please to awaken?” + +Albert stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyelids, and opened his eyes. + +“Oh,” said he, “is it you, captain? You should have allowed me to +sleep. I had such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at +Torlonia’s with the Countess G——.” Then he drew his watch from his +pocket, that he might see how time sped. + +“Half-past one only?” said he. “Why the devil do you rouse me at this +hour?” + +“To tell you that you are free, your excellency.” + +“My dear fellow,” replied Albert, with perfect ease of mind, “remember, +for the future, Napoleon’s maxim, ‘Never awaken me but for bad news;’ +if you had let me sleep on, I should have finished my galop, and have +been grateful to you all my life. So, then, they have paid my ransom?” + +“No, your excellency.” + +“Well, then, how am I free?” + +“A person to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand you.” + +“Come hither?” + +“Yes, hither.” + +“Really? Then that person is a most amiable person.” + +Albert looked around and perceived Franz. “What,” said he, “is it you, +my dear Franz, whose devotion and friendship are thus displayed?” + +“No, not I,” replied Franz, “but our neighbor, the Count of Monte +Cristo.” + +“Oh, my dear count,” said Albert gayly, arranging his cravat and +wristbands, “you are really most kind, and I hope you will consider me +as under eternal obligations to you, in the first place for the +carriage, and in the next for this visit,” and he put out his hand to +the count, who shuddered as he gave his own, but who nevertheless did +give it. + +The bandit gazed on this scene with amazement; he was evidently +accustomed to see his prisoners tremble before him, and yet here was +one whose gay temperament was not for a moment altered; as for Franz, +he was enchanted at the way in which Albert had sustained the national +honor in the presence of the bandit. + +“My dear Albert,” he said, “if you will make haste, we shall yet have +time to finish the night at Torlonia’s. You may conclude your +interrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi, +who has, indeed, throughout this whole affair acted like a gentleman.” + +“You are decidedly right, and we may reach the Palazzo by two o’clock. +Signor Luigi,” continued Albert, “is there any formality to fulfil +before I take leave of your excellency?” + +“None, sir,” replied the bandit, “you are as free as air.” + +“Well, then, a happy and merry life to you. Come, gentlemen, come.” + +And Albert, followed by Franz and the count, descended the staircase, +crossed the square chamber, where stood all the bandits, hat in hand. + +“Peppino,” said the brigand chief, “give me the torch.” + +“What are you going to do?” inquired the count. + +“I will show you the way back myself,” said the captain; “that is the +least honor that I can render to your excellency.” + +And taking the lighted torch from the hands of the herdsman, he +preceded his guests, not as a servant who performs an act of civility, +but like a king who precedes ambassadors. On reaching the door, he +bowed. + +“And now, your excellency,” added he, “allow me to repeat my apologies, +and I hope you will not entertain any resentment at what has occurred.” + +“No, my dear Vampa,” replied the count; “besides, you compensate for +your mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that one almost feels obliged to +you for having committed them.” + +20214m + + + +“Gentlemen,” added the chief, turning towards the young men, “perhaps +the offer may not appear very tempting to you; but if you should ever +feel inclined to pay me a second visit, wherever I may be, you shall be +welcome.” + +Franz and Albert bowed. The count went out first, then Albert. Franz +paused for a moment. + +“Has your excellency anything to ask me?” said Vampa with a smile. + +“Yes, I have,” replied Franz; “I am curious to know what work you were +perusing with so much attention as we entered.” + +“Cæsar’s _Commentaries_,” said the bandit, “it is my favorite work.” + +“Well, are you coming?” asked Albert. + +“Yes,” replied Franz, “here I am,” and he, in his turn, left the caves. +They advanced to the plain. + +“Ah, your pardon,” said Albert, turning round; “will you allow me, +captain?” + +And he lighted his cigar at Vampa’s torch. + +“Now, my dear count,” he said, “let us on with all the speed we may. I +am enormously anxious to finish my night at the Duke of Bracciano’s.” + +They found the carriage where they had left it. The count said a word +in Arabic to Ali, and the horses went on at great speed. + +It was just two o’clock by Albert’s watch when the two friends entered +into the dancing-room. Their return was quite an event, but as they +entered together, all uneasiness on Albert’s account ceased instantly. + +“Madame,” said the Viscount of Morcerf, advancing towards the countess, +“yesterday you were so condescending as to promise me a galop; I am +rather late in claiming this gracious promise, but here is my friend, +whose character for veracity you well know, and he will assure you the +delay arose from no fault of mine.” + +And as at this moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz, +Albert put his arm round the waist of the countess, and disappeared +with her in the whirl of dancers. + +In the meanwhile Franz was considering the singular shudder that had +passed over the Count of Monte Cristo at the moment when he had been, +in some sort, forced to give his hand to Albert. + + + + Chapter 38. The Rendezvous + +The first words that Albert uttered to his friend, on the following +morning, contained a request that Franz would accompany him on a visit +to the count; true, the young man had warmly and energetically thanked +the count on the previous evening; but services such as he had rendered +could never be too often acknowledged. Franz, who seemed attracted by +some invisible influence towards the count, in which terror was +strangely mingled, felt an extreme reluctance to permit his friend to +be exposed alone to the singular fascination that this mysterious +personage seemed to exercise over him, and therefore made no objection +to Albert’s request, but at once accompanied him to the desired spot, +and, after a short delay, the count joined them in the salon. + +“My dear count,” said Albert, advancing to meet him, “permit me to +repeat the poor thanks I offered last night, and to assure you that the +remembrance of all I owe to you will never be effaced from my memory; +believe me, as long as I live, I shall never cease to dwell with +grateful recollection on the prompt and important service you rendered +me; and also to remember that to you I am indebted even for my life.” + +“My very good friend and excellent neighbor,” replied the count, with a +smile, “you really exaggerate my trifling exertions. You owe me nothing +but some trifle of 20,000 francs, which you have been saved out of your +travelling expenses, so that there is not much of a score between +us;—but you must really permit me to congratulate you on the ease and +unconcern with which you resigned yourself to your fate, and the +perfect indifference you manifested as to the turn events might take.” + +“Upon my word,” said Albert, “I deserve no credit for what I could not +help, namely, a determination to take everything as I found it, and to +let those bandits see, that although men get into troublesome scrapes +all over the world, there is no nation but the French that can smile +even in the face of grim Death himself. All that, however, has nothing +to do with my obligations to you, and I now come to ask you whether, in +my own person, my family, or connections, I can in any way serve you? +My father, the Comte de Morcerf, although of Spanish origin, possesses +considerable influence, both at the court of France and Madrid, and I +unhesitatingly place the best services of myself, and all to whom my +life is dear, at your disposal.” + +“Monsieur de Morcerf,” replied the count, “your offer, far from +surprising me, is precisely what I expected from you, and I accept it +in the same spirit of hearty sincerity with which it is made;—nay, I +will go still further, and say that I had previously made up my mind to +ask a great favor at your hands.” + +“Oh, pray name it.” + +“I am wholly a stranger to Paris—it is a city I have never yet seen.” + +“Is it possible,” exclaimed Albert, “that you have reached your present +age without visiting the finest capital in the world? I can scarcely +credit it.” + +“Nevertheless, it is quite true; still, I agree with you in thinking +that my present ignorance of the first city in Europe is a reproach to +me in every way, and calls for immediate correction; but, in all +probability, I should have performed so important, so necessary a duty, +as that of making myself acquainted with the wonders and beauties of +your justly celebrated capital, had I known any person who would have +introduced me into the fashionable world, but unfortunately I possessed +no acquaintance there, and, of necessity, was compelled to abandon the +idea.” + +“So distinguished an individual as yourself,” cried Albert, “could +scarcely have required an introduction.” + +“You are most kind; but as regards myself, I can find no merit I +possess, save that, as a millionaire, I might have become a partner in +the speculations of M. Aguado and M. Rothschild; but as my motive in +travelling to your capital would not have been for the pleasure of +dabbling in stocks, I stayed away till some favorable chance should +present itself of carrying my wish into execution. Your offer, however, +smooths all difficulties, and I have only to ask you, my dear M. de +Morcerf” (these words were accompanied by a most peculiar smile), +“whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the +doors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or +a native of Cochin-China?” + +“Oh, that I do, and with infinite pleasure,” answered Albert; “and so +much the more readily as a letter received this morning from my father +summons me to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of marriage (my dear +Franz, do not smile, I beg of you) with a family of high standing, and +connected with the very cream of Parisian society.” + +“Connected by marriage, you mean,” said Franz, laughingly. + +“Well, never mind how it is,” answered Albert, “it comes to the same +thing in the end. Perhaps by the time you return to Paris, I shall be +quite a sober, staid father of a family! A most edifying representative +I shall make of all the domestic virtues—don’t you think so? But as +regards your wish to visit our fine city, my dear count, I can only say +that you may command me and mine to any extent you please.” + +“Then it is settled,” said the count, “and I give you my solemn +assurance that I only waited an opportunity like the present to realize +plans that I have long meditated.” + +Franz did not doubt that these plans were the same concerning which the +count had dropped a few words in the grotto of Monte Cristo, and while +the count was speaking the young man watched him closely, hoping to +read something of his purpose in his face, but his countenance was +inscrutable especially when, as in the present case, it was veiled in a +sphinx-like smile. + +“But tell me now, count,” exclaimed Albert, delighted at the idea of +having to chaperon so distinguished a person as Monte Cristo; “tell me +truly whether you are in earnest, or if this project of visiting Paris +is merely one of the chimerical and uncertain air castles of which we +make so many in the course of our lives, but which, like a house built +on the sand, is liable to be blown over by the first puff of wind?” + +“I pledge you my honor,” returned the count, “that I mean to do as I +have said; both inclination and positive necessity compel me to visit +Paris.” + +“When do you propose going thither?” + +“Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself?” + +“Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks’ time, that is to say, +as fast as I can get there!” + +“Nay,” said the Count; “I will give you three months ere I join you; +you see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties. + +“And in three months’ time,” said Albert, “you will be at my house?” + +“Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour?” +inquired the count; “only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my +punctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements.” + +“Day for day, hour for hour,” said Albert; “that will suit me to a +dot.” + +“So be it, then,” replied the count, and extending his hand towards a +calendar, suspended near the chimney-piece, he said, “today is the 21st +of February;” and drawing out his watch, added, “it is exactly +half-past ten o’clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me +the 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon.” + +“Capital!” exclaimed Albert; “your breakfast shall be waiting.” + +“Where do you live?” + +“No. 27, Rue du Helder.” + +“Have you bachelor’s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put +you to any inconvenience.” + +“I reside in my father’s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther +side of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building.” + +“Quite sufficient,” replied the count, as, taking out his tablets, he +wrote down “No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May, half-past ten in the +morning.” + +“Now then,” said the count, returning his tablets to his pocket, “make +yourself perfectly easy; the hand of your time-piece will not be more +accurate in marking the time than myself.” + +“Shall I see you again ere my departure?” asked Albert. + +“That depends; when do you leave?” + +“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock.” + +“In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to +Naples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday +morning. And you, baron,” pursued the count, addressing Franz, “do you +also depart tomorrow?” + +“Yes.” + +“For France?” + +“No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two.” + +“Then we shall not meet in Paris?” + +“I fear I shall not have that honor.” + +“Well, since we must part,” said the count, holding out a hand to each +of the young men, “allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant +journey.” + +It was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that +of the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered +at its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse. + +20219m + + + +“Let us understand each other,” said Albert; “it is agreed—is it +not?—that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of +May, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for +your punctuality?” + +“The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No. +27,” replied the count. + +The young men then rose, and bowing to the count, quitted the room. + +“What is the matter?” asked Albert of Franz, when they had returned to +their own apartments; “you seem more than commonly thoughtful.” + +“I will confess to you, Albert,” replied Franz, “the count is a very +singular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris +fills me with a thousand apprehensions.” + +“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Albert, “what can there possibly be in that +to excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses.” + +“Whether I am in my senses or not,” answered Franz, “that is the way I +feel.” + +“Listen to me, Franz,” said Albert; “I am glad that the occasion has +presented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold +you are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand, +has always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular +against him?” + +“Possibly.” + +“Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither?” + +“I have.” + +“And where?” + +“Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to +tell you?” + +“I promise.” + +“Upon your honor?” + +“Upon my honor.” + +“Then listen to me.” + +Franz then related to his friend the history of his excursion to the +Island of Monte Cristo and of his finding a party of smugglers there, +and the two Corsican bandits with them. He dwelt with considerable +force and energy on the almost magical hospitality he had received from +the count, and the magnificence of his entertainment in the grotto of +the _Thousand and One Nights_. + +He recounted, with circumstantial exactitude, all the particulars of +the supper, the hashish, the statues, the dream, and how, at his +awakening, there remained no proof or trace of all these events, save +the small yacht, seen in the distant horizon driving under full sail +toward Porto-Vecchio. + +Then he detailed the conversation overheard by him at the Colosseum, +between the count and Vampa, in which the count had promised to obtain +the release of the bandit Peppino,—an engagement which, as our readers +are aware, he most faithfully fulfilled. + +At last he arrived at the adventure of the preceding night, and the +embarrassment in which he found himself placed by not having sufficient +cash by six or seven hundred piastres to make up the sum required, and +finally of his application to the count and the picturesque and +satisfactory result that followed. Albert listened with the most +profound attention. + +“Well,” said he, when Franz had concluded, “what do you find to object +to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being +rich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or +Southampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts +belonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have +the same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a +resting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched +cookery—which has been trying its best to poison me during the last +four months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many +years,—and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte +Cristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first +found him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government +taking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of +the advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital, +he has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask +yourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our +acquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in +their lives were masters of?” + +“But,” said Franz, “the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of +his vessel?” + +“Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better +than yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves, +but purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from +their native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no +disgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go +to Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or +prefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to +find them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire +greatly.” + +“Still,” persisted Franz, “I suppose you will allow that such men as +Vampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than +plunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence +the count evidently possessed over those ruffians?” + +“My good friend, as in all probability I own my present safety to that +influence, it would ill become me to search too closely into its +source; therefore, instead of condemning him for his intimacy with +outlaws, you must give me leave to excuse any little irregularity there +may be in such a connection; not altogether for preserving my life, for +my own idea was that it never was in much danger, but certainly for +saving me 4,000 piastres, which, being translated, means neither more +nor less than 24,000 livres of our money—a sum at which, most +assuredly, I should never have been estimated in France, proving most +indisputably,” added Albert with a laugh, “that no prophet is honored +in his own country.” + +“Talking of countries,” replied Franz, “of what country is the count, +what is his native tongue, whence does he derive his immense fortune, +and what were those events of his early life—a life as marvellous as +unknown—that have tinctured his succeeding years with so dark and +gloomy a misanthropy? Certainly these are questions that, in your +place, I should like to have answered.” + +“My dear Franz,” replied Albert, “when, upon receipt of my letter, you +found the necessity of asking the count’s assistance, you promptly went +to him, saying, ‘My friend Albert de Morcerf is in danger; help me to +deliver him.’ Was not that nearly what you said?” + +20222m + + + +“It was.” + +“Well, then, did he ask you, ‘Who is M. Albert de Morcerf? how does he +come by his name—his fortune? what are his means of existence? what is +his birthplace? of what country is he a native?’ Tell me, did he put +all these questions to you?” + +“I confess he asked me none.” + +“No; he merely came and freed me from the hands of Signor Vampa, where, +I can assure you, in spite of all my outward appearance of ease and +unconcern, I did not very particularly care to remain. Now, then, +Franz, when, for services so promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he +but asks me in return to do for him what is done daily for any Russian +prince or Italian nobleman who may pass through Paris—merely to +introduce him into society—would you have me refuse? My good fellow, +you must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with +such cold-blooded policy.” + +And this time it must be confessed that, contrary to the usual state of +affairs in discussions between the young men, the effective arguments +were all on Albert’s side. + +“Well,” said Franz with a sigh, “do as you please my dear viscount, for +your arguments are beyond my powers of refutation. Still, in spite of +all, you must admit that this Count of Monte Cristo is a most singular +personage.” + +“He is a philanthropist,” answered the other; “and no doubt his motive +in visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize, given, as you +are aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most materially advanced +the interests of virtue and humanity. If my vote and interest can +obtain it for him, I will readily give him the one and promise the +other. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk of something else. Come, +shall we take our luncheon, and then pay a last visit to St. Peter’s?” + +Franz silently assented; and the following afternoon, at half-past five +o’clock, the young men parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to Paris, +and Franz d’Épinay to pass a fortnight at Venice. + +But, ere he entered his travelling carriage, Albert, fearing that his +expected guest might forget the engagement he had entered into, placed +in the care of a waiter at the hotel a card to be delivered to the +Count of Monte Cristo, on which, beneath the name of Viscount Albert de +Morcerf, he had written in pencil: + +“27, _Rue du Helder, on the_ 21_st May, half-past ten_ A.M.” + + + + Chapter 39. The Guests + +In the house in the Rue du Helder, where Albert had invited the Count +of Monte Cristo, everything was being prepared on the morning of the +21st of May to do honor to the occasion. Albert de Morcerf inhabited a +pavilion situated at the corner of a large court, and directly opposite +another building, in which were the servants’ apartments. Two windows +only of the pavilion faced the street; three other windows looked into +the court, and two at the back into the garden. + +Between the court and the garden, built in the heavy style of the +imperial architecture, was the large and fashionable dwelling of the +Count and Countess of Morcerf. + +A high wall surrounded the whole of the property, surmounted at +intervals by vases filled with flowers, and broken in the centre by a +large gate of gilded iron, which served as the carriage entrance. A +small door, close to the lodge of the _concierge_, gave ingress and +egress to the servants and masters when they were on foot. + +It was easy to discover that the delicate care of a mother, unwilling +to part from her son, and yet aware that a young man of the viscount’s +age required the full exercise of his liberty, had chosen this +habitation for Albert. There were not lacking, however, evidences of +what we may call the intelligent egoism of a youth who is charmed with +the indolent, careless life of an only son, and who lives as it were in +a gilded cage. By means of the two windows looking into the street, +Albert could see all that passed; the sight of what is going on is +necessary to young men, who always want to see the world traverse their +horizon, even if that horizon is only a public thoroughfare. Then, +should anything appear to merit a more minute examination, Albert de +Morcerf could follow up his researches by means of a small gate, +similar to that close to the _concierge’s_ door, and which merits a +particular description. + +It was a little entrance that seemed never to have been opened since +the house was built, so entirely was it covered with dust and dirt; but +the well-oiled hinges and locks told quite another story. This door was +a mockery to the _concierge_, from whose vigilance and jurisdiction it +was free, and, like that famous portal in the _Arabian Nights_, opening +at the “_Sesame_” of Ali Baba, it was wont to swing backward at a +cabalistic word or a concerted tap from without from the sweetest +voices or whitest fingers in the world. + +At the end of a long corridor, with which the door communicated, and +which formed the antechamber, was, on the right, Albert’s +breakfast-room, looking into the court, and on the left the salon, +looking into the garden. Shrubs and creeping plants covered the +windows, and hid from the garden and court these two apartments, the +only rooms into which, as they were on the ground floor, the prying +eyes of the curious could penetrate. + +On the floor above were similar rooms, with the addition of a third, +formed out of the antechamber; these three rooms were a salon, a +boudoir, and a bedroom. The salon downstairs was only an Algerian +divan, for the use of smokers. The boudoir upstairs communicated with +the bedchamber by an invisible door on the staircase; it was evident +that every precaution had been taken. Above this floor was a large +_atelier_, which had been increased in size by pulling down the +partitions—a pandemonium, in which the artist and the dandy strove for +pre-eminence. + +There were collected and piled up all Albert’s successive caprices, +hunting-horns, bass-viols, flutes—a whole orchestra, for Albert had had +not a taste but a fancy for music; easels, palettes, brushes, +pencils—for music had been succeeded by painting; foils, boxing-gloves, +broadswords, and single-sticks—for, following the example of the +fashionable young men of the time, Albert de Morcerf cultivated, with +far more perseverance than music and drawing, the three arts that +complete a dandy’s education, i.e., fencing, boxing, and single-stick; +and it was here that he received Grisier, Cooks, and Charles Leboucher. + +The rest of the furniture of this privileged apartment consisted of old +cabinets, filled with Chinese porcelain and Japanese vases, Lucca della +Robbia _faïences_, and Palissy platters; of old armchairs, in which +perhaps had sat Henry IV. or Sully, Louis XIII. or Richelieu—for two of +these armchairs, adorned with a carved shield, on which were engraved +the fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field, evidently came from the +Louvre, or, at least, some royal residence. + +Over these dark and sombre chairs were thrown splendid stuffs, dyed +beneath Persia’s sun, or woven by the fingers of the women of Calcutta +or of Chandernagor. What these stuffs did there, it was impossible to +say; they awaited, while gratifying the eyes, a destination unknown to +their owner himself; in the meantime they filled the place with their +golden and silky reflections. + +In the centre of the room was a Roller and Blanchet “baby grand” piano +in rosewood, but holding the potentialities of an orchestra in its +narrow and sonorous cavity, and groaning beneath the weight of the +_chefs-d’œuvre_ of Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Grétry, and +Porpora. + +On the walls, over the doors, on the ceiling, were swords, daggers, +Malay creeses, maces, battle-axes; gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits +of armor; dried plants, minerals, and stuffed birds, their +flame-colored wings outspread in motionless flight, and their beaks +forever open. This was Albert’s favorite lounging place. + +However, the morning of the appointment, the young man had established +himself in the small salon downstairs. There, on a table, surrounded at +some distance by a large and luxurious divan, every species of tobacco +known,—from the yellow tobacco of Petersburg to the black of Sinai, and +so on along the scale from Maryland and Porto Rico, to Latakia,—was +exposed in pots of crackled earthenware of which the Dutch are so fond; +beside them, in boxes of fragrant wood, were ranged, according to their +size and quality, puros, regalias, havanas, and manillas; and, in an +open cabinet, a collection of German pipes, of chibouques, with their +amber mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and of narghiles, with their +long tubes of morocco, awaiting the caprice or the sympathy of the +smokers. + +Albert had himself presided at the arrangement, or, rather, the +symmetrical derangement, which, after coffee, the guests at a breakfast +of modern days love to contemplate through the vapor that escapes from +their mouths, and ascends in long and fanciful wreaths to the ceiling. + +At a quarter to ten, a valet entered; he composed, with a little groom +named John, and who only spoke English, all Albert’s establishment, +although the cook of the hotel was always at his service, and on great +occasions the count’s _chasseur_ also. This valet, whose name was +Germain, and who enjoyed the entire confidence of his young master, +held in one hand a number of papers, and in the other a packet of +letters, which he gave to Albert. Albert glanced carelessly at the +different missives, selected two written in a small and delicate hand, +and enclosed in scented envelopes, opened them and perused their +contents with some attention. + +“How did these letters come?” said he. + +“One by the post, Madame Danglars’ footman left the other.” + +“Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she offers me in her +box. Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera +I will sup with her as she wishes. Take her six bottles of different +wine—Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get +them at Borel’s, and be sure you say they are for me.” + +“At what o’clock, sir, do you breakfast?” + +20227m + + + +“What time is it now?” + +“A quarter to ten.” + +“Very well, at half past ten. Debray will, perhaps, be obliged to go to +the minister—and besides” (Albert looked at his tablets), “it is the +hour I told the count, 21st May, at half past ten; and though I do not +much rely upon his promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the countess up +yet?” + +“If you wish, I will inquire.” + +“Yes, ask her for one of her _liqueur_ cellarets, mine is incomplete; +and tell her I shall have the honor of seeing her about three o’clock, +and that I request permission to introduce someone to her.” + +The valet left the room. Albert threw himself on the divan, tore off +the cover of two or three of the papers, looked at the theatre +announcements, made a face seeing they gave an opera, and not a ballet; +hunted vainly amongst the advertisements for a new tooth-powder of +which he had heard, and threw down, one after the other, the three +leading papers of Paris, muttering, + +“These papers become more and more stupid every day.” + +A moment after, a carriage stopped before the door, and the servant +announced M. Lucien Debray. A tall young man, with light hair, clear +gray eyes, and thin and compressed lips, dressed in a blue coat with +beautifully carved gold buttons, a white neckcloth, and a tortoiseshell +eye-glass suspended by a silken thread, and which, by an effort of the +superciliary and zygomatic muscles, he fixed in his eye, entered, with +a half-official air, without smiling or speaking. + +“Good-morning, Lucien, good-morning,” said Albert; “your punctuality +really alarms me. What do I say? punctuality! You, whom I expected +last, you arrive at five minutes to ten, when the time fixed was +half-past! Has the ministry resigned?” + +“No, my dear fellow,” returned the young man, seating himself on the +divan; “reassure yourself; we are tottering always, but we never fall, +and I begin to believe that we shall pass into a state of immobility, +and then the affairs of the Peninsula will completely consolidate us.” + +“Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of Spain.” + +“No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound our plans. We take him to the +other side of the French frontier, and offer him hospitality at +Bourges.” + +“At Bourges?” + +“Yes, he has not much to complain of; Bourges is the capital of Charles +VII. Do you not know that all Paris knew it yesterday, and the day +before it had already transpired on the Bourse, and M. Danglars (I do +not know by what means that man contrives to obtain intelligence as +soon as we do) made a million!” + +“And you another order, for I see you have a blue ribbon at your +button-hole.” + +“Yes; they sent me the order of Charles III.,” returned Debray +carelessly. + +“Come, do not affect indifference, but confess you were pleased to have +it.” + +“Oh, it is very well as a finish to the toilet. It looks very neat on a +black coat buttoned up.” + +“And makes you resemble the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt.” + +“It is for that reason you see me so early.” + +“Because you have the order of Charles III., and you wish to announce +the good news to me?” + +“No, because I passed the night writing letters,—five-and-twenty +despatches. I returned home at daybreak, and strove to sleep; but my +head ached and I got up to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois de +Boulogne, _ennui_ and hunger attacked me at once,—two enemies who +rarely accompany each other, and who are yet leagued against me, a sort +of Carlo-republican alliance. I then recollected you gave a breakfast +this morning, and here I am. I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse +me.” + +“It is my duty as your host,” returned Albert, ringing the bell, while +Lucien turned over, with his gold-mounted cane, the papers that lay on +the table. “Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. In the meantime, +my dear Lucien, here are cigars—contraband, of course—try them, and +persuade the minister to sell us such instead of poisoning us with +cabbage leaves.” + +“_Peste!_ I will do nothing of the kind; the moment they come from +government you would find them execrable. Besides, that does not +concern the home but the financial department. Address yourself to M. +Humann, section of the indirect contributions, corridor A., No. 26.” + +“On my word,” said Albert, “you astonish me by the extent of your +knowledge. Take a cigar.” + +“Really, my dear Albert,” replied Lucien, lighting a manilla at a +rose-colored taper that burnt in a beautifully enamelled stand—“how +happy you are to have nothing to do. You do not know your own good +fortune!” + +“And what would you do, my dear diplomatist,” replied Morcerf, with a +slight degree of irony in his voice, “if you did nothing? What? private +secretary to a minister, plunged at once into European cabals and +Parisian intrigues; having kings, and, better still, queens, to +protect, parties to unite, elections to direct; making more use of your +cabinet with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did of his +battle-fields with his sword and his victories; possessing +five-and-twenty thousand francs a year, besides your place; a horse, +for which Château-Renaud offered you four hundred louis, and which you +would not part with; a tailor who never disappoints you; with the +opera, the jockey-club, and other diversions, can you not amuse +yourself? Well, I will amuse you.” + +“How?” + +“By introducing to you a new acquaintance.” + +“A man or a woman?” + +“A man.” + +“I know so many men already.” + +“But you do not know this man.” + +“Where does he come from—the end of the world?” + +“Farther still, perhaps.” + +“The deuce! I hope he does not bring our breakfast with him.” + +“Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my father’s kitchen. Are you hungry?” + +“Humiliating as such a confession is, I am. But I dined at M. de +Villefort’s, and lawyers always give you very bad dinners. You would +think they felt some remorse; did you ever remark that?” + +“Ah, depreciate other persons’ dinners; you ministers give such +splendid ones.” + +“Yes; but we do not invite people of fashion. If we were not forced to +entertain a parcel of country boobies because they think and vote with +us, we should never dream of dining at home, I assure you.” + +“Well, take another glass of sherry and another biscuit.” + +“Willingly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. You see we were quite right +to pacify that country.” + +“Yes; but Don Carlos?” + +“Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux, and in ten years we will marry +his son to the little queen.” + +“You will then obtain the Golden Fleece, if you are still in the +ministry.” + +“I think, Albert, you have adopted the system of feeding me on smoke +this morning.” + +“Well, you must allow it is the best thing for the stomach; but I hear +Beauchamp in the next room; you can dispute together, and that will +pass away the time.” + +“About what?” + +“About the papers.” + +“My dear friend,” said Lucien with an air of sovereign contempt, “do I +ever read the papers?” + +“Then you will dispute the more.” + +“M. Beauchamp,” announced the servant. “Come in, come in,” said Albert, +rising and advancing to meet the young man. “Here is Debray, who +detests you without reading you, so he says.” + +“He is quite right,” returned Beauchamp; “for I criticise him without +knowing what he does. Good-day, commander!” + +“Ah, you know that already,” said the private secretary, smiling and +shaking hands with him. + +“_Pardieu!_” + +“And what do they say of it in the world?” + +“In which world? we have so many worlds in the year of grace 1838.” + +“In the entire political world, of which you are one of the leaders.” + +“They say that it is quite fair, and that sowing so much red, you ought +to reap a little blue.” + +“Come, come, that is not bad!” said Lucien. “Why do you not join our +party, my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you would make your fortune +in three or four years.” + +“I only await one thing before following your advice; that is, a +minister who will hold office for six months. My dear Albert, one word, +for I must give poor Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or dine? I must +go to the Chamber, for our life is not an idle one.” + +“You only breakfast; I await two persons, and the instant they arrive +we shall sit down to table.” + + + + Chapter 40. The Breakfast + +And what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?” said Beauchamp. + +“A gentleman, and a diplomatist.” + +“Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three for +the diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me some +strawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to +the Chamber.” + +“Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency, +and the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in the +meantime, follow Debray’s example, and take a glass of sherry and a +biscuit.” + +“Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts.” + +“You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister is +out of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous.” + +“Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear this +morning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, and +at his wife’s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of +France. The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had +our choice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that?” + +“I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity.” + +“Do not run down M. Danglars’ speeches,” said Debray; “he votes for +you, for he belongs to the opposition.” + +“_Pardieu_, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you +send him to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease.” + +“My dear friend,” said Albert to Beauchamp, “it is plain that the +affairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humor +this morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriage +between myself and Mlle. Eugénie Danglars; I cannot in conscience, +therefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day say +to me, ‘Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions.’” + +“Ah, this marriage will never take place,” said Beauchamp. “The king +has made him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him a +gentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, for +the paltry sum of two million francs, to a _mésalliance_. The Viscount +of Morcerf can only wed a marchioness.” + +“But two million francs make a nice little sum,” replied Morcerf. + +“It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroad +from the Jardin des Plantes to La Râpée.” + +“Never mind what he says, Morcerf,” said Debray, “do you marry her. You +marry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter? +It is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have +seven martlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will +still have four; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly +became King of France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany.” + +“On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,” said Albert absently. + +“To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard—that +is, he can be.” + +“Do not say that, Debray,” returned Beauchamp, laughing, “for here is +Château-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will pass +the sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.” + +“He will sully it then,” returned Lucien; “for I am low—very low.” + +“Oh, heavens,” cried Beauchamp, “the minister quotes Béranger, what +shall we come to next?” + +“M. de Château-Renaud—M. Maximilian Morrel,” said the servant, +announcing two fresh guests. + +“Now, then, to breakfast,” said Beauchamp; “for, if I remember, you +told me you only expected two persons, Albert.” + +“Morrel,” muttered Albert—“Morrel—who is he?” + +But before he had finished, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man +of thirty, gentleman all over,—that is, with the figure of a Guiche and +the wit of a Mortemart,—took Albert’s hand. + +“My dear Albert,” said he, “let me introduce to you M. Maximilian +Morrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the man +speaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.” + +And he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined and +dignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and black +moustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, under +circumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich +uniform, half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart +figure, and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion +of Honor. The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness. + +“Monsieur,” said Albert with affectionate courtesy, “the count of +Château-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me; +you are his friend, be ours also.” + +“Well said,” interrupted Château-Renaud; “and pray that, if you should +ever be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he did +for me.” + +“What has he done?” asked Albert. + +“Oh, nothing worth speaking of,” said Morrel; “M. de Château-Renaud +exaggerates.” + +“Not worth speaking of?” cried Château-Renaud; “life is not worth +speaking of!—that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It +is very well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who +only did so once——” + +“We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life.” + +“Exactly so.” + +“On what occasion?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving,” said Debray: “do +not set him off on some long story.” + +“Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table,” replied Beauchamp, +“Château-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast.” + +“Gentlemen,” said Morcerf, “it is only a quarter past ten, and I expect +someone else.” + +“Ah, true, a diplomatist!” observed Debray. + +“Diplomat or not, I don’t know; I only know that he charged himself on +my account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to my +satisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created him +knight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the Golden +Fleece and the Garter.” + +“Well, since we are not to sit down to table,” said Debray, “take a +glass of sherry, and tell us all about it.” + +“You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa.” + +“It is a road your ancestors have traced for you,” said Albert +gallantly. + +“Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs—to rescue the Holy +Sepulchre.” + +“You are quite right, Beauchamp,” observed the young aristocrat. “It +was only to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since two +seconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break the +arm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know—poor Franz +d’Épinay.” + +“Ah, true,” said Debray, “you did fight some time ago; about what?” + +20235m + + + +“The devil take me, if I remember,” returned Château-Renaud. “But I +recollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such +talents as mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols +that had been given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went +from thence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness the +raising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-forty +hours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the night +tolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poor +brute—accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable, +the Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in +Arabia.” + +“That’s why you want to purchase my English horse,” said Debray, “you +think he will bear the cold better.” + +“You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa.” + +“You were very much frightened, then?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so,” replied Château-Renaud. “I +was retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, full +gallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun, +and two more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were +still left; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so +short, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan, +and I already felt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom +you see here charged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and +cleft the skull of the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself +the task of saving a man’s life that day; chance caused that man to be +myself. When I am rich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or +Marochetti.” + +“Yes,” said Morrel, smiling, “it was the 5th of September, the +anniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved; +therefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it by +some——” + +20237m + + + +“Heroic action,” interrupted Château-Renaud. “I was chosen. But that is +not all—after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold, +not by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me the +whole; then from hunger by sharing with me—guess what?” + +“A Strasbourg pie?” asked Beauchamp. + +“No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a hearty +appetite. It was very hard.” + +“The horse?” said Morcerf, laughing. + +“No, the sacrifice,” returned Château-Renaud; “ask Debray if he would +sacrifice his English steed for a stranger?” + +“Not for a stranger,” said Debray, “but for a friend I might, perhaps.” + +“I divined that you would become mine, count,” replied Morrel; +“besides, as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or +not, that day I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the +favors good fortune had on other days granted to us.” + +“The history to which M. Morrel alludes,” continued Château-Renaud, “is +an admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are better +acquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not our +memories. What time do you breakfast, Albert?” + +“At half-past ten.” + +“Precisely?” asked Debray, taking out his watch. + +“Oh, you will give me five minutes’ grace,” replied Morcerf, “for I +also expect a preserver.” + +“Of whom?” + +“Of myself,” cried Morcerf; “_parbleu!_ do you think I cannot be saved +as well as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off +heads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at +table—at least, I hope so—two benefactors of humanity.” + +“What shall we do?” said Debray; “we have only one Monthyon prize.” + +“Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it,” +said Beauchamp; “that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from the +dilemma.” + +“And where does he come from?” asked Debray. “You have already answered +the question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a second +time.” + +“Really,” said Albert, “I do not know; when I invited him three months +ago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he may +have gone?” + +“And you think him capable of being exact?” demanded Debray. + +“I think him capable of everything.” + +“Well, with the five minutes’ grace, we have only ten left.” + +“I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest.” + +“I beg pardon,” interrupted Beauchamp; “are there any materials for an +article in what you are going to tell us?” + +“Yes, and for a most curious one.” + +“Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning, +and I must make up for it.” + +“I was at Rome during the last Carnival.” + +“We know that,” said Beauchamp. + +“Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits.” + +“There are no bandits,” cried Debray. + +“Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I +found them ugly enough to frighten me.” + +“Come, my dear Albert,” said Debray, “confess that your cook is +behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes, +and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish +by a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse +you, and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be.” + +“And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one +from beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted +me to a gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.” + +“I know it,” said Château-Renaud; “I narrowly escaped catching a fever +there.” + +“And I did more than that,” replied Morcerf, “for I caught one. I was +informed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman +crowns—about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was +at the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz—and were he +here he would confirm every word—I wrote then to Franz that if he did +not come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past +I should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in +whose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such +was the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously +kept his word.” + +“But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns,” said +Château-Renaud. “A man whose name is Franz d’Épinay or Albert de +Morcerf has not much difficulty in procuring them.” + +“No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present +to you.” + +“Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing +Andromeda.” + +“No, he is a man about my own size.” + +“Armed to the teeth?” + +“He had not even a knitting-needle.” + +“But he paid your ransom?” + +“He said two words to the chief and I was free.” + +“And they apologized to him for having carried you off?” said +Beauchamp. + +“Just so.” + +“Why, he is a second Ariosto.” + +“No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo.” + +“There is no Count of Monte Cristo” said Debray. + +“I do not think so,” added Château-Renaud, with the air of a man who +knows the whole of the European nobility perfectly. + +“Does anyone know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors +possessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea.” + +“I think I can assist your researches,” said Maximilian. “Monte Cristo +is a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my +father employed—a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an +atom in the infinite.” + +“Precisely!” cried Albert. “Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and +master of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title +of count somewhere in Tuscany.” + +“He is rich, then?” + +“I believe so.” + +“But that ought to be visible.” + +“That is what deceives you, Debray.” + +“I do not understand you.” + +“Have you read the _Arabian Nights_?” + +“What a question!” + +“Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if +their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor +fishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with +the wealth of the Indies.” + +“Which means?” + +“Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen. +He has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad +the Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold.” + +“And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?” asked Beauchamp. + +“No, but Franz has; for heaven’s sake, not a word of this before him. +Franz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and +by women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite +sure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken +hashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of +statues.” + +The two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say,—“Are you mad, or are +you laughing at us?” + +“And I also,” said Morrel thoughtfully, “have heard something like this +from an old sailor named Penelon.” + +“Ah,” cried Albert, “it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me; +you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the +labyrinth?” + +“My dear Albert,” said Debray, “what you tell us is so extraordinary.” + +“Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of +them—they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in +the affairs of their countrymen who travel.” + +“Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them +protect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that +now they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send +you to Constantinople.” + +“No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali, +the Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me.” + +“You say very true,” responded Debray. + +“Yes,” said Albert, “but this has nothing to do with the existence of +the Count of Monte Cristo.” + +“_Pardieu!_ everyone exists.” + +“Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, a +princely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an +Arabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and +Greek mistresses.” + +“Have you seen the Greek mistress?” + +“I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard +her one morning when I breakfasted with the count.” + +“He eats, then?” + +“Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating.” + +“He must be a vampire.” + +“Laugh, if you will; the Countess G——, who knew Lord Ruthven, declared +that the count was a vampire.” + +“Ah, capital,” said Beauchamp. “For a man not connected with +newspapers, here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the +_Constitutionnel_.” + +“Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure,” said +Debray; “facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, livid +complexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness +unexceptionable.” + +“Just so, Lucien,” returned Morcerf; “you have described him feature +for feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made +me shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I +should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he +spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the +executioner and the culprit.” + +“Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your +blood?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment, +surrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right?” + +“Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen,” said Morcerf, somewhat +piqued. “When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand +or the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are +not of the same race.” + +“I am highly flattered,” returned Beauchamp. + +“At the same time,” added Château-Renaud, “your Count of Monte Cristo +is a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with +the Italian banditti.” + +“There are no Italian banditti,” said Debray. + +“No vampire,” cried Beauchamp. + +“No Count of Monte Cristo” added Debray. “There is half-past ten +striking, Albert.” + +20243m + + + +“Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,” +continued Beauchamp. + +But the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced, +“His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.” The involuntary start +everyone gave proved how much Morcerf’s narrative had impressed them, +and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting sudden +emotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in +the antechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count +appeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious +dandy could have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article +of dress—hat, coat, gloves, and boots—was from the first makers. He +seemed scarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his +extreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count +advanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert, +who hastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner. + +“Punctuality,” said Monte Cristo, “is the politeness of kings, +according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same +with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three +seconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be +accomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it +seems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions.” + +“My dear count,” replied Albert, “I was announcing your visit to some +of my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did +me the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count +of Château-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and +whose ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray, +private secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an +editor of a paper, and the terror of the French government, but of +whom, in spite of his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in +Italy, since his paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel, +captain of Spahis.” + +At this name the count, who had hitherto saluted everyone with +courtesy, but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a +pace forward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks. + +“You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur,” said he; +“it is a handsome uniform.” + +No one could have said what caused the count’s voice to vibrate so +deeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in general so clear, +lustrous, and limpid when he pleased. + +“You have never seen our Africans, count?” said Albert. + +“Never,” replied the count, who was by this time perfectly master of +himself again. + +“Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts +in the whole army.” + +“Oh, M. de Morcerf,” interrupted Morrel. + +“Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard,” continued Albert, “of +a new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him +today for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him as +my friend.” + +At these words it was still possible to observe in Monte Cristo the +concentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelid +that show emotion. + +“Ah, you have a noble heart,” said the count; “so much the better.” + +This exclamation, which corresponded to the count’s own thought rather +than to what Albert was saying, surprised everybody, and especially +Morrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with wonder. But, at the same time, +the intonation was so soft that, however strange the speech might seem, +it was impossible to be offended at it. + +20245m + + + +“Why should he doubt it?” said Beauchamp to Château-Renaud. + +“In reality,” replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance and +his knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that was +penetrable in Monte Cristo, “Albert has not deceived us, for the count +is a most singular being. What say you, Morrel!” + +“_Ma foi_, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of +the singular remark he has made about me.” + +“Gentlemen,” said Albert, “Germain informs me that breakfast is ready. +My dear count, allow me to show you the way.” They passed silently into +the breakfast-room, and everyone took his place. + +“Gentlemen,” said the count, seating himself, “permit me to make a +confession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may +commit. I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is +the first time I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is +utterly unknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the +Eastern customs, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg +you, therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, too +Italian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast.” + +“With what an air he says all this,” muttered Beauchamp; “decidedly he +is a great man.” + +“A great man in his own country,” added Debray. + +“A great man in every country, M. Debray,” said Château-Renaud. + +The count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albert +remarked this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisian +mode of life should displease the traveller in the most essential +point. + +“My dear count,” said he, “I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare +of the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza +di Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had +some dishes prepared expressly.” + +“Did you know me better,” returned the count, smiling, “you would not +give one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who has +successively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla +podrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and +swallows’ nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I +eat but little; and today, that you reproach me with my want of +appetite, is my day of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday +morning.” + +“What,” cried all the guests, “you have not eaten for four-and-twenty +hours?” + +“No,” replied the count; “I was forced to go out of my road to obtain +some information near Nîmes, so that I was somewhat late, and therefore +I did not choose to stop.” + +“And you ate in your carriage?” asked Morcerf. + +“No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having the +courage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined +to eat.” + +“But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?” said Morrel. + +“Yes.” + +“You have a recipe for it?” + +“An infallible one.” + +“That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any food +to eat, and rarely anything to drink.” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a +man like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which might +not awake when it was needed.” + +“May we inquire what is this recipe?” asked Debray. + +“Oh, yes,” returned Monte Cristo; “I make no secret of it. It is a +mixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in order +to have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East—that is, +between the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed +in equal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one is +taken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d’Épinay; I think he +tasted them one day.” + +“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “he said something about it to me.” + +“But,” said Beauchamp, who, as became a journalist, was very +incredulous, “you always carry this drug about you?” + +“Always.” + +“Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills?” +continued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage. + +“No, monsieur,” returned the count; and he drew from his pocket a +marvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a +golden lid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored +pellet about the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating +odor. There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain +about a dozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to +examine the admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from +hand to hand. + +“And is it your cook who prepares these pills?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Oh, no, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not thus betray my +enjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my +pills myself.” + +“This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen,” said +Château-Renaud, “although my mother has some remarkable family jewels.” + +“I had three similar ones,” returned Monte Cristo. “I gave one to the +Sultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father the +Pope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large, +though not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor, +Pius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, which +reduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I +intended.” + +Everyone looked at Monte Cristo with astonishment; he spoke with so +much simplicity that it was evident he spoke the truth, or that he was +mad. However, the sight of the emerald made them naturally incline to +the former belief. + +“And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for these +magnificent presents?” asked Debray. + +“The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,” replied the Count; “the Pope, the +life of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as if +heaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne.” + +“And it was Peppino you saved, was it not?” cried Morcerf; “it was for +him that you obtained pardon?” + +“Perhaps,” returned the count, smiling. + +“My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear you +speak thus,” said Morcerf. “I had announced you beforehand to my +friends as an enchanter of the _Arabian Nights_, a wizard of the Middle +Ages; but the Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake +for caprices of the imagination the most incontestable truths, when +these truths do not form a part of their daily existence. For example, +here is Debray who reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day, ‘A +member of the Jockey Club has been stopped and robbed on the +Boulevard;’ ‘four persons have been assassinated in the Rue St. Denis’ +or ‘the Faubourg St. Germain;’ ‘ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have +been arrested in a _café_ on the Boulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes +de Julien,’—and yet these same men deny the existence of the bandits in +the Maremma, the Campagna di Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them +yourself that I was taken by bandits, and that without your generous +intercession I should now have been sleeping in the Catacombs of St. +Sebastian, instead of receiving them in my humble abode in the Rue du +Helder.” + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “you promised me never to mention that +circumstance.” + +“It was not I who made that promise,” cried Morcerf; “it must have been +someone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you +have forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate +the little I do know, but also a great deal I do not know.” + +“It seems to me,” returned the count, smiling, “that you played a +sufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened.” + +20249m + + + +“Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn, +all that I do not know?” + +“That is but fair,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“Well,” said Morcerf, “for three days I believed myself the object of +the attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia or +Poppæa, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a +_contadina_, and I say _contadina_ to avoid saying peasant girl. What I +know is, that, like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just +now, I mistook for this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or +sixteen, with a beardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was +about to imprint a chaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my +head, and, aided by seven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me, +to the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated +brigand chief perusing Cæsar’s _Commentaries_, and who deigned to leave +off reading to inform me, that unless the next morning, before six +o’clock, four thousand piastres were paid into his account at his +banker’s, at a quarter past six I should have ceased to exist. The +letter is still to be seen, for it is in Franz d’Épinay’s possession, +signed by me, and with a postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is all I +know, but I know not, count, how you contrived to inspire so much +respect in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily have so little respect +for anything. I assure you, Franz and I were lost in admiration.” + +“Nothing more simple,” returned the count. “I had known the famous +Vampa for more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a +shepherd, I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he, +in order to repay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had +carved with his own hand, and which you may have seen in my collection +of arms. In after years, whether he had forgotten this interchange of +presents, which ought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he +did not recollect me, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it +was I who captured him and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him +over to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would +have been particularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort—I +suffered him and his band to depart.” + +“With the condition that they should sin no more,” said Beauchamp, +laughing. “I see they kept their promise.” + +“No, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo “upon the simple condition that +they should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about to +say may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and +your duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which +does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies +itself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place +in my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society +and my neighbor who are indebted to me.” + +“Bravo,” cried Château-Renaud; “you are the first man I ever met +sufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo!” + +“It is frank, at least,” said Morrel. “But I am sure that the count +does not regret having once deviated from the principles he has so +boldly avowed.” + +“How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?” asked Monte +Cristo, who could not help looking at Morrel with so much intensity, +that two or three times the young man had been unable to sustain that +clear and piercing glance. + +“Why, it seems to me,” replied Morrel, “that in delivering M. de +Morcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and to +society.” + +“Of which he is the brightest ornament,” said Beauchamp, drinking off a +glass of champagne. + +“My dear count,” cried Morcerf, “you are at fault—you, one of the most +formidable logicians I know—and you must see it clearly proved that +instead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call +yourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family +name is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation, +and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display +the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric +Parisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the +virtues you possess.” + +“My dear vicomte,” returned Monte Cristo, “I do not see, in all I have +done, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, the +pretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for I +knew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you to +breakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival +in your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del +Popolo the execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted. +I will appeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the +hands of a hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had +the idea that you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when +I came to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this +resolution as a vague project, but today you see it was a reality, and +you must submit to it under penalty of breaking your word.” + +“I will keep it,” returned Morcerf; “but I fear that you will be much +disappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastic +horizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes with +which your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our +Chimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Valérien, our Great +Desert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian +well to water the caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so +many as is said; but these thieves stand in far more dread of a +policeman than a lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a +city, that you will not find in its eighty-five departments—I say +eighty-five, because I do not include Corsica—you will not find, then, +in these eighty-five departments a single hill on which there is not a +telegraph, or a grotto in which the commissary of police has not put up +a gaslamp. There is but one service I can render you, and for that I +place myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make my +friends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to +introduce you—with your name, and your fortune, and your talent” (Monte +Cristo bowed with a somewhat ironical smile) “you can present yourself +everywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way only—if +knowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of rendering yourself +comfortable, or of the bazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to +find you a fitting dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my +apartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome—I, who do not profess +egotism, but am yet egotist _par excellence_; for, except myself, these +rooms would not hold a shadow more, unless that shadow were feminine.” + +“Ah,” said the count, “that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollect +that at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May I +congratulate you?” + +“The affair is still in projection.” + +“And he who says in ‘projection,’ means already decided,” said Debray. + +“No,” replied Morcerf, “my father is most anxious about it; and I hope, +ere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to my +betrothed—Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars.” + +“Eugénie Danglars,” said Monte Cristo; “tell me, is not her father +Baron Danglars?” + +“Yes,” returned Morcerf, “a baron of a new creation.” + +“What matter,” said Monte Cristo “if he has rendered the State services +which merit this distinction?” + +“Enormous ones,” answered Beauchamp. “Although in reality a Liberal, he +negotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made him +a baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears the +ribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his +button-hole.” + +“Ah,” interrupted Morcerf, laughing, “Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that +for the _Corsaire_ or the _Charivari_, but spare my future +father-in-law before me.” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, “You just now +spoke his name as if you knew the baron?” + +“I do not know him,” returned Monte Cristo; “but I shall probably soon +make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house +of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and +Thomson & French at Rome.” As he pronounced the two last names, the +count glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce +an effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he +had been electrified. + +“Thomson & French,” said he; “do you know this house, monsieur?” + +20253m + + + +“They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,” returned +the count quietly. “Can my influence with them be of any service to +you?” + +“Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been, +up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a +great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied +having rendered us this service.” + +“I shall be at your orders,” said Monte Cristo bowing. + +“But,” continued Morcerf, “_à propos_ of Danglars,—we have strangely +wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation +for the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some +place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?” + +“Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Château-Renaud. “The count will find +there a charming hotel, with a court and garden.” + +“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull and +gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him, +count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.” + +“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the second floor—a house with +a balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought +there, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him.” + +“You have no idea, then, Morrel?” asked Château-Renaud; “you do not +propose anything.” + +“Oh, yes,” returned the young man, smiling; “on the contrary, I have +one, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant +proposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will +venture to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the +Pompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue +Meslay.” + +“You have a sister?” asked the count. + +“Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister.” + +“Married?” + +“Nearly nine years.” + +“Happy?” asked the count again. + +“As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,” replied +Maximilian. “She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us +in our fallen fortunes—Emmanuel Herbaut.” + +Monte Cristo smiled imperceptibly. + +“I live there during my leave of absence,” continued Maximilian; “and I +shall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition +of the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us.” + +“One minute,” cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time to +reply. “Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the +Sailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch +of him.” + +20255m + + + +“Oh, no,” said Morrel; “my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law +is thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be +in his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so.” + +“Thanks, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo; “I shall content myself with +being presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the +honor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these +gentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared.” + +“What,” cried Morcerf; “you are, then, going to a hotel—that will be +very dull for you.” + +“Was I so badly lodged at Rome?” said Monte Cristo smiling. + +“_Parbleu!_ at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing +your apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a +similar sum every day.” + +“It is not that which deterred me,” replied Monte Cristo; “but as I +determined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre, +and he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it.” + +“But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?” said +Beauchamp. + +“It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and +cannot speak,” returned Monte Cristo. + +“It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise. + +“Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome.” + +“Certainly,” said Morcerf; “I recollect him perfectly. But how could +you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he +will do everything wrong.” + +“Undeceive yourself, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I am quite sure, +that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my +tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the +instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for +me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting +for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper; +it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,” and Monte +Cristo passed a paper to Albert. + +“Ah, that is really original,” said Beauchamp. + +“And very princely,” added Château-Renaud. + +“What, do you not know your house?” asked Debray. + +“No,” said Monte Cristo; “I told you I did not wish to be behind my +time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s +door.” The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was +a comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such +an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said +was false—besides, why should he tell a falsehood? + +“We must content ourselves, then,” said Beauchamp, “with rendering the +count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of +journalist, open all the theatres to him.” + +“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo, “my steward has orders to +take a box at each theatre.” + +“Is your steward also a Nubian?” asked Debray. + +“No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of +anyone’s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf.” + +“Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so +well?” + +“Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been +a soldier, a smuggler—in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure +that he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle—a stab +with a knife, for instance.” + +“And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward,” said +Debray. “Of how much does he rob you every year?” + +“On my word,” replied the count, “not more than another. I am sure he +answers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him.” + +“Then,” continued Château-Renaud, “since you have an establishment, a +steward, and a hotel in the Champs-Élysées, you only want a mistress.” +Albert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count’s +box at the Argentina and Valle theatres. + +“I have something better than that,” said Monte Cristo; “I have a +slave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or +the Variétés; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but +I have nothing to fear.” + +“But you forget,” replied Debray, laughing, “that we are Franks by name +and franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she +puts her foot in France your slave becomes free.” + +“Who will tell her?” + +“The first person who sees her.” + +“She only speaks Romaic.” + +“That is different.” + +“But at least we shall see her,” said Beauchamp, “or do you keep +eunuchs as well as mutes?” + +“Oh, no,” replied Monte Cristo; “I do not carry brutalism so far. +Everyone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me +will no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that +reason, perhaps, that they do not quit me.” + +They had long since passed to dessert and cigars. + +“My dear Albert,” said Debray, rising, “it is half-past two. Your guest +is charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst +sometimes. I must return to the minister’s. I will tell him of the +count, and we shall soon know who he is.” + +“Take care,” returned Albert; “no one has been able to accomplish +that.” + +“Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost +always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty +thousand francs to spend for this purpose.” + +“And when you know, will you tell me?” + +“I promise you. _Au revoir_, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning.” + +As he left the room, Debray called out loudly, “My carriage.” + +“Bravo,” said Beauchamp to Albert; “I shall not go to the Chamber, but +I have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M. +Danglars.” + +“For heaven’s sake, Beauchamp,” returned Morcerf, “do not deprive me of +the merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar?” + +“He is more than that,” replied Château-Renaud; “he is one of the most +extraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel?” + +“Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us +a visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14.” + +“Be sure I shall not fail to do so,” returned the count, bowing. + +And Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Château-Renaud, +leaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf. + + + + Chapter 41. The Presentation + +When Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo, “My dear count,” +said he, “allow me to commence my services as _cicerone_ by showing you +a specimen of a bachelor’s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the +palaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square +feet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we +pass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you +breathe.” + +Monte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the +ground floor. Albert led him first to his _atelier_, which was, as we +have said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated all +that Albert had collected here—old cabinets, Japanese porcelain, +Oriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the +world—everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he +recognized their date, their country, and their origin. + +Morcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he +who, under the count’s guidance, followed a course of archæology, +mineralogy, and natural history. + +They descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon. +The salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were +landscapes by Dupré, with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing +oxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix’s Arabian cavaliers, with their +long white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their +horses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders +contended fiercely with their maces; _aquarelles_ of Boulanger, +representing Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist +the rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his +flowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the +sun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa, +but more poetic; _pastels_ by Giraud and Müller, representing children +like angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from +the album of Dauzats’ “Travels in the East,” that had been made in a +few seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a +mosque—in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as +recompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past. + +Albert expected to have something new this time to show to the +traveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for +the signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named +instantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy +to see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style +associated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the +salon they passed into the bedchamber; it was a model of taste and +simple elegance. A single portrait, signed by Léopold Robert, shone in +its carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte +Cristo’s attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and +stopped suddenly before it. + +It was the portrait of a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a +dark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long +lashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a +red and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair. She was looking at +the sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky. The light +was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that +spread itself over the count’s visage, or the nervous heaving of his +chest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an instant, during which +Monte Cristo gazed intently on the picture. + +“You have there a most charming mistress, viscount,” said the count in +a perfectly calm tone; “and this costume—a ball costume, +doubtless—becomes her admirably.” + +“Ah, monsieur,” returned Albert, “I would never forgive you this +mistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my +mother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus +six or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and +the resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same +as she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the +count’s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable +surprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my +father, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the +best works of Léopold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It +is true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most +assiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a +most mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who +paints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a +picture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to +displease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you. +Excuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of +introducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any +allusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign +influence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and +still more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This +disagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the +count and countess, who are still as much united, although married more +than twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding.” + +20261m + + + +Monte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning +in his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the +simplicity of his heart. + +“Now,” said Albert, “that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to +offer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your +own house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany +me to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an +account of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your +promised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess +anxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat _blasé_ I +know, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who +has seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an +initiation into Parisian life—a life of politeness, visiting, and +introductions.” + +Monte Cristo bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer +without enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of +society which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert summoned his +servant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the +arrival of the Count of Monte Cristo. Albert followed him with the +count. When they arrived at the antechamber, above the door was visible +a shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of +the furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this +blazon. Monte Cristo stopped and examined it attentively. + +“Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender,” said he. “These are, +doubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that +enables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry—I, a count +of a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery +of St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been +told that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have +something on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by +the custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you.” + +“It is not indiscreet,” returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of +conviction. “You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is, +those of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield, +which has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother’s. By her side I +am Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one +of the oldest of the south of France.” + +“Yes,” replied Monte Cristo “these blazons prove that. Almost all the +armed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a +cross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the +long voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to +accomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the +Crusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you +mount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient.” + +“It is possible,” said Morcerf; “my father has in his study a +genealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made +commentaries that would have greatly edified d’Hozier and Jaucourt. At +present I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are +beginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our +popular government.” + +“Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past +something better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments, +and which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount,” +continued Monte Cristo to Morcerf, “you are more fortunate than the +government, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the +imagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that +explains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much +admired on the visage of the noble Catalan.” + +It would have required the penetration of Œdipus or the Sphinx to have +divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently +uttered with the greatest politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a smile, +and pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we +have said, opened into the salon. In the most conspicuous part of the +salon was another portrait. It was that of a man, from five to +eight-and-thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the +double epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the +ribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a +commander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the +order of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of +Charles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture +had served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same +thing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in +the two countries. + +Monte Cristo was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care +than he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he +found himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person. + +He was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least +fifty, and his black moustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with +his almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion. He +was dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons +of the different orders to which he belonged. + +He entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste. +Monte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step. +It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the +Count of Morcerf. + +“Father,” said the young man, “I have the honor of presenting to you +the Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good +fortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you.” + +“You are most welcome, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, saluting +Monte Cristo with a smile, “and monsieur has rendered our house, in +preserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal +gratitude.” + +As he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while +he seated himself in another opposite the window. + +Monte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in +such a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet +curtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a +whole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted +there. + +“The countess,” said Morcerf, “was at her toilet when she was informed +of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the +salon in ten minutes.” + +“It is a great honor to me,” returned Monte Cristo, “to be thus, on the +first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose +merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been +equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the +mountains of Atlas, a marshal’s staff to offer you?” + +“Oh,” replied Morcerf, reddening slightly, “I have left the service, +monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first +campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore, +expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the +elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it +seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it +was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I +tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the +battle-field, you do not know how to manœuvre on the slippery grounds +of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics. +I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the +twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the +time.” + +“These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other,” +returned Monte Cristo. “A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an +ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure +soldier, step by step—this is uncommon; then become general, peer of +France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence +a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire +than that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this, +indeed, is praiseworthy,—nay, more, it is sublime.” + +20265m + + + +Albert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see +Monte Cristo give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm. + +“Alas,” continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud +that covered Morcerf’s brow, “we do not act thus in Italy; we grow +according to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines, +and often the same uselessness, all our lives.” + +“But, monsieur,” said the Count of Morcerf, “for a man of your merit, +Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you; +respond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful. +She treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers.” + +“Ah, father,” said Albert with a smile, “it is evident you do not know +the Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself +with those written on his passport.” + +“That is the most just remark,” replied the stranger, “I ever heard +made concerning myself.” + +“You have been free to choose your career,” observed the Count of +Morcerf, with a sigh; “and you have chosen the path strewed with +flowers.” + +“Precisely, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles +that a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze. + +“If I did not fear to fatigue you,” said the general, evidently charmed +with the count’s manners, “I would have taken you to the Chamber; there +is a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern +senators.” + +“I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time, +renew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being +introduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait.” + +“Ah, here is my mother,” cried the viscount. + +Monte Cristo, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the +entrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her +husband had entered, pale and motionless; when Monte Cristo turned +round, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been +resting on the gilded door-post. She had been there some moments, and +had heard the last words of the visitor. The latter rose and bowed to +the countess, who inclined herself without speaking. + +“Ah! good heavens, madame,” said the count, “are you ill, or is it the +heat of the room that affects you?” + +“Are you ill, mother?” cried the viscount, springing towards her. + +She thanked them both with a smile. + +“No,” returned she, “but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first +time, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears +and desolation. Monsieur,” continued the countess, advancing with the +majesty of a queen, “I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I +bless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus +affording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you, +from the bottom of my heart.” + +The count bowed again, but lower than before; he was even paler than +Mercédès. + +“Madame,” said he, “the count and yourself recompense too generously a +simple action. To save a man, to spare a father’s feelings, or a +mother’s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of +humanity.” + +At these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and +politeness, Madame de Morcerf replied: + +“It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a +friend, and I thank God that things are thus.” + +And Mercédès raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an +expression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them. +M. de Morcerf approached her. + +“Madame,” said he. “I have already made my excuses to the count for +quitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at +two; it is now three, and I am to speak.” + +“Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your +absence,” replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling. +“Monsieur,” continued she, turning to Monte Cristo, “will you do us the +honor of passing the rest of the day with us?” + +“Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got +out of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am +ignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is +but a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated.” + +“We shall have the pleasure another time,” said the countess; “you +promise that?” + +Monte Cristo inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might +pass for assent. + +“I will not detain you, monsieur,” continued the countess; “I would not +have our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate.” + +“My dear Count,” said Albert, “I will endeavor to return your +politeness at Rome, and place my coupé at your disposal until your own +be ready.” + +“A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount,” returned the Count of +Monte Cristo “but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the +four hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a +carriage of some sort ready at the door.” + +Albert was used to the count’s manner of proceeding; he knew that, like +Nero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him, +but wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count’s orders had +been executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house. Monte +Cristo was not deceived. As soon as he appeared in the Count of +Morcerf’s antechamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the +count’s card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into +the vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious +traveller found his carriage awaiting him. It was a _coupé_ of Koller’s +building, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the +knowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven +hundred guineas. + +“Monsieur,” said the count to Albert, “I do not ask you to accompany me +to my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry, +and I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being +taken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite +you; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality.” + +“If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not +be a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at +your control.” + +“_Ma foi_, spread that idea,” replied the Count of Monte Cristo, +putting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage, +“and that will be worth something to me among the ladies.” + +As he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not +so rapidly that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the almost +imperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in +which he had left Madame de Morcerf. + +When Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir +reclining in a large velvet armchair, the whole room so obscure that +only the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and +the angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some +degree of brightness in the gloom. Albert could not see the face of the +countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head, +and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him +as though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes +of the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and +fragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased +cups on the mantle-piece the countess’s smelling-bottle, taken from its +shagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered: + +“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?” + +“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and +orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such +violent perfumes.” + +“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell, +“they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just +now were so pale as you came into the room——” + +“Was I pale, Albert?” + +“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the +less alarm my father and myself.” + +“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly. + +“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?” + +20269m + + + +“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess. + +A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell. + +“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the +viscount; “they make the countess ill.” + +The footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until +all the flowers were removed. + +“What is this name of Monte Cristo?” inquired the countess, when the +servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, “is it a family name, +or the name of the estate, or a simple title?” + +“I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island +in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a +commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of +Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order +of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls +himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that +the count is a man of very high distinction.” + +“His manners are admirable,” said the countess, “at least, as far as I +could judge in the few minutes he remained here.” + +“They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I +have known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities +of Europe—the English, the Spanish, and the German.” + +The countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she +resumed. + +“You have seen, my dear Albert—I ask the question as a mother—you have +seen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much +knowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you +think the count is really what he appears to be?” + +“What does he appear to be?” + +“Why, you have just said,—a man of high distinction.” + +“I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such.” + +“But what is your own opinion, Albert?” + +“I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting +him, but I think him a Maltese.” + +“I do not ask you of his origin but what he is.” + +“Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many +remarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I +think, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s +heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some +Lara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient +family, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the +force of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws +of society.” + +“You say——” + +“I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the +Mediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers +of all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not +these industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues +for his protection?” + +“That is possible,” said the countess, reflecting. + +“Never mind,” continued the young man, “smuggler or not, you must +agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte +Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the +salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his +_entrée_ amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not +even excepting Château-Renaud.” + +“And what do you suppose is the count’s age?” inquired Mercédès, +evidently attaching great importance to this question. + +“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.” + +“So young,—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time +to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection. + +“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and +certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was +five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I, +induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have +compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this +singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five. +Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair, +and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only +vigorous, but also young.” + +The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter +thoughts. + +“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked +with a nervous shudder. + +“I am inclined to think so.” + +“And—do—you—like—him?” + +“Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince +me that he is a being returned from the other world.” + +The countess shuddered. + +“Albert,” she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion, “I have +always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a +man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be +prudent.” + +“Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice +turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust. +The count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little +sherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at +me, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him?” + +“You are right,” said the countess, “and my fears are weakness, +especially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did +your father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more +than complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his +business makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it——” + +“Nothing could be in better taste than my father’s demeanor, madame,” +said Albert; “nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three +compliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with +as much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these +little tickling arrows must have pleased my father,” added Albert with +a laugh. “And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de +Morcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers.” + +The countess made no reply. She fell into so deep a reverie that her +eyes gradually closed. The young man, standing up before her, gazed +upon her with that filial affection which is so tender and endearing +with children whose mothers are still young and handsome. Then, after +seeing her eyes closed, and hearing her breathe gently, he believed she +had dropped asleep, and left the apartment on tiptoe, closing the door +after him with the utmost precaution. + +“This devil of a fellow,” he muttered, shaking his head; “I said at the +time he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an +infallible thermometer. My mother has noticed him, and he must +therefore, perforce, be remarkable.” + +He went down to the stables, not without some slight annoyance, when he +remembered that the Count of Monte Cristo had laid his hands on a +“turnout” which sent his bays down to second place in the opinion of +connoisseurs. + +“Most decidedly,” said he, “men are not equal, and I must beg my father +to develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers.” + + + + Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio + +Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six +minutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient +to induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had +been unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in +order to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs +apiece for his horses. + +The house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to +Monte Cristo, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the +Champs-Élysées. A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre, +and masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys, +like two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive +from the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a +porcelain vase, filled with flowers. This house, isolated from the +rest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue de Ponthieu. +Even before the coachman had hailed the _concierge_, the massy gates +rolled on their hinges—they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as +everywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning. The +coachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his +speed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on +the gravel. The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two +men presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who, +smiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid +by a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other bowed respectfully, and +offered his arm to assist the count in descending. + +“Thanks, M. Bertuccio,” said the count, springing lightly up the three +steps of the portico; “and the notary?” + +“He is in the small salon, excellency,” returned Bertuccio. + +“And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number +of the house?” + +“Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best +engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The +first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron +Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the +mantle-piece of your excellency’s bedroom.” + +“Good; what o’clock is it?” + +“Four o’clock.” + +Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman +who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he +passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the +way. + +“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte +Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.” + +Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the +small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the +extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener. + +“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to +purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“Yes, count,” returned the notary. + +“Is the deed of sale ready?” + +“Yes, count.” + +“Have you brought it?” + +“Here it is.” + +“Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count +carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. +The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary +looked at the count with astonishment. + +“What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases +is situated?” + +“No,” returned the count. + +“The count does not know?” + +“How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have +never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even +set my foot in France.” + +“Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.” + +At these words Bertuccio turned pale. + +“And where is Auteuil?” asked the count. + +“Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary—“a little beyond Passy; a +charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.” + +“So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country. +What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?” + +“I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did +not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will +recollect—if he will think——” + +“Ah, true,” observed Monte Cristo; “I recollect now. I read the +advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, +‘a country house.’” + +“It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your +excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a +better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.” + +“Oh, no,” returned Monte Cristo negligently; “since I have this, I will +keep it.” + +“And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. +“It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine +trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, +without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, +now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has +the tastes of the day?” + +“To be sure,” returned Monte Cristo; “it is very convenient, then?” + +“It is more—it is magnificent.” + +“_Peste!_ let us not lose such an opportunity,” returned Monte Cristo. +“The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary.” + +And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part +of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the +names of the proprietors. + +“Bertuccio,” said he, “give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur.” + +The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a +bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never +gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there. + +“And now,” demanded the count, “are all the forms complied with?” + +“All, sir.” + +“Have you the keys?” + +“They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house, +but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new +possessions.” + +“Very well;” and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary, +which said, “I have no further need of you; you may go.” + +“But,” observed the honest notary, “the count is, I think, mistaken; it +is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.” + +“And your fee?” + +“Is included in this sum.” + +“But have you not come from Auteuil here?” + +“Yes, certainly.” + +“Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of +time and trouble,” said the count; and he made a gesture of polite +dismissal. + +The notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it +was the first time he had ever met a similar client. + +“See this gentleman out,” said the count to Bertuccio. And the steward +followed the notary out of the room. + +Scarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book +closed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his +neck, and which never left him. After having sought for a few minutes, +he stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with +the deed of sale, which lay on the table, and recalling his +_souvenirs_— + +“‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same,” said +he; “and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or +physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!” +cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong. +“Bertuccio!” + +The steward appeared at the door. + +“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “did you never tell me that you +had travelled in France?” + +“In some parts of France—yes, excellency.” + +“You know the environs of Paris, then?” + +“No, excellency, no,” returned the steward, with a sort of nervous +trembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly +attributed to great disquietude. + +“It is unfortunate,” returned he, “that you have never visited the +environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you +gone with me, you could have given me some useful information.” + +“To Auteuil!” cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid—“I +go to Auteuil?” + +“Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you +must come there, as you belong to my service.” + +Bertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master, +and remained motionless, without making any answer. + +“Why, what has happened to you?—are you going to make me ring a second +time for the carriage?” asked Monte Cristo, in the same tone that Louis +XIV. pronounced the famous, “I have been almost obliged to wait.” +Bertuccio made but one bound to the antechamber, and cried in a hoarse +voice: + +“His excellency’s horses!” + +Monte Cristo wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the +steward appeared. + +“Your excellency’s carriage is at the door,” said he. + +“Well, take your hat and gloves,” returned Monte Cristo. + +“Am I to accompany you, your excellency?” cried Bertuccio. + +“Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the +house.” + +20277m + + + +It was unexampled for a servant of the count’s to dare to dispute an +order of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his +master, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which +he did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat. + + + + Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil + +Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio +signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of +the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the +carriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustless +thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward’s +extraordinary repugnance for the count’s projected drive without the +walls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this +little journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward’s +emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village. +Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine +with a feverish anxiety every house they passed. + +“Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,” said the count, +fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order. + +Bertuccio’s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed, +and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—“Rue de la +Fontaine, No. 28.” No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village; +during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings +the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage +stopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door. + +“Well,” said the count, “you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going +to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?” + +Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this +time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage. + +“Knock,” said the count, “and announce me.” + +Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared. + +“What is it?” asked he. + +“It is your new master, my good fellow,” said the footman. And he held +out to the concierge the notary’s order. + +“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentleman +is coming to live here?” + +“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give you +no cause to regret your old master.” + +“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause to +regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was +here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him +in anything at all.” + +“What was the name of your old master?” said Monte Cristo. + +“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house +for what he gave for it.” + +“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not +unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to +meditate. + +“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the +Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had +been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.” + +Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall +against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling. + +“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I have +heard so.” + +“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not +seen the poor marquis three times.” + +“Thanks, thanks,” said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward’s utter +prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger +of breaking it. “Give me a light.” + +“Shall I accompany you, monsieur?” + +“No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.” + +And Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold +pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the +concierge. + +“Ah, monsieur,” said he, after having vainly searched on the +mantle-piece and the shelves, “I have not got any candles.” + +“Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,” said the count, “and show +me the apartments.” + +The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner +in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to +obey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor +consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the +bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden. + +“Ah, here is a private staircase,” said the count; “that is convenient. +Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.” + +“Monsieur,” replied Bertuccio, “it leads to the garden.” + +“And, pray, how do you know that?” + +“It ought to do so, at least.” + +“Well, let us be sure of that.” + +Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to +the garden. At the outer door the steward paused. + +“Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count. + +But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; +his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some +terrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut +out horrible recollections. + +“Well!” insisted the Count. + +“No, no,” cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the +interior wall. “No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther.” + +“What does this mean?” demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo. + +“Why, you must see, your excellency,” cried the steward, “that this is +not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly +at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be +No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure +you would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have +been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at +Auteuil than that of the assassination!” + +“What, what!” cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, “what words do you +utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are—always mysteries or +superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you +are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?” + +Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened, +disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle +through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which +she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward +wished to turn to the left. + +“No, no, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo. “What is the use of following +the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards.” + +Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he +continued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took +the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward +could not restrain himself. + +“Move, monsieur—move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!” + +“What spot?” + +“Where he fell.” + +20281m + + + +“My dear Monsieur Bertuccio,” said Monte Cristo, laughing, “control +yourself; we are not at Sartène or at Corte. This is not a Corsican +_maquis_ but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must +not calumniate it for that.” + +“Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!” + +“I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,” said the count coldly. “If that +is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum.” + +“Alas! excellency,” returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking +his head in a manner that would have excited the count’s laughter, had +not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him +attentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience. “Alas! +excellency, the evil has arrived!” + +“M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “I am very glad to tell you, that while +you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man +possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always +observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I +knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding +over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, +because in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France +they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy +themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which +avenge.” + +Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did +not let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered +countenance. Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at +Rome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone +that made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward— + +“The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth,” said he, “when, after his +journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of +recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities. +Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for his +_protégé’s_ misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this +assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I +conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the +compass of the French laws for your sake.” + +“Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully,” +cried Bertuccio, in despair. “I have always been an honest man, and, as +far as lay in my power, I have done good.” + +“I do not deny it,” returned the count; “but why are you thus agitated. +It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in +the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man.” + +“But, your excellency,” replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, “did not the +Abbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nîmes, tell you +that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?” + +“Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded +you had stolen—that was all.” + +“Oh, your excellency!” returned Bertuccio in deep contempt. + +“Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the +desire of making a ‘stiff,’ as you call it.” + +“Yes, my good master,” cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count’s +feet, “it was simply vengeance—nothing else.” + +“I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes +you in this manner.” + +“But, monsieur, it is very natural,” returned Bertuccio, “since it was +in this house that my vengeance was accomplished.” + +“What! my house?” + +“Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then.” + +“Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concierge said. +What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?” + +“Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another.” + +“This is strange,” returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his +reflections, “that you should find yourself without any preparation in +a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse.” + +“Monsieur,” said the steward, “it is fatality, I am sure. First, you +purchase a house at Auteuil—this house is the one where I have +committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same +staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received +the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just +buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too +much like Providence.” + +“Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I always +suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede +something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all.” + +“I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Such +things,” continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, “are only related under +the seal of confession.” + +“Then,” said the count, “I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux +or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like +anyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my +servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I +confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of +police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent—in France she +is paid only when she speaks. _Peste!_ I thought you somewhat Corsican, +a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have +other strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur +Bertuccio.” + +“Oh, your excellency, your excellency!” cried the steward, struck with +terror at this threat, “if that is the only reason I cannot remain in +your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go +to the scaffold.” + +“That is different,” replied Monte Cristo; “but if you intend to tell +an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.” + +“No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell +you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; +but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just +bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and +wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de +Villefort.” + +“What!” cried Monte Cristo, “it was M. de Villefort?” + +“Your excellency knows him?” + +“The former royal attorney at Nîmes?” + +“Yes.” + +“Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?” + +“Yes.” + +“Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, +the most rigid magistrate on the bench?” + +“Well, monsieur,” said Bertuccio, “this man with this spotless +reputation——” + +“Well?” + +“Was a villain.” + +“Bah,” replied Monte Cristo, “impossible!” + +“It is as I tell you.” + +“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo. “Have you proof of this?” + +“I had it.” + +“And you have lost it; how stupid!” + +“Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered.” + +“Really,” returned the count, “relate it to me, for it begins to +interest me.” + +And the count, humming an air from _Lucia_, went to sit down on a +bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio +remained standing before him. + +20285m + + + + + Chapter 44. The Vendetta + +At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?” asked +Bertuccio. + +“Where you please,” returned Monte Cristo, “since I know nothing at all +of it.” + +“I thought the Abbé Busoni had told your excellency.” + +“Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and +I have forgotten them.” + +“Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency.” + +“Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers.” + +“The story begins in 1815.” + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, “1815 is not yesterday.” + +“No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had +happened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the +service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed +entirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became +orphans—I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been +his son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the +Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly +wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire.” + +“But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio,” said the +count; “unless I am mistaken, it has been already written.” + +“Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you +promised to be patient.” + +“Go on; I will keep my word.” + +“One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the +little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letter +was from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that +he should return by Châteauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nîmes; +and, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nîmes, +with an innkeeper with whom I had dealings.” + +“In the smuggling line?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live.” + +“Certainly; go on.” + +“I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved +not to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a +thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, +and with the other five hundred I set off for Nîmes. It was easy to do +so, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything +favored my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind +became contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able +to enter the Rhône. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to +Arles. I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the +road to Nîmes.” + +“We are getting to the story now?” + +“Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you +what is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres +took place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon, +Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they +suspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres, +your excellency?” + +“Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on.” + +“As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you +encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered, +and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became +terrified, not for myself—for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had +nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us +smugglers—but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from +the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was +everything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings had +been but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at +Nîmes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand +hospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to +discover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much +were they dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had +heard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king’s +attorney.” + +“And this king’s attorney was named Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo +carelessly. + +“Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been +deputy procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was +said to be one of the first who had informed the government of the +departure from the Island of Elba.” + +“Then,” said Monte Cristo “you went to him?” + +“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘my brother was assassinated yesterday in the +streets of Nîmes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out. +You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to +avenge those she has been unable to protect.’ + +“‘Who was your brother?’ asked he. + +“‘A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.’ + +“‘A soldier of the usurper, then?’ + +“‘A soldier of the French army.’ + +“‘Well,’ replied he, ‘he has smitten with the sword, and he has +perished by the sword.’ + +“‘You are mistaken, monsieur,’ I replied; ‘he has perished by the +poniard.’ + +“‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the magistrate. + +“‘I have already told you—avenge him.’ + +“‘On whom?’ + +“‘On his murderers.’ + +“‘How should I know who they are?’ + +“‘Order them to be sought for.’ + +“‘Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a +duel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in +the time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people +here do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct.’ + +“‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘it is not for myself that I entreat your +interference—I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother +had a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would +perish from want, for my brother’s pay alone kept her. Pray, try and +obtain a small government pension for her.’ + +“‘Every revolution has its catastrophes,’ returned M. de Villefort; +‘your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, and +government owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all the +vengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans +of the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother +would be today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has +happened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of +reprisals.’ + +“‘What,’ cried I, ‘do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me?’ + +“‘All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,’ replied M. de Villefort; +‘they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistaken +the time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late +now. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out.’ + +“I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from +further entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said +in a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know +that they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed to +kill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist. +Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is, +that I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta against +you, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet +your last hour has come.’ And before he had recovered from his +surprise, I opened the door and left the room.” + +“Well, well,” said Monte Cristo, “such an innocent looking person as +you are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king’s attorney at +that! But did he know what was meant by the terrible word ‘vendetta’?” + +“He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house, +and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, I +was so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became +alarmed, and dared not stay any longer at Nîmes, so he solicited a +change of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was +nominated to Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to +avenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it +went, was never above half a day’s journey before me, who followed him +on foot. The most important thing was, not to kill him only—for I had +an opportunity of doing so a hundred times—but to kill him without +being discovered—at least, without being arrested. I no longer belonged +to myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for. + +“For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took +not a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I +discovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him +thither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead +of entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on +horseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little +inn, and entered by the gate you see there.” + +Monte Cristo made a sign with his head to show that he could discern in +the darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded. + +“As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and +gained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it was +evident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged, +as the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Méran, +Villefort’s father-in-law. M. de Saint-Méran lived at Marseilles, so +that this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be +let to a young widow, known only by the name of ‘the Baroness.’ + +“One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and +handsome woman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not +overlooked by any windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de +Villefort. When she was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her +features, I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair. +As she had a loose muslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure, +I saw she would ere long become a mother. A few moments after, the +little door was opened and a man entered. The young woman hastened to +meet him. They threw themselves into each other’s arms, embraced +tenderly, and returned together to the house. The man was M. de +Villefort; I fully believed that when he went out in the night he would +be forced to traverse the whole of the garden alone.” + +20291m + + + +“And,” asked the count, “did you ever know the name of this woman?” + +“No, excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “you will see that I had no time +to learn it.” + +“Go on.” + +“That evening,” continued Bertuccio, “I could have killed the +procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the +neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if +his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the +next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a +chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden. +Three days after, about seven o’clock in the evening, I saw a servant +on horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to +Sèvres. I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not +deceived. Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his +errand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot, +muffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he +closed after him. I descended rapidly; although I had not seen +Villefort’s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart. I +crossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the +wall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden. + +“This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife +out of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the +wall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it, +taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing, +then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The +garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the +middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy +foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to +go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de +Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees. + +20293m + + + +“It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint +glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds +that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led +to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick +shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of +discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must +take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I +fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your +excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies +that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours +passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight +struck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through +the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended. +The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared. + +“The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it +that my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket +again, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle +advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in +his hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he +was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon +was only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de +Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the +thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the +earth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle, +which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I +confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort +was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath. +Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the +procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or +eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made, +then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his +occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast, +exclaiming: + +“‘I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure for +his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had +hoped.’ + +“I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell +without a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was +intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of +burning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might +not be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over +the wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying +off the key.” + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “it seems to me this was nothing but murder and +robbery.” + +“No, your excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “it was a vendetta followed +by restitution.” + +“And was the sum a large one?” + +“It was not money.” + +“Ah, I recollect,” replied the count; “did you not say something of an +infant?” + +“Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and +with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth +was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored +hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not +yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet. +After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart, +and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a +doctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them, +and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and +cried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy. + +“‘God has not cursed me then,’ I cried, ‘since he permits me to save +the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken +away.’” + +20295m + + + +“And what did you do with the child?” asked Monte Cristo. “It was an +embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.” + +“I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at +Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I +passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the +road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my +statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy +parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from +the child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but +they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the +Rue d’Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen +in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on +the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my +possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after +I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta: + +“‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’ + +“She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all,—‘Giovanni,’ +said she, ‘you should have brought this child with you; we would have +replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then, +in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.’ In +reply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim +him if we became rich.” + +“What letters were marked on the linen?” said Monte Cristo. + +“An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.” + +“By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you +study heraldry?” + +“In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.” + +“Go on, I am curious to know two things.” + +“What are they, your excellency?” + +“What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy, +M. Bertuccio.” + +“No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.” + +“I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.” + +“No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your +excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?” + +“The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for +a confessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in +the prison at Nîmes.” + +“The story will be very long, excellency.” + +“What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose +you are very much inclined for it either.” Bertuccio bowed, and resumed +his story. + +“Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly +to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade +of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the +laws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were +ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were +perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by +this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere. +Since my brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never +entered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were +connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to +come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from +Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus, +at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our +goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the +gendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade, +when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for +myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing +the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the +judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into +the past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave +than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a +permit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most +astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too +great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of +those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and +determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life +to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or, +rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken +this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled.” + +“Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,” interrupted the count; “you have done a +little of everything in your life.” + +“Oh, excellency!” + +“No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet +I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which +is more than can be said for all philosophy.” + +“My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive. +Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as +I was setting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I +will give you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would +tell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six +weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English +cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home +full of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the +middle of Assunta’s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous +compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or +eight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I +had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the +recollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination +itself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She +had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen, +and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the +child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No +objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I +confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping +peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, +Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless +you.’” + +“This,” said Monte Cristo, “is less correct than your philosophy,—it is +only faith.” + +“Alas, your excellency is right,” replied Bertuccio, “and God made this +infant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature +declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault +in his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes, +of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion; +only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular +expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of +his smile. + +“Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is either +altogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct as +regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst +disposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother +encouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the +town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the +most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese +preserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor’s orchard, or the dried +apples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples +that grew in my garden. + +“One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio, +who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse +or his valuables—for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in +Corsica—complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we +thought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he +persisted in the accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had +been gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not +return until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he +said he had found chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month +past, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken +it into his head to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by +Rogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had +greatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him. +‘Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,’ said I; ‘confess +how you obtained this animal.’ Benedetto maintained the truth of what +he had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his +imagination than to his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I +threatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards. ‘You cannot +beat me,’ said he; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’ + +20299m + + + +“We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so +carefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the +child’s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and +my arm fell without touching him. + +“The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that +all the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as +he became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how +to contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent. +When I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was +my back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill. +When he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young +men of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed, +in Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been +several times threatened with a prosecution. I became alarmed, as any +prosecution might be attended with serious consequences. I was +compelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition; +I reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some +impending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me. + +“I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the +severe discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his +character, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke to +Benedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to +tempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of +a child of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished, +burst out laughing. + +“‘Are you mad, uncle?’ (he called me by this name when he was in good +humor); ‘do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your +mode of existence—my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious +toil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and +the scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you +are perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum? +Why, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me +when I ask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your +offer.’ + +“The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedetto +rejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to +them as a fool.” + +“Sweet child,” murmured Monte Cristo. + +“Oh, had he been my own son,” replied Bertuccio, “or even my nephew, I +would have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that +you are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was +striking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me +to punish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the +unfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several +times missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place +in which to conceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was +already made up. Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for +when the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a +week. My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and +without letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some +morning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon +his own conduct. I set off for France, after having fixed upon the +plan. Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a +difficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829. The most +perfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the +custom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased +at this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire. + +20301m + + + +“Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our +vessel—which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed—amidst a +number of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhône from +Beaucaire to Arles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in +the night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper +with whom we were connected. + +“Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I +know not; but one evening, about five o’clock, our little cabin-boy +came breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of +custom-house officers advancing in our direction. It was not their +proximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling +along the banks of the Rhône, but the care, according to the boy’s +account, that they took to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on +the alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst +the custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as +terrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of +any other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the +river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a +ditch that had recently been made from the Rhône to the canal that runs +from Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along +the ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had +designedly taken this direction. I have already told your excellency of +an innkeeper from Nîmes who had set up a little tavern on the road from +Bellegarde to Beaucaire.” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I perfectly recollect him; I think he was +your colleague.” + +“Precisely,” answered Bertuccio; “but he had, seven or eight years +before this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles, +who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his +fortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with the +new landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I +intended to ask shelter.” + +“What was his name?” inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat +interested in Bertuccio’s story. + +“Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of +Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her +village. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by +inches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or +five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample +proof of his presence of mind and courage.” + +“And you say,” interrupted Monte Cristo “that this took place towards +the year——” + +“1829, your excellency.” + +“In what month?” + +“June.” + +“The beginning or the end?” + +“The evening of the 3rd.” + +20303m + + + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.” + +“It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we +never entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to +break through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept +amongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might +have some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed +the night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in +which holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity +of announcing our presence. + +“My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my +presence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted, +and profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhône, and +ascertain the state of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the +shed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse +entered with a stranger. + +“I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I +could do nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often +before. The man who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the +South of France; he was one of those merchants who come to sell +jewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair +lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and +customers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount +of 100,000 to 150,000 francs. Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing +that the room was, as usual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he +called to his wife, ‘Hello, Carconte,’ said he, ‘the worthy priest has +not deceived us; the diamond is real.’ + +“An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath a +feeble step. ‘What do you say?’ asked his wife, pale as death. + +“‘I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the +first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, in +order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to +relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which +the diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit +down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.’ + +“The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the +apparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond +that seemed to have come from the casket of a prince. + +“‘Relate your story, madame,’ said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by +the absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence the +wife’s story, to see if the two recitals tallied. + +“‘Oh,’ returned she, ‘it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great +friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantès. This poor +fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at +his death he bequeathed this diamond to him.’ + +“‘But how did he obtain it?’ asked the jeweller; ‘had he it before he +was imprisoned?’ + +“‘No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance +of a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantès took +the same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman, +when he was set free, gave this stone to Dantès, who, less fortunate, +died, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbé, +who was here this morning, to deliver it.’ + +“‘The same story,’ muttered the jeweller; ‘and improbable as it seemed +at first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreed +about.’ + +“‘How not agreed about?’ said Caderousse. ‘I thought we agreed for the +price I asked.’ + +“‘That is,’ replied the jeweller, ‘I offered 40,000 francs.’ + +‘Forty thousand,’ cried La Carconte; ‘we will not part with it for that +sum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting.’ + +“‘What was the abbé’s name?’ asked the indefatigable questioner. + +“‘The Abbé Busoni,’ said La Carconte. + +“‘He was a foreigner?’ + +“‘An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.’ + +“‘Let me see this diamond again,’ replied the jeweller; ‘the first time +you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.’ + +“Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen, +opened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight of the diamond, which +was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with +cupidity.” + +“And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?” said Monte +Cristo; “did you credit it?” + +“Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I +thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft.” + +“That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M. +Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantès, of whom they spoke?” + +“No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but +once afterwards, and that was from the Abbé Busoni himself, when I saw +him in the prison at Nîmes.” + +“Go on.” + +“The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of +steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of +its setting, and weighed it carefully. + +“‘I will give you 45,000,’ said he, ‘but not a sou more; besides, as +that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me.’ + +“‘Oh, that’s no matter,’ replied Caderousse, ‘I will go back with you +to fetch the other 5,000 francs.’ + +“‘No,’ returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to +Caderousse, ‘no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much, +for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However, I will +not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.’ + +“‘At least, replace the diamond in the ring,’ said La Carconte sharply. + +“‘Ah, true,’ replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone. + +“‘No matter,’ observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket, +‘someone else will purchase it.’ + +“‘Yes,’ continued the jeweller; ‘but someone else will not be so easy +as I am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that +a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against +you. You will have to find the Abbé Busoni; and abbés who give diamonds +worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you +in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at +liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs, +will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000 +francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in +purchasing.’ + +“Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other. + +“‘No,’ said Caderousse, ‘we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs.’ + +“‘As you please, my dear sir,’ said the jeweller; ‘I had, however, as +you see, brought you the money in bright coin.’ And he drew from his +pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes +of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes. + +“There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it +was plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over +in his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous +sum which fascinated his gaze. He turned towards his wife. + +“‘What do you think of this?’ he asked in a low voice. + +“‘Let him have it—let him have it,’ she said. ‘If he returns to +Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he +says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbé Busoni?—in all +probability we shall never see him.’ + +“‘Well, then, so I will!’ said Caderousse; ‘so you may have the diamond +for 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of +silver buckles.’ + +“The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained +several samples of the articles demanded. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I am very +straightforward in my dealings—take your choice.’ + +“The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the +husband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs. + +“‘I hope you will not complain now?’ said the jeweller. + +“‘The abbé told me it was worth 50,000 francs,’ muttered Caderousse. + +“‘Come, come—give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,’ said the +jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. ‘I give you 45,000 +francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I had +myself, and you are not satisfied!’ + +“‘And the five-and-forty thousand francs,’ inquired Caderousse in a +hoarse voice, ‘where are they? Come—let us see them.’ + +“‘Here they are,’ replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the +table 15,000 francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes. + +“‘Wait whilst I light the lamp,’ said La Carconte; ‘it is growing dark, +and there may be some mistake.’ In fact, night had come on during this +conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for +the last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it was +apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte, +absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt +a strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all +these bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it +always happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot. +Caderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then +handed them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her +turn. During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle +in the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him +unmindful of those which—precursors of the storm—began to play in at +the windows. + +“‘Well,’ inquired the jeweller, ‘is the cash all right?’ + +“‘Yes,’ said Caderousse. ‘Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and +find a bag somewhere.’ + +“La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern +pocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters, +and put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or +three crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the +entire fortune of the miserable couple. + +“‘There,’ said Caderousse; ‘and now, although you have wronged us of +perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite you +with good-will.’ + +“‘Thank you,’ replied the jeweller, ‘it must be getting late, and I +must return to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting uneasy.’ He drew out +his watch, and exclaimed, ‘_Morbleu!_ nearly nine o’clock—why, I shall +not get back to Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If +the Abbé Busoni should by any accident return, think of me.’ + +“‘In another week you will have left Beaucaire,’ remarked Caderousse, +‘for the fair ends in a few days.’ + +“‘True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to M. +Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the +journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.’ + +“At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by +a flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the +lamp. + +20307m + + + +“‘See here,’ exclaimed Caderousse. ‘You cannot think of going out in +such weather as this.’ + +“‘Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,’ said the jeweller. + +“‘And then there are robbers,’ said La Carconte. ‘The road is never +very safe during fair time.’ + +“‘Oh, as to the robbers,’ said Joannes, ‘here is something for them,’ +and he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the +muzzle. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘are dogs who bark and bite at the same time, +they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond, +Friend Caderousse.’ + +“Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look. It seemed +as though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible +thought. ‘Well, then, a good journey to you,’ said Caderousse. + +“‘Thanks,’ replied the jeweller. He then took his cane, which he had +placed against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment when he +opened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearly +extinguished. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘this is very nice weather, and two +leagues to go in such a storm.’ + +“‘Remain,’ said Caderousse. ‘You can sleep here.’ + +“‘Yes; do stay,’ added La Carconte in a tremulous voice; ‘we will take +every care of you.’ + +“‘No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.’ Caderousse +followed him slowly to the threshold. ‘I can see neither heaven nor +earth,’ said the jeweller, who was outside the door. ‘Do I turn to the +right, or to the left hand?’ + +“‘To the right,’ said Caderousse. ‘You cannot go wrong—the road is +bordered by trees on both sides.’ + +“‘Good—all right,’ said a voice almost lost in the distance. + +“‘Close the door,’ said La Carconte; ‘I do not like open doors when it +thunders.’ + +“‘Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?’ answered +Caderousse, double-locking the door. + +20311m + + + +“He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and +pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold +and bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the +flickering lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman, +especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was +intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled +burning coals. + +“‘Why,’ she inquired in a hoarse voice, ‘did you invite him to sleep +here tonight?’ + +“‘Why?’ said Caderousse with a shudder; ‘why, that he might not have +the trouble of returning to Beaucaire.’ + +“‘Ah,’ responded the woman, with an expression impossible to describe; +‘I thought it was for something else.’ + +“‘Woman, woman—why do you have such ideas?’ cried Caderousse; ‘or, if +you have them, why don’t you keep them to yourself?’ + +“‘Well,’ said La Carconte, after a moment’s pause, ‘you are not a man.’ + +“‘What do you mean?’ added Caderousse. + +“‘If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here.’ + +“‘Woman!’ + +“‘Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire.’ + +“‘Woman!’ + +“‘The road takes a turn—he is obliged to follow it—while alongside of +the canal there is a shorter road.’ + +“‘Woman!—you offend the good God. There—listen!’ + +And at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the +livid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in +the distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode. +‘Mercy!’ said Caderousse, crossing himself. + +20312m + + + +“At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which +usually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door. +Caderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other. + +“‘Who’s there?’ cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the +gold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his +two hands. + +“‘It is I,’ shouted a voice. + +“‘And who are you?’ + +“‘Eh, _pardieu!_ Joannes, the jeweller.’ + +“‘Well, and you said I offended the good God,’ said La Carconte with a +horrid smile. ‘Why, the good God sends him back again.’ Caderousse sank +pale and breathless into his chair. + +“La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towards +the door, opened it, saying, as she did so: + +“‘Come in, dear M. Joannes.’ + +“‘_Ma foi_,’ said the jeweller, drenched with rain, ‘I am not destined +to return to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dear +Caderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have +returned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.’ + +“Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat that +started to his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind the +jeweller.” + + + + Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood + +As the jeweller returned to the apartment, he cast around him a +scrutinizing glance—but there was nothing to excite suspicion, if it +did not exist, or to confirm it, if it were already awakened. +Caderousse’s hands still grasped the gold and bank-notes, and La +Carconte called up her sweetest smiles while welcoming the reappearance +of their guest. + +“‘Well, well,’ said the jeweller, ‘you seem, my good friends, to have +had some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it +over so carefully directly I was gone.’ + +“‘Oh, no,’ answered Caderousse, ‘that was not my reason, I can assure +you; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this +wealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good +fortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches +before our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is +not a dream.’ + +“The jeweller smiled. ‘Have you any other guests in your house?’ +inquired he. + +“‘Nobody but ourselves,’ replied Caderousse; ‘the fact is, we do not +lodge travellers—indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody +would think of stopping here.’ + +“‘Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you.’ + +“‘Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear sir,’ said La Carconte in her +most gracious manner. ‘Not at all, I assure you.’ + +“‘But where will you manage to stow me?’ + +“‘In the chamber overhead.’ + +“‘Surely that is where you yourselves sleep?’ + +“‘Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room.’ + +“Caderousse stared at his wife with much astonishment. + +“The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a song as he stood warming his +back at the fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the wet garments of her +guest; and this done, she next occupied herself in arranging his +supper, by spreading a napkin at the end of the table, and placing on +it the slender remains of their dinner, to which she added three or +four fresh-laid eggs. Caderousse had once more parted with his +treasure—the banknotes were replaced in the pocket-book, the gold put +back into the bag, and the whole carefully locked in the cupboard. He +then began pacing the room with a pensive and gloomy air, glancing from +time to time at the jeweller, who stood reeking with the steam from his +wet clothes, and merely changing his place on the warm hearth, to +enable the whole of his garments to be dried. + +“‘There,’ said La Carconte, as she placed a bottle of wine on the +table, ‘supper is ready whenever you are.’ + +“‘And you?’ asked Joannes. + +“‘I don’t want any supper,’ said Caderousse. + +“‘We dined so very late,’ hastily interposed La Carconte. + +“‘Then it seems I am to eat alone,’ remarked the jeweller. + +“‘Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you,’ answered La +Carconte, with an eager attention she was not accustomed to manifest +even to guests who paid for what they took. + +“From time to time Caderousse darted on his wife keen, searching +glances, but rapid as the lightning flash. The storm still continued. + +“‘There, there,’ said La Carconte; ‘do you hear that? upon my word, you +did well to come back.’ + +“‘Nevertheless,’ replied the jeweller, ‘if by the time I have finished +my supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start.’ + +“‘It’s the mistral,’ said Caderousse, ‘and it will be sure to last till +tomorrow morning.’ He sighed heavily. + +“‘Well,’ said the jeweller, as he placed himself at table, ‘all I can +say is, so much the worse for those who are abroad.’ + +“‘Yes,’ chimed in La Carconte, ‘they will have a wretched night of it.’ + +“The jeweller began eating his supper, and the woman, who was +ordinarily so querulous and indifferent to all who approached her, was +suddenly transformed into the most smiling and attentive hostess. Had +the unhappy man on whom she lavished her assiduities been previously +acquainted with her, so sudden an alteration might well have excited +suspicion in his mind, or at least have greatly astonished him. +Caderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence, +sedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger +had completed his repast, the agitated innkeeper went eagerly to the +door and opened it. + +“‘I believe the storm is over,’ said he. + +“But as if to contradict his statement, at that instant a violent clap +of thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation, while a +sudden gust of wind, mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp he held +in his hand. + +“Trembling and awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the door and +returned to his guest, while La Carconte lighted a candle by the +smouldering ashes that glimmered on the hearth. + +“‘You must be tired,’ said she to the jeweller; ‘I have spread a pair +of white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well.’ + +“Joannes stayed for a while to see whether the storm seemed to abate in +its fury, but a brief space of time sufficed to assure him that, +instead of diminishing, the violence of the rain and thunder +momentarily increased; resigning himself, therefore, to what seemed +inevitable, he bade his host good-night, and mounted the stairs. He +passed over my head and I heard the flooring creak beneath his +footsteps. The quick, eager glance of La Carconte followed him as he +ascended, while Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his back, and +seemed most anxiously to avoid even glancing at him. + +“All these circumstances did not strike me as painfully at the time as +they have since done; in fact, all that had happened (with the +exception of the story of the diamond, which certainly did wear an air +of improbability), appeared natural enough, and called for neither +apprehension nor mistrust; but, worn out as I was with fatigue, and +fully purposing to proceed onwards directly the tempest abated, I +determined to obtain a few hours’ sleep. Overhead I could accurately +distinguish every movement of the jeweller, who, after making the best +arrangements in his power for passing a comfortable night, threw +himself on his bed, and I could hear it creak and groan beneath his +weight. + +“Insensibly my eyelids grew heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and having +no suspicion of anything wrong, I sought not to shake it off. I looked +into the kitchen once more and saw Caderousse sitting by the side of a +long table upon one of the low wooden stools which in country places +are frequently used instead of chairs; his back was turned towards me, +so that I could not see the expression of his countenance—neither +should I have been able to do so had he been placed differently, as his +head was buried between his two hands. La Carconte continued to gaze on +him for some time, then shrugging her shoulders, she took her seat +immediately opposite to him. + +“At this moment the expiring embers threw up a fresh flame from the +kindling of a piece of wood that lay near, and a bright light flashed +over the room. La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband, +but as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard, +bony hand, and touched him on the forehead. + +20317m + + + +“Caderousse shuddered. The woman’s lips seemed to move, as though she +were talking; but because she merely spoke in an undertone, or my +senses were dulled by sleep, I did not catch a word she uttered. +Confused sights and sounds seemed to float before me, and gradually I +fell into a deep, heavy slumber. How long I had been in this +unconscious state I know not, when I was suddenly aroused by the report +of a pistol, followed by a fearful cry. Weak and tottering footsteps +resounded across the chamber above me, and the next instant a dull, +heavy weight seemed to fall powerless on the staircase. I had not yet +fully recovered consciousness, when again I heard groans, mingled with +half-stifled cries, as if from persons engaged in a deadly struggle. A +cry more prolonged than the others and ending in a series of groans +effectually roused me from my drowsy lethargy. Hastily raising myself +on one arm, I looked around, but all was dark; and it seemed to me as +if the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room +above, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon +my forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it +was wet and clammy. + +“To the fearful noises that had awakened me had succeeded the most +perfect silence—unbroken, save by the footsteps of a man walking about +in the chamber above. The staircase creaked, he descended into the room +below, approached the fire and lit a candle. + +“The man was Caderousse—he was pale and his shirt was all bloody. +Having obtained the light, he hurried upstairs again, and once more I +heard his rapid and uneasy footsteps. + +“A moment later he came down again, holding in his hand the small +shagreen case, which he opened, to assure himself it contained the +diamond,—seemed to hesitate as to which pocket he should put it in, +then, as if dissatisfied with the security of either pocket, he +deposited it in his red handkerchief, which he carefully rolled round +his head. + +“After this he took from his cupboard the bank-notes and gold he had +put there, thrust the one into the pocket of his trousers, and the +other into that of his waistcoat, hastily tied up a small bundle of +linen, and rushing towards the door, disappeared in the darkness of the +night. + +“Then all became clear and manifest to me, and I reproached myself with +what had happened, as though I myself had done the guilty deed. I +fancied that I still heard faint moans, and imagining that the +unfortunate jeweller might not be quite dead, I determined to go to his +relief, by way of atoning in some slight degree, not for the crime I +had committed, but for that which I had not endeavored to prevent. For +this purpose I applied all the strength I possessed to force an +entrance from the cramped spot in which I lay to the adjoining room. +The poorly fastened boards which alone divided me from it yielded to my +efforts, and I found myself in the house. Hastily snatching up the +lighted candle, I hurried to the staircase; about midway a body was +lying quite across the stairs. It was that of La Carconte. The pistol I +had heard had doubtless been fired at her. The shot had frightfully +lacerated her throat, leaving two gaping wounds from which, as well as +the mouth, the blood was pouring in floods. She was stone dead. I +strode past her, and ascended to the sleeping chamber, which presented +an appearance of the wildest disorder. The furniture had been knocked +over in the deadly struggle that had taken place there, and the sheets, +to which the unfortunate jeweller had doubtless clung, were dragged +across the room. The murdered man lay on the floor, his head leaning +against the wall, and about him was a pool of blood which poured forth +from three large wounds in his breast; there was a fourth gash, in +which a long table knife was plunged up to the handle. + +“I stumbled over some object; I stooped to examine—it was the second +pistol, which had not gone off, probably from the powder being wet. I +approached the jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at the sound of my +footsteps and the creaking of the floor, he opened his eyes, fixed them +on me with an anxious and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as though +trying to speak, then, overcome by the effort, fell back and expired. + +“This appalling sight almost bereft me of my senses, and finding that I +could no longer be of service to anyone in the house, my only desire +was to fly. I rushed towards the staircase, clutching my hair, and +uttering a groan of horror. + +“Upon reaching the room below, I found five or six custom-house +officers, and two or three gendarmes—all heavily armed. They threw +themselves upon me. I made no resistance; I was no longer master of my +senses. When I strove to speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone escaped +my lips. + +“As I noticed the significant manner in which the whole party pointed +to my blood-stained garments, I involuntarily surveyed myself, and then +I discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay +beneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte. I +pointed to the spot where I had concealed myself. + +“‘What does he mean?’ asked a gendarme. + +“One of the officers went to the place I directed. + +“‘He means,’ replied the man upon his return, ‘that he got in that +way;’ and he showed the hole I had made when I broke through. + +“Then I saw that they took me for the assassin. I recovered force and +energy enough to free myself from the hands of those who held me, while +I managed to stammer forth: + +“‘I did not do it! Indeed, indeed I did not!’ + +“A couple of gendarmes held the muzzles of their carbines against my +breast. + +“‘Stir but a step,’ said they, ‘and you are a dead man.’ + +“‘Why should you threaten me with death,’ cried I, ‘when I have already +declared my innocence?’ + +“‘Tush, tush,’ cried the men; ‘keep your innocent stories to tell to +the judge at Nîmes. Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice +we can give you is to do so unresistingly.’ + +“Alas, resistance was far from my thoughts. I was utterly overpowered +by surprise and terror; and without a word I suffered myself to be +handcuffed and tied to a horse’s tail, and thus they took me to Nîmes. + +“I had been tracked by a customs-officer, who had lost sight of me near +the tavern; feeling certain that I intended to pass the night there, he +had returned to summon his comrades, who just arrived in time to hear +the report of the pistol, and to take me in the midst of such +circumstantial proofs of my guilt as rendered all hopes of proving my +innocence utterly futile. One only chance was left me, that of +beseeching the magistrate before whom I was taken to cause every +inquiry to be made for the Abbé Busoni, who had stopped at the inn of +the Pont du Gard on that morning. + +“If Caderousse had invented the story relative to the diamond, and +there existed no such person as the Abbé Busoni, then, indeed, I was +lost past redemption, or, at least, my life hung upon the feeble chance +of Caderousse himself being apprehended and confessing the whole truth. + +“Two months passed away in hopeless expectation on my part, while I +must do the magistrate the justice to say that he used every means to +obtain information of the person I declared could exculpate me if he +would. Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and I had resigned myself +to what seemed my inevitable fate. My trial was to come on at the +approaching assizes; when, on the 8th of September—that is to say, +precisely three months and five days after the events which had +perilled my life—the Abbé Busoni, whom I never ventured to believe I +should see, presented himself at the prison doors, saying he understood +one of the prisoners wished to speak to him; he added, that having +learned at Marseilles the particulars of my imprisonment, he hastened +to comply with my desire. + +“You may easily imagine with what eagerness I welcomed him, and how +minutely I related the whole of what I had seen and heard. I felt some +degree of nervousness as I entered upon the history of the diamond, +but, to my inexpressible astonishment, he confirmed it in every +particular, and to my equal surprise, he seemed to place entire belief +in all I said. + +“And then it was that, won by his mild charity, seeing that he was +acquainted with all the habits and customs of my own country, and +considering also that pardon for the only crime of which I was really +guilty might come with a double power from lips so benevolent and kind, +I besought him to receive my confession, under the seal of which I +recounted the Auteuil affair in all its details, as well as every other +transaction of my life. That which I had done by the impulse of my best +feelings produced the same effect as though it had been the result of +calculation. My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil +proved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused. +When he quitted me, he bade me be of good courage, and to rely upon his +doing all in his power to convince my judges of my innocence. + +“I had speedy proofs that the excellent abbé was engaged in my behalf, +for the rigors of my imprisonment were alleviated by many trifling +though acceptable indulgences, and I was told that my trial was to be +postponed to the assizes following those now being held. + +“In the interim it pleased Providence to cause the apprehension of +Caderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought +back to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the +fact of his wife’s having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse +for his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for +life, and I was immediately set at liberty.” + +“And then it was, I presume,” said Monte Cristo “that you came to me as +the bearer of a letter from the Abbé Busoni?” + +“It was, your excellency; the benevolent abbé took an evident interest +in all that concerned me. + +“‘Your mode of life as a smuggler,’ said he to me one day, ‘will be the +ruin of you; if you get out, don’t take it up again.’ + +“‘But how,’ inquired I, ‘am I to maintain myself and my poor sister?’ + +“‘A person, whose confessor I am,’ replied he, ‘and who entertains a +high regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a +confidential servant. Would you like such a post? If so, I will give +you a letter of introduction to him.’ + +“‘Oh, father,’ I exclaimed, ‘you are very good.’ + +“‘But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent +my recommendation.’ + +“I extended my hand, and was about to pledge myself by any promise he +would dictate, but he stopped me. + +“‘It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,’ said he; ‘I +know and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you. Here, take +this,’ continued he, after rapidly writing the few lines I brought to +your excellency, and upon receipt of which you deigned to receive me +into your service, and proudly I ask whether your excellency has ever +had cause to repent having done so?” + +“No,” replied the count; “I take pleasure in saying that you have +served me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more +confidence in me.” + +“I, your excellency?” + +“Yes; you. How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son, +you have never spoken to me of either?” + +20323m + + + +“Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life. +Anxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister, +I lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano +I found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible +that the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day. Acting by my +advice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable +demands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as +long as he believed there was a sou left in her possession. One morning +he threatened her with the severest consequences if she did not supply +him with what he desired, and disappeared and remained away all day, +leaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own +child, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence. Evening came, +and still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for +his return. + +“As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air, +attended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon +companions. She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of +her, and one of the three—none other than the accursed Benedetto +exclaimed: + +“‘Put her to torture and she’ll soon tell us where her money is.’ + +“It unfortunately happened that our neighbor, Wasilio, was at Bastia, +leaving no person in his house but his wife; no human creature beside +could hear or see anything that took place within our dwelling. Two +held poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended +to her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her +executioners. The third proceeded to barricade the doors and windows, +then returned, and the three united in stifling the cries of terror +incited by the sight of these preparations, and then dragged Assunta +feet foremost towards the brazier, expecting to wring from her an +avowal of where her supposed treasure was secreted. In the struggle her +clothes caught fire, and they were obliged to let go their hold in +order to preserve themselves from sharing the same fate. Covered with +flames, Assunta rushed wildly to the door, but it was fastened; she +flew to the windows, but they were also secured; then the neighbors +heard frightful shrieks; it was Assunta calling for help. The cries +died away in groans, and next morning, as soon as Wasilio’s wife could +muster up courage to venture abroad, she caused the door of our +dwelling to be opened by the public authorities, when Assunta, although +dreadfully burnt, was found still breathing; every drawer and closet in +the house had been forced open, and the money stolen. Benedetto never +again appeared at Rogliano, neither have I since that day either seen +or heard anything concerning him. + +“It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your +excellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned +Benedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my +sister, since she was dead.” + +“And in what light did you view the occurrence?” inquired Monte Cristo. + +“As a punishment for the crime I had committed,” answered Bertuccio. +“Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race!” + +“Truly they are,” murmured the count in a lugubrious tone. + +“And now,” resumed Bertuccio, “your excellency may, perhaps, be able to +comprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time—this +garden, the actual scene of my crime—must have given rise to +reflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and +depression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who +was pleased to express a desire to know the cause. At this instant a +shudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on +the very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground +was dug to receive the corpse of his child.” + +“Everything is possible,” said Monte Cristo, rising from the bench on +which he had been sitting; “even,” he added in an inaudible voice, +“even that the procureur be not dead. The Abbé Busoni did right to send +you to me,” he went on in his ordinary tone, “and you have done well in +relating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming +any erroneous opinions concerning you in future. As for that Benedetto, +who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace +out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?” + +“No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should +shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God, +I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and +believe he is dead.” + +“Do not think so, Bertuccio,” replied the count; “for the wicked are +not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special +watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance.” + +“So be it,” responded Bertuccio, “all I ask of heaven is that I may +never see him again. And now, your excellency,” he added, bowing his +head, “you know everything—you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty +is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?” + +“My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the +Abbé Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you, +and, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the +instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly +punished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but +one point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore, +after rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it +to its mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio—that was where you became +really culpable.” + +“True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I +acted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in +recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in +order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which +would, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung +to life, partly on my sister’s account, and partly from that feeling of +pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and +victorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural +and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own. +And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor +brother.” + +Bertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words, while +Monte Cristo fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning. After a brief +silence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the count +said, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner: + +“In order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (the last +we shall ever hold upon this subject), I will repeat to you some words +I have heard from the lips of the Abbé Busoni. For all evils there are +two remedies—time and silence. And now leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to +walk alone here in the garden. The very circumstances which inflict on +you, as a principal in the tragic scene enacted here, such painful +emotions, are to me, on the contrary, a source of something like +contentment, and serve but to enhance the value of this dwelling in my +estimation. The chief beauty of trees consists in the deep shadow of +their umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures a moving multitude of +shapes and forms flitting and passing beneath that shade. Here I have a +garden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope for the +imagination, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose +leafy screen a visionary like myself may conjure up phantoms at will. +This to me, who expected but to find a blank enclosure surrounded by a +straight wall, is, I assure you, a most agreeable surprise. I have no +fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had +been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the +living in a single day. Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your +mind. Should your confessor be less indulgent to you in your dying +moments than you found the Abbé Busoni, send for me, if I am still on +earth, and I will soothe your ears with words that shall effectually +calm and soothe your parting soul ere it goes forth to traverse the +ocean called eternity.” + +Bertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned away, sighing heavily. Monte +Cristo, left alone, took three or four steps onwards, and murmured: + +“Here, beneath this plane-tree, must have been where the infant’s grave +was dug. There is the little door opening into the garden. At this +corner is the private staircase communicating with the sleeping +apartment. There will be no necessity for me to make a note of these +particulars, for there, before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around me, +I have the plan sketched with all the living reality of truth.” + +After making the tour of the garden a second time, the count re-entered +his carriage, while Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful expression +of his master’s features, took his seat beside the driver without +uttering a word. The carriage proceeded rapidly towards Paris. + +That same evening, upon reaching his abode in the Champs-Élysées, the +Count of Monte Cristo went over the whole building with the air of one +long acquainted with each nook or corner. Nor, although preceding the +party, did he once mistake one door for another, or commit the smallest +error when choosing any particular corridor or staircase to conduct him +to a place or suite of rooms he desired to visit. Ali was his principal +attendant during this nocturnal survey. Having given various orders to +Bertuccio relative to the improvements and alterations he desired to +make in the house, the Count, drawing out his watch, said to the +attentive Nubian: + +“It is half-past eleven o’clock; Haydée will soon be here. Have the +French attendants been summoned to await her coming?” + +Ali extended his hands towards the apartments destined for the fair +Greek, which were so effectually concealed by means of a tapestried +entrance, that it would have puzzled the most curious to have divined +their existence. Ali, having pointed to the apartments, held up three +fingers of his right hand, and then, placing it beneath his head, shut +his eyes, and feigned to sleep. + +“I understand,” said Monte Cristo, well acquainted with Ali’s +pantomime; “you mean to tell me that three female attendants await +their new mistress in her sleeping-chamber.” + +Ali, with considerable animation, made a sign in the affirmative. + +“Madame will be tired tonight,” continued Monte Cristo, “and will, no +doubt, wish to rest. Desire the French attendants not to weary her with +questions, but merely to pay their respectful duty and retire. You will +also see that the Greek servants hold no communication with those of +this country.” + +He bowed. Just at that moment voices were heard hailing the concierge. +The gate opened, a carriage rolled down the avenue, and stopped at the +steps. The count hastily descended, presented himself at the already +opened carriage door, and held out his hand to a young woman, +completely enveloped in a green silk mantle heavily embroidered with +gold. She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed +it with a mixture of love and respect. Some few words passed between +them in that sonorous language in which Homer makes his gods converse. +The young woman spoke with an expression of deep tenderness, while the +count replied with an air of gentle gravity. + +Preceded by Ali, who carried a rose-colored flambeau in his hand, the +young lady, who was no other than the lovely Greek who had been Monte +Cristo’s companion in Italy, was conducted to her apartments, while the +count retired to the pavilion reserved for himself. In another hour +every light in the house was extinguished, and it might have been +thought that all its inmates slept. + + + + Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit + +About two o’clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of +magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a +person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a +white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown +trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his +eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so +little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles +stamped on his features—a person, in a word, who, although evidently +past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards +from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the +armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the +porter’s lodge whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if +he were within. + +While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the +garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants +who passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat +impertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than +intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed, +they were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and +projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the +flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull, +which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears, +combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the +eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage +must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when +they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the +red ribbon that depended from his button-hole. + +The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the +porter’s lodge, saying: + +“Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here?” + +“His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but——” added +he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the +negative. + +“But what?” asked the groom. + +“His excellency does not receive visitors today.” + +“Then here is my master’s card, the Baron Danglars. You will take it to +the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my +master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.” + +“I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de +chambre will carry your message.” + +The groom returned to the carriage. + +��Well?” asked Danglars. + +The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated +what the concierge had said. + +“Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince +instead of a count by their styling him ‘excellency,’ and only +venturing to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre. +However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I +must see him when he requires his money.” + +Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his +coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the +Chamber of Deputies.” + +Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind +the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of +an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house, +garden, and servants. + +“That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the count in a tone +of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it +that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, +serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked +nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same +time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the +count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment. + +“Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he. + +“I did,” replied the count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing +a few minutes since at the door?” + +“Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable +beauty.” + +“Then how comes it,” said Monte Cristo with a frown, “that, when I +desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in +Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my +stables?” + +At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count +spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head. + +“It is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the count in the Arabic +language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of +showing, either in voice or face—“it is not your fault. You do not +understand the points of English horses.” + +The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity. + +“Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses +you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.” + +Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, sir steward,” said he, +“that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as +care to pay the price.” + +“His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000 +francs for his horses?” + +“Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an +opportunity of doubling his capital.” + +“Is your excellency really in earnest?” inquired the steward. + +Monte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words +with the look of one equally surprised and displeased. + +“I have to pay a visit this evening,” replied he. “I desire that these +horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my +carriage.” + +Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door, +he paused, and then said, “At what o’clock does your excellency wish +the carriage and horses to be ready?” + +“At five o’clock,” replied the count. + +“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” interposed the steward in a +deprecating manner, “for venturing to observe that it is already two +o’clock.” + +“I am perfectly aware of that fact,” answered Monte Cristo calmly. +Then, turning towards Ali, he said, “Let all the horses in my stables +be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those +she prefers for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying +whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served +in her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to +come hither.” + +Scarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber. + +“Monsieur Baptistin,” said the count, “you have been in my service one +year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or +demerits of those about me. You suit me very well.” + +Baptistin bowed low. + +“It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?” + +“Oh, your excellency!” exclaimed Baptistin eagerly. + +“Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,” replied Monte +Cristo. “You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here—more +than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his +country, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who +work ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though +yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care +of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you. +Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet, +amounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages.” + +“Nay, indeed, your excellency.” + +“I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your +profits end here. It would be long indeed ere you would find so +lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I +neither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I +readily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My +commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather +be obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they +should be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to +know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I +should learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to anyone +favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my +conduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now +retire. I never caution my servants a second time—remember that.” + +Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door. + +“I forgot to mention to you,” said the count, “that I lay yearly aside +a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am +compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in +this money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those +domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my +death. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun +to accumulate—let it continue to do so.” + +This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding +one word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved, +produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have +occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics. + +“I assure your excellency,” said he, “that at least it shall be my +study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali +as my model.” + +“By no means,” replied the count in the most frigid tones; “Ali has +many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly +serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid +servant, but a mere slave—a dog, who, should he fail in his duty +towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.” + +Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment. + +“You seem incredulous,” said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the +Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French. + +The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master’s words, then, kneeling on +one knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count. This corroboration +of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the +wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The count then motioned the +valet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where +they conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of the clock +pointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was +wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three +Bertuccio. The steward entered. + +“My horses,” said Monte Cristo. + +“They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency +desired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?” + +“No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go.” + +The count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage +drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning +as the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said: + +“They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to +purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured +them sooner.” + +“Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in +obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price.” + +“Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful,” +inquired the count, shrugging his shoulders. + +“Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish. +Whither does your excellency desire to be driven?” + +“To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.” + +This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which +a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a +respectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back. + +“I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio,” said he; “I am +desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy—for instance, +between Le Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will +be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small +harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at +anchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant +readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make +the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you +have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the +advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette +must now, I think, be on her way to Fécamp, must she not?” + +20333m + + + +“Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we +quitted Marseilles.” + +“And the yacht.” + +“Was ordered to remain at Martigues.” + +“’Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in +charge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert.” + +“And the steamboat?” + +“She is at Châlons?” + +“Yes.” + +“The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels.” + +“Very good.” + +“When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of +horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road.” + +“Your excellency may depend upon me.” + +The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps, +and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the +banker’s house. + +Danglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad +committee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his +visitor was announced. As the count’s title sounded on his ear he rose, +and addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other +Chamber, he said: + +“Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most +ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this,—Thomson & French, +the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the +Count of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me. +I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course +of my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it +has greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to +call on the pretended count—if he were a real count he wouldn’t be so +rich. But, would you believe it, ‘He was not receiving.’ So the master +of Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a +capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the +Champs-Élysées is his own property, and certainly it was very decently +kept up. But,” pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles, “an +order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part +of the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see +this man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it +little knew whom they had to deal with. ‘They laugh best who laugh +last!’” + +Having delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree +of energy that left the baron almost out of breath, he bowed to the +assembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous +furnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the +Chaussée d’Antin. It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to +be shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much +luxury. He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and +Fattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which, +mere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being +brought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the +ceiling. + +The count turned round as he heard the entrance of Danglars into the +room. With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the +count to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded armchair, +covered with white satin embroidered with gold. The count sat down. + +20335m + + + +“I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de Monte Cristo.” + +The count bowed. + +“And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor, +and member of the Chamber of Deputies?” + +Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the baron’s card. + +Danglars felt the irony and compressed his lips. + +“You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your +title when I first addressed you,” he said, “but you are aware that we +are living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a +representative of the liberties of the people.” + +“So much so,” replied Monte Cristo, “that while you call yourself baron +you are not willing to call anybody else count.” + +“Upon my word, monsieur,” said Danglars with affected carelessness, “I +attach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I +was made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return +for services rendered, but——” + +“But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by +Messrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a noble example to +follow, monsieur.” + +“Why,” replied Danglars, “not entirely so; with the servants,—you +understand.” + +“I see; to your domestics you are ‘my lord,’ the journalists style you +‘monsieur,’ while your constituents call you ‘citizen.’ These are +distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government. I +understand perfectly.” + +Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte +Cristo in an argument of this sort, and he therefore hastened to turn +to subjects more congenial. + +“Permit me to inform you, Count,” said he, bowing, “that I have +received a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome.” + +“I am glad to hear it, baron,—for I must claim the privilege of +addressing you after the manner of your servants. I have acquired the +bad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country +where barons are still barons by right of birth. But as regards the +letter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached you; that +will spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you +for money myself. You have received a regular letter of advice?” + +“Yes,” said Danglars, “but I confess I didn’t quite comprehend its +meaning.” + +“Indeed?” + +“And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in +order to beg for an explanation.” + +“Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you +desire.” + +“Why,” said Danglars, “in the letter—I believe I have it about me”—here +he felt in his breast-pocket—“yes, here it is. Well, this letter gives +the Count of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our house.” + +“Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that?” + +“Merely the term _unlimited_—nothing else, certainly.” + +“Is not that word known in France? The people who wrote are +Anglo-Germans, you know.” + +“Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said; +but as regards the competency of the document, I certainly have +doubts.” + +“Is it possible?” asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the +utmost simplicity and candor. “Is it possible that Thomson & French are +not looked upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray tell me what you +think, baron, for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some +considerable property in their hands.” + +“Thomson & French are perfectly solvent,” replied Danglars, with an +almost mocking smile; “but the word _unlimited_, in financial affairs, +is so extremely vague.” + +“Is, in fact, unlimited,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Precisely what I was about to say,” cried Danglars. “Now what is vague +is doubtful; and it was a wise man who said, ‘when in doubt, keep +out.’” + +“Meaning to say,” rejoined Monte Cristo, “that however Thomson & French +may be inclined to commit acts of imprudence and folly, the Baron +Danglars is not disposed to follow their example.” + +“Not at all.” + +“Plainly enough; Messrs. Thomson & French set no bounds to their +engagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise +man, according to his own showing.” + +“Monsieur,” replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air, +“the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned.” + +“It seems, then, reserved for me,” said Monte Cristo coldly, “to be the +first to do so.” + +“By what right, sir?” + +“By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you +have demanded, which certainly must have some motive.” + +Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been +worsted, and this time on his own ground. His forced politeness sat +awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. Monte Cristo +on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a +certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus +possessed the advantage. + +“Well, sir,” resumed Danglars, after a brief silence, “I will endeavor +to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum +you propose to draw upon me?” + +“Why, truly,” replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of +the ground he had gained, “my reason for desiring an ‘unlimited’ credit +was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need.” + +The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So +throwing himself back in his armchair, he said, with an arrogant and +purse-proud air: + +“Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then +be convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however +limited, are still equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you +even to require a million——” + +“I beg your pardon,” interposed Monte Cristo. + +“I said a million,” replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance. + +“But could I do with a million?” retorted the count. “My dear sir, if a +trifle like that could suffice me, I should never have given myself the +trouble of opening an account. A million? Excuse my smiling when you +speak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or +dressing-case.” + +And with these words Monte Cristo took from his pocket a small case +containing his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the +treasury for 500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer. A man +like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of +correction. The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he +trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils of his eyes, as +he gazed at Monte Cristo dilated horribly. + +“Come, come,” said Monte Cristo, “confess honestly that you have not +perfect confidence in Thomson & French. I understand, and foreseeing +that such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of +affairs, certain precautions. See, here are two similar letters to that +you have yourself received; one from the house of Arstein & Eskeles of +Vienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon +M. Lafitte. Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare +you all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of +these two firms.” + +The blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a +trembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them +carelessly between finger and thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the +signatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as +insulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker. + +“Oh, sir,” said Danglars, after he had convinced himself of the +authenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the +power of gold personified in the man before him,—“three letters of +unlimited credit! I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon +me, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment.” + +“Nay,” answered Monte Cristo, with the most gentlemanly air, “’tis not +for such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be +incommoded. Then, you can let me have some money, can you not?” + +“Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders.” + +“Why,” replied Monte Cristo, “since we mutually understand each +other—for such I presume is the case?” Danglars bowed assentingly. “You +are quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your +mind?” + +“Oh, my dear count,” exclaimed Danglars, “I never for an instant +entertained such a feeling towards you.” + +“No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we +have come to so clear an understanding, and that all distrust and +suspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable +expenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to——” + +“Six millions!” gasped Danglars—“so be it.” + +“Then, if I should require more,” continued Monte Cristo in a careless +manner, “why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present +intention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that +period I scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned. However, we +shall see. Be kind enough, then, to send me 500,000 francs tomorrow. I +shall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my +steward.” + +“The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o’clock tomorrow +morning, my dear count,” replied Danglars. “How would you like to have +it? in gold, silver, or notes?” + +“Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please,” said +the count, rising from his seat. + +“I must confess to you, count,” said Danglars, “that I have hitherto +imagined myself acquainted with the degree of all the great fortunes of +Europe, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me. +May I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it?” + +“It has been in the family a very long while,” returned Monte Cristo, +“a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to be touched for a certain +period of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the +capital. The period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these +riches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed +by me within the last few years. Your ignorance on the subject, +therefore, is easily accounted for. However, you will be better +informed as to me and my possessions ere long.” + +And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them +with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor +Franz d’Épinay. + +“With your tastes, and means of gratifying them,” continued Danglars, +“you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor +miserable millionaires quite in the shade. If I mistake not you are an +admirer of paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you +appeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the room. If you will +permit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed +entirely of works by the ancient masters—warranted as such. Not a +modern picture among them. I cannot endure the modern school of +painting.” + +“You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great +fault—that they have not yet had time to become old.” + +“Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen, +Bartoloni, and Canova?—all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I +think but very indifferently of our French sculptors.” + +“You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your +compatriots.” + +“But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each +other. For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable +to you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars—excuse my +impatience, my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a +member of the family.” + +Monte Cristo bowed, in sign that he accepted the proffered honor; +Danglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery. + +“Is the baroness at home?” inquired Danglars. + +“Yes, my lord,” answered the man. + +“And alone?” + +“No, my lord, madame has visitors.” + +“Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or +do you desire to preserve a strict _incognito_?” + +“No, indeed,” replied Monte Cristo with a smile, “I do not arrogate to +myself the right of so doing.” + +“And who is with madame?—M. Debray?” inquired Danglars, with an air of +indulgence and good-nature that made Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as +he was with the secrets of the banker’s domestic life. + +“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant, “M. Debray is with madame.” + +Danglars nodded his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo, said, “M. +Lucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the +Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered +herself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the most ancient +families in France. Her maiden name was De Servières, and her first +husband was Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne.” + +“I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already +met M. Lucien Debray.” + +“Ah, indeed?” said Danglars; “and where was that?” + +“At the house of M. de Morcerf.” + +“Ah! you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you?” + +“We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome.” + +“True, true,” cried Danglars. “Let me see; have I not heard talk of +some strange adventure with bandits or thieves hid in ruins, and of his +having had a miraculous escape? I forget how, but I know he used to +amuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return +from Italy.” + +“Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen,” said the servant, +who had gone to inquire the pleasure of his mistress. + +“With your permission,” said Danglars, bowing, “I will precede you, to +show you the way.” + +“By all means,” replied Monte Cristo; “I follow you.” + + + + Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays + +The baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of +apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy +magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached +the boudoir of Madame Danglars—a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with +pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin. The chairs were of +ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches +of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher; +and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with +the furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the +great mansion in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was, +it had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged and followed out +by M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the +baron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most +fashionable and celebrated decorator of the day. The decorations of the +boudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien +Debray. M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for +the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory, +entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his +wife’s favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted +to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering +in some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had +rather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than +that of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or +frigid, in proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to +please or displease the baroness. + +Madame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still +strikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate +piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before +a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album. + +Lucien had found time, preparatory to the count’s arrival, to relate +many particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars. It will be +remembered that Monte Cristo had made a lively impression on the minds +of all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert de Morcerf; +and although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings, +he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in +his mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently +the description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored +tinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful +stories related of the count by de Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame +Danglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional +circumstances detailed by Debray. This posing at the piano and over the +album was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most +gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the +count, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though +graceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of +distant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod. + +“Baroness,” said Danglars, “give me leave to present to you the Count +of Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my +correspondents at Rome. I need but mention one fact to make all the +ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take +up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes +to spend six millions of money. That means balls, dinners, and lawn +parties without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember +us, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble +entertainments.” + +In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame +Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man +capable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had +selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance. + +“And when did you arrive here?” inquired she. + +“Yesterday morning, madame.” + +“Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon +me—at least, such I have heard is your custom.” + +“Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz.” + +“You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit. +Paris is a horrible place in summer. Balls, parties, and _fêtes_ are +over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere +except in Paris. As for the Théatre Français, you know, of course, that +it is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at +the Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at +either of these races, count?” + +“I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good +fortune to find someone who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas +of amusement.” + +“Are you fond of horses, count?” + +“I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and +you are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things—the +fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women.” + +“Nay, count,” said the baroness, “it would have been somewhat more +gallant to have placed the ladies first.” + +“You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a +preceptor to guide me in all my sayings and doings here.” + +At this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the +boudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an +undertone. Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed: + +“I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible.” + +“I assure you, madame,” replied the woman, “it is as I have said.” + +Turning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded, “Is +this true?” + +“Is what true, madame?” inquired Danglars, visibly agitated. + +“What my maid tells me.” + +“But what does she tell you?” + +“That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage, +he discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his +knowledge. I desire to know what is the meaning of this?” + +“Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me,” said Danglars. + +“Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what +explanation you will give. These two gentlemen shall decide between us; +but, first, I will state the case to them. Gentlemen,” continued the +baroness, “among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are +two that belong exclusively to me—a pair of the handsomest and most +spirited creatures to be found in Paris. But to you, at least, M. +Debray, I need not give a further description, because to you my +beautiful pair of dappled grays were well known. Well, I had promised +Madame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive tomorrow to the +Bois; but when my coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables +they are gone—positively gone. No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them +to the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry +francs. Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary +speculators!” + +“Madame,” replied Danglars, “the horses were not sufficiently quiet for +you; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely +uneasy on your account.” + +“Nonsense,” retorted the baroness; “you could not have entertained any +alarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have +had for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris. But, +perhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses?” + +“My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you +another pair exactly like them in appearance, only more quiet and +steady.” + +The baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable contempt, +while her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture, +turned towards Monte Cristo and said,—“Upon my word, count, I am quite +sorry not to have met you sooner. You are setting up an establishment, +of course?” + +“Why, yes,” replied the count. + +“I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses. I have +almost given them away, as it is; but, as I before said, I was anxious +to get rid of them upon any terms. They were only fit for a young man.” + +“I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me,” said Monte +Cristo; “but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of +carriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear. There they are. +Come, M. Debray, you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your +opinion upon them.” + +As Debray walked towards the window, Danglars approached his wife. + +“I could not tell you before others,” said he in a low tone, “the +reason of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was +offered me this morning for them. Some madman or fool, bent upon +ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to +purchase them at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs +by the sale of them. Come, don’t look so angry, and you shall have +4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eugénie shall +have 2,000. There, what do you think now of the affair? Wasn’t I right +to part with the horses?” + +Madame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt. + +“Great heavens?” suddenly exclaimed Debray. + +“What is it?” asked the baroness. + +“I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses! The very animals we were +speaking of, harnessed to the count’s carriage!” + +“My dappled grays?” demanded the baroness, springing to the window. +“’Tis indeed they!” said she. + +Danglars looked absolutely stupefied. + +“How very singular,” cried Monte Cristo with well-feigned astonishment. + +“I cannot believe it,” murmured the banker. Madame Danglars whispered a +few words in the ear of Debray, who approached Monte Cristo, saying, +“The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses.” + +“I scarcely know,” replied the count; “it was a little surprise +prepared for me by my steward, and cost me—well, somewhere about 30,000 +francs.” + +Debray conveyed the count’s reply to the baroness. Poor Danglars looked +so crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte Cristo assumed a pitying air +towards him. + +“See,” said the count, “how very ungrateful women are. Your kind +attention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of +the horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her. But +so it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which +is dangerous to that which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion, my dear +baron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and +allow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows, +why, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves.” + +Danglars made no reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming +scene between himself and the baroness, whose frowning brow, like that +of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm. Debray, who perceived the gathering +clouds, and felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars’ +rage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take +his leave; while Monte Cristo, unwilling by prolonging his stay to +destroy the advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and +departed, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife. + +20347m + + + +“Excellent,” murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came away. “All +has gone according to my wishes. The domestic peace of this family is +henceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by +which I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife—delightful! +Still,” added he, “amid all this, I have not yet been presented to +Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been +glad to make. But,” he went on with his peculiar smile, “I am here in +Paris, and have plenty of time before me—by and by will do for that.” + +With these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home. Two +hours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle +from the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite +“dappled grays,” protesting that he could not endure the idea of making +his entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that +his splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely +woman’s regrets. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she +had seen on them in the morning; only, by the count’s orders, in the +centre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had +been fastened a large diamond. + +To Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote, requesting him to excuse the +whimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to +pardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses. + +During the evening, Monte Cristo quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied +by Ali. The following day, about three o’clock, a single blow struck on +the gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count. + +“Ali,” observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber, “you +have frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are +in throwing the lasso, have you not?” + +Ali drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in the +affirmative. + +“I thought I did not mistake. With your lasso you could stop an ox?” + +Again Ali repeated his affirmative gesture. + +“Or a tiger?” + +Ali bowed his head in token of assent. + +“A lion even?” + +Ali sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso, +then of a strangled lion. + +“I understand,” said Monte Cristo; “you wish to tell me you have hunted +the lion?” + +Ali smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed +both chased and captured many lions. + +“But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing +forwards with ungovernable fury?” + +The Nubian smiled. + +“It is well,” said Monte Cristo. “Then listen to me. Ere long a +carriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses +you saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must +manage to stop those horses before my door.” + +Ali descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement +immediately at the entrance of the house, and then pointed out the line +he had traced to the count, who was watching him. The count patted him +gently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased +and gratified with the commission assigned him, walked calmly towards a +projecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and, +seating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte +Cristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured of the success of his +plan. + +Still, as five o’clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily +expected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience +and uneasiness might be observed in his manner. He stationed himself in +a room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with +restless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the +sound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali; but +the regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his +chibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment +of his favorite occupation. + +Suddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and +almost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild, +ungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to +restrain their furious speed. + +In the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight +clasped in each other’s arms. Terror seemed to have deprived them even +of the power of uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and rattled as it +flew over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels +would have caused disaster; but it kept on in the middle of the road, +and those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror. + +Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket, +threw it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its +triple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by +the violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which +snapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way. +Gladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from +his box; but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse, +and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain, +sunk beside his companion. + +All this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the +recital. The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man, +followed by a number of servants, to rush from the house before which +the accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the +carriage, to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the +cushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom +the young boy, who had lost consciousness. Monte Cristo carried them +both to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa. + +“Compose yourself, madame,” said he; “all danger is over.” The woman +looked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than +any entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still +continued insensible. “I understand the nature of your alarms, madame,” +said the count, carefully examining the child, “but I assure you there +is not the slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has +not received the least injury; his insensibility is merely the effects +of terror, and will soon pass.” + +“Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears? See how +deadly pale he is! My child, my darling Edward; speak to your +mother—open your dear eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir, in pity +send for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much +for the recovery of my boy.” + +With a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, Monte Cristo signed to +the distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a +casket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass +incrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of +which he let fall a single drop on the child’s lips. Scarcely had it +reached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his +eyes, and eagerly gazed around him. At this, the delight of the mother +was almost frantic. + +“Where am I?” exclaimed she; “and to whom am I indebted for so happy a +termination to my late dreadful alarm?” + +“Madame,” answered the count, “you are under the roof of one who +esteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a +further continuance of your sufferings.” + +“My wretched curiosity has brought all this about,” pursued the lady. +“All Paris rung with the praises of Madame Danglars’ beautiful horses, +and I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the +high praise given to them.” + +“Is it possible,” exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment, +“that these horses belong to the baroness?” + +“They do, indeed. May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame +Danglars?” + +20351m + + + +“I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger +that threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been +the unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have +incurred. I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the +baroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them +back to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them +from my hands.” + +“You are, then, doubtless, the Count of Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine +has talked to me so much?” + +“You have rightly guessed, madame,” replied the count. + +“And I am Madame Héloïse de Villefort.” + +The count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first +time. + +“How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how +thankfully will he acknowledge that to you alone he owes the existence +of his wife and child! Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of +your intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have +perished.” + +“Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in.” + +“I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your +man.” + +“I beseech you, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “not to spoil Ali, either +by too great praise or rewards. I cannot allow him to acquire the habit +of expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may +render. Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging +his duty to me.” + +“Nay,” interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style +adopted by the count made a deep impression, “nay, but consider that to +preserve my life he has risked his own.” + +“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my +having myself saved him from death.” + +Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly +absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant +she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her. + +During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo +scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in +her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments. The child was +small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair, +defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting +forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to +eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness +for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth was large, and the lips, which +had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the +deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s +face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so +young. His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from +the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket +from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without +asking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a +spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to +pull the corks out of all the bottles. + +“Touch nothing, my little friend,” cried the count eagerly; “some of +those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale.” + +Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son’s arm, drew +him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also +cast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost +upon the count. At this moment Ali entered. At sight of him Madame de +Villefort uttered an expression of pleasure, and, holding the child +still closer towards her, she said: + +“Edward, dearest, do you see that good man? He has shown very great +courage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses +that were running away with us, and would certainly have dashed the +carriage to pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in your very best +manner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have +been alive to speak our thanks.” + +The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful +manner, saying, “He’s too ugly.” + +20353m + + + +The count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while +Madame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and +moderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having +been committed. + +“This lady,” said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language, +“is desirous that her son should thank you for saving both their lives; +but the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly.” + +Ali turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he +gazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the +nostrils showed to the practiced eye of Monte Cristo that the Arab had +been wounded to the heart. + +“Will you permit me to inquire,” said Madame de Villefort, as she arose +to take her leave, “whether you usually reside here?” + +“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo; “it is a small place I have +purchased quite lately. My place of abode is No. 30, Avenue des +Champs-Élysées; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright, +and are, no doubt, desirous of returning home. Anticipating your +wishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put to one +of my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly,” continued +he, addressing the boy with a smiling air, “will have the honor of +driving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the +necessary repairs of your calash. As soon as that important business is +concluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it +direct to Madame Danglars.” + +“I dare not return with those dreadful horses,” said Madame de +Villefort. + +“You will see,” replied Monte Cristo, “that they will be as different +as possible in the hands of Ali. With him they will be gentle and +docile as lambs.” + +Ali had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals, who +had been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed +their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar, +and wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths. Then, +commencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their +bodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd +collected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified +animals to the count’s chariot, took the reins in his hands, and +mounted the box, when to the utter astonishment of those who had +witnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same +horses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle +manner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that +could be obtained from the celebrated “dappled grays,” now changed into +a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace, +kept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort was more than +two hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. + +20355m + + + +Scarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been +gone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars:— + +“Dear Hermine,—I have just had a wonderful escape from the most +imminent danger, and I owe my safety to the very Count of Monte Cristo +we were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see +today. I remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your +eulogistic and exaggerated praises of him; but I have now ample cause +to admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell +far short of his merits. Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they +darted forward like mad things, and galloped away at so fearful a rate, +that there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but +that of being dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded +their progress, when a strange-looking man,—an Arab, a negro, or a +Nubian, at least a black of some nation or other—at a signal from the +count, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated +animals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and +certainly he must have had a most wonderful escape. The count then +hastened to us, and took us into his house, where he speedily recalled +my poor Edward to life. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will +be returned to you tomorrow. You will find your horses in bad +condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly +stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man. The +count, however, has commissioned me to assure you that two or three +days’ rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during that time, +will bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as +they were in yesterday. + +20356m + + + +Adieu! I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but, +after all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses, +more especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to +the Count of Monte Cristo,—and certainly that illustrious personage, +apart from the millions he is said to be so very anxious to dispose of, +seemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one, +delight in solving at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another +drive to the Bois behind your horses. + +Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage—he did not utter a +single cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear fall from +his eyes after it was over. I doubt not you will consider these praises +the result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in +that delicate, fragile body. Valentine sends many affectionate +remembrances to your dear Eugénie. I embrace you with all my heart. + +Héloïse de Villefort. + +P.S.—Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte +Cristo at your house. I must and will see him again. I have just made +M. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be +returned. + +That night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere. Albert +related it to his mother; Château-Renaud recounted it at the Jockey +Club, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister; +even Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of +the count’s courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating him as the +greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the +aristocracy. + +Vast was the crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their +names at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of +renewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all +the interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure. + +As for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of Héloïse to the +letter,—donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered +the servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and +drove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. + + + +VOLUME THREE + +30009m + + + +30011m + + + + + Chapter 48. Ideology + +If the Count of Monte Cristo had been for a long time familiar with the +ways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the +significance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken. Standing well +at court, whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch, +whether the government was doctrinaire liberal, or conservative; looked +upon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced +a political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly +supported by others, without being really liked by anybody, M. de +Villefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his +eminence like a Harlay or a Molé. His drawing-room, under the +regenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first +marriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris +salons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of +rigid etiquette were carefully maintained. A freezing politeness, a +strict fidelity to government principles, a profound contempt for +theories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality,—these were +the elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort. + +30023m + + + +M. de Villefort was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist. +His relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with +dignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so +many things, that not only was he always carefully considered, but +sometimes consulted. Perhaps this would not have been so had it been +possible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who +rebelled against their sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress. +This fortress was his post as king’s attorney, all the advantages of +which he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have +resigned but to be made deputy, and thus to replace neutrality by +opposition. + +Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits. His wife +visited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where +the weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were +accepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a +manifestation of professed superiority—in fact, the application of the +axiom, _Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think +well of you_, an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays +than that of the Greeks, “Know thyself,” a knowledge for which, in our +days, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous +science of _knowing others_. + +To his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his +enemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent; for those who were +neither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man. He +had a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or +insolently piercing and inquisitorial. Four successive revolutions had +built and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based. + +M. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the +least wearisome man in France. He gave a ball every year, at which he +appeared for a quarter of an hour only,—that is to say, five-and-forty +minutes less than the king is visible at his balls. He was never seen +at the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort. +Occasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken +to select partners worthy of him—sometimes they were ambassadors, +sometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some +dowager duchess. + +Such was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count +of Monte Cristo’s door. The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort +at the moment when the count, leaning over a large table, was tracing +on a map the route from St. Petersburg to China. + +The procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would +have employed in entering a court of justice. He was the same man, or +rather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as +assistant attorney at Marseilles. Nature, according to her way, had +made no deviation in the path he had marked out for himself. From being +slender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his +deep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes +seemed to be an integral portion of his face. He dressed entirely in +black, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance +was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost +imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of +blood traced with a delicate brush. + +Although master of himself, Monte Cristo, scrutinized with +irrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and +who, distrustful by habit, and especially incredulous as to social +prodigies, was much more despised to look upon “the noble stranger,” as +Monte Cristo was already called, as an adventurer in search of new +fields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy +See, or a sultan of the _Thousand and One Nights_. + +“Sir,” said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in +their oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest +themselves in society, “sir, the signal service which you yesterday +rendered to my wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my +thanks. I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express +to you my overwhelming gratitude.” + +And as he said this, the “eye severe” of the magistrate had lost +nothing of its habitual arrogance. He spoke in a voice of the +procureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility of neck and shoulders +which caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he +was the living statue of the law. + +“Monsieur,” replied the count, with a chilling air, “I am very happy to +have been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say +that the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good +fortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to +dispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly +great honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish +of the favor which he now bestows on me,—a favor which, however +estimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have in my own +consciousness.” + +Villefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected, +started like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the +armor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from +that moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of +Monte Cristo was by no means a highly bred gentleman. + +He glanced around, in order to seize on something on which the +conversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic. He saw +the map which Monte Cristo had been examining when he entered, and +said: + +“You seem geographically engaged, sir? It is a rich study for you, who, +as I learn, have seen as many lands as are delineated on this map.” + +“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “I have sought to make of the human +race, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals—a +physiological study. I have believed it was much easier to descend from +the whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole. It is an +algebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from a known to an unknown +quantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg +of you.” + +Monte Cristo pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to +take the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell +back into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort +entered. Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having +his back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical +chart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment,—a +conversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with +Danglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to the persons, if not to the +situation. + +“Ah, you philosophize,” replied Villefort, after a moment’s silence, +during which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he +took breath; “well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to +do, I should seek a more amusing occupation.” + +“Why, in truth, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s reply, “man is but an ugly +caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you +said, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask, +sir, have you?—do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in +plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called +anything?” + +Villefort’s astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly +made by his strange adversary. It was a long time since the magistrate +had heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more +exactly, it was the first time he had ever heard of it. The procureur +exerted himself to reply. + +“Sir,” he responded, “you are a stranger, and I believe you say +yourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental +countries, so you are not aware how human justice, so expeditious in +barbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course.” + +“Oh, yes—yes, I do, sir; it is the _pede claudo_ of the ancients. I +know all that, for it is with the justice of all countries especially +that I have occupied myself—it is with the criminal procedure of all +nations that I have compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that +it is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation, +that I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God.” + +“If this law were adopted, sir,” said the procureur, “it would greatly +simplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not +(as you just observed) have much to do.” + +“It may, perhaps, come to this in time,” observed Monte Cristo; “you +know that human inventions march from the complex to the simple, and +simplicity is always perfection.” + +“In the meanwhile,” continued the magistrate, “our codes are in full +force, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic +customs, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you +will agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs +tedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong +power of brain to retain it.” + +“I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with +respect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code, +but as regards the codes of all nations. The English, Turkish, +Japanese, Hindu laws, are as familiar to me as the French laws, and +thus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that +everything is relative, sir)—that relatively to what I have done, you +have very little to do; but that relatively to all I have learned, you +have yet a great deal to learn.” + +“But with what motive have you learned all this?” inquired Villefort, +in astonishment. + +Monte Cristo smiled. + +“Really, sir,” he observed, “I see that in spite of the reputation +which you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from +the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending +with man—that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which +it is possible for human understanding to embrace.” + +“Pray, sir, explain yourself,” said Villefort, more and more +astonished, “I really do—not—understand you—perfectly.” + +“I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of +nations, you see only the springs of the machine, and lose sight of the +sublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize +before you and around you any but those office-holders whose +commissions have been signed by a minister or king; and that the men +whom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by +giving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill—I say +that they escape your narrow, limited field of observation. It is thus +that human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs. +Tobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young +man. The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a +conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to +reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one +was compelled to say, ‘I am the angel of the Lord’; and the other, ‘I +am the hammer of God,’ in order that the divine essence in both might +be revealed.” + +“Then,” said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he +was speaking to a mystic or a madman, “you consider yourself as one of +those extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned?” + +“And why not?” said Monte Cristo coldly. + +“Your pardon, sir,” replied Villefort, quite astounded, “but you will +excuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I +should meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far +surpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men. It is not usual +with us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like +yourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune—at least, so it is +said—and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely +repeat;—it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings +to waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in +philosophical reveries, intended at best to console those whom fate has +disinherited from the goods of this world.” + +“Really, sir,” retorted the count, “have you attained the eminent +situation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without +having met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must +have acquired so much _finesse_ and certainty, to divine, at a glance, +the kind of man by whom you are confronted? Should not a magistrate be +not merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty +expounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search +hearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with +more or less of alloy?” + +“Sir,” said Villefort, “upon my word, you overcome me. I really never +heard a person speak as you do.” + +“Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general +conditions, and have never dared to raise your wings into those upper +spheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings.” + +“And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and +invisible beings mingle amongst us?” + +“Why should they not? Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without +which you could not for a moment exist?” + +“Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude?” + +“Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume +a material form. You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to +them, and they reply to you.” + +“Ah,” said Villefort, smiling, “I confess I should like to be warned +when one of these beings is in contact with me.” + +“You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just +now, and I now again warn you.” + +“Then you yourself are one of these marked beings?” + +“Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself +in a position similar to mine. The dominions of kings are limited +either by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration +of language. My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an +Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard—I am +a cosmopolite. No country can say it saw my birth. God alone knows what +country will see me die. I adopt all customs, speak all languages. You +believe me to be a Frenchman, for I speak French with the same facility +and purity as yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an +Arab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Haydée, my slave, +thinks me a Greek. You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no +country, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man +as my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the +obstacles which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or arrests me. I have only +two adversaries—I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I +subdue even them,—they are time and distance. There is a third, and the +most terrible—that is my condition as a mortal being. This alone can +stop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I +aim, for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms. What men +call the chances of fate—namely, ruin, change, circumstances—I have +fully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will +not overwhelm me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and +therefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from +the mouths of kings—for kings have need, and other persons have fear of +you. For who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as +incongruously organized as ours, ‘Perhaps some day I shall have to do +with the king’s attorney’?” + +“But can you not say that, sir? The moment you become an inhabitant of +France, you are naturally subjected to the French law.” + +“I know it sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “but when I visit a country I +begin to study, by all the means which are available, the men from whom +I may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as, +perhaps better than, they know themselves. It follows from this, that +the king’s attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal, +would assuredly be more embarrassed than I should.” + +“That is to say,” replied Villefort with hesitation, “that human nature +being weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults.” + +“Faults or crimes,” responded Monte Cristo with a negligent air. + +“And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your +brothers—for you have said so,” observed Villefort in a tone that +faltered somewhat—“you alone are perfect.” + +“No, not perfect,” was the count’s reply; “only impenetrable, that’s +all. But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is +displeasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you +by my second-sight.” + +“No, no,—by no means,” said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to +abandon his ground. “No; by your brilliant and almost sublime +conversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no +longer talk, we rise to dissertation. But you know how the theologians +in their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies, +occasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we +are theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will +say to you, rude as it may seem, ‘My brother, you sacrifice greatly to +pride; you may be above others, but above you there is God.’” + +30029m + + + +“Above us all, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s response, in a tone and with an +emphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered. “I have my +pride for men—serpents always ready to threaten everyone who would pass +without crushing them under foot. But I lay aside that pride before +God, who has taken me from nothing to make me what I am.” + +“Then, count, I admire you,” said Villefort, who, for the first time in +this strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown +personage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur. “Yes, and I +say to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or +impenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same +thing—then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of +predominance. Yet you have unquestionably some ambition.” + +“I have, sir.” + +“And what may it be?” + +“I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by +Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed +me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to +me, ‘Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?’ I +reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and +then I replied, ‘Listen,—I have always heard of Providence, and yet I +have never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make +me believe that he exists. I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel +that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is +to recompense and punish.’ Satan bowed his head, and groaned. ‘You +mistake,’ he said, ‘Providence does exist, only you have never seen +him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have +seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs, +and moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of +the agents of that Providence.’ The bargain was concluded. I may +sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?” added Monte Cristo. “If the +thing were to do again, I would again do it.” + +Villefort looked at Monte Cristo with extreme amazement. + +“Count,” he inquired, “have you any relations?” + +“No, sir, I am alone in the world.” + +“So much the worse.” + +“Why?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down +your pride. You say you fear nothing but death?” + +“I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could +check the execution of my plans.” + +“And old age?” + +“My end will be achieved before I grow old.” + +“And madness?” + +“I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom,—_non bis in idem_. It +is an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full +application.” + +30031m + + + +“Sir,” continued Villefort, “there is something to fear besides death, +old age, and madness. For instance, there is apoplexy—that +lightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which +brings everything to an end. You are still yourself as now, and yet you +are yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are +but an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this +is called in human tongues, as I tell you, neither more nor less than +apoplexy. Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation +at my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of +understanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father, +M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French +Revolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity, +seconded by a most powerful organization—a man who has not, perhaps, +like yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to +overturn one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like +you, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of +Providence, but of fate. Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on +the lobe of the brain has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an +hour, but in a second. M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night, was the +old Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the +guillotine, the cannon, and the dagger—M. Noirtier, playing with +revolutions—M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from +which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the +king was checkmated—M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning +_poor M. Noirtier_, the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the +weakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine; +a dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may +be given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its +decay.” + +“Alas, sir,” said Monte Cristo “this spectacle is neither strange to my +eye nor my thought. I am something of a physician, and have, like my +fellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead +matter; yet, like Providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes, +although present to my heart. A hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca, +St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison +you have made, and yet I can well understand that a father’s sufferings +may effect great changes in the mind of a son. I will call on you, sir, +since you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this +terrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to +your family.” + +“It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a +compensation. In contrast with the old man, who is dragging his way to +the tomb, are two children just entering into life—Valentine, the +daughter by my first wife—Mademoiselle Renée de Saint-Méran—and Edward, +the boy whose life you have this day saved.” + +“And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?” inquired +Monte Cristo. + +“My deduction is,” replied Villefort, “that my father, led away by his +passions, has committed some fault unknown to human justice, but marked +by the justice of God. That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but +one person, has visited this justice on him alone.” + +Monte Cristo with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths of his +soul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it. + +“Adieu, sir,” said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat; “I +leave you, bearing a remembrance of you—a remembrance of esteem, which +I hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I +am not a man to bore my friends, as you will learn. Besides, you have +made an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort.” + +The count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the +door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by +two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with +every mark of attention. When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a +profound sigh, and said: + +“Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote.” + +Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered: + +“I am going to madame’s chamber—have the carriage ready at one +o’clock.” + + + + Chapter 49. Haydée + +It will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of +the Count of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other +than Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel. + +The very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming +visits—the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over +the almost deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged, +illumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable joy and +calmness, as, immediately after Villefort’s departure, his thoughts +flew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a +brief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind. Even +Ali, who had hastened to obey the Count’s summons, went forth from his +master’s presence in charmed amazement at the unusual animation and +pleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as +though dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his +patron’s meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on +tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound +should dissipate his master’s happy reverie. + +It was noon, and Monte Cristo had set apart one hour to be passed in +the apartments of Haydée, as though his oppressed spirit could not all +at once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a +gradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to +receive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary +natures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or +violent sensations. + +The young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly +unconnected with those of the count. The rooms had been fitted up in +strict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the +richest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk +of the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber +luxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions, +that needed only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such +as sought repose. + +Haydée had three French maids, and one who was a Greek. The first three +remained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the summons +of a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave, +who knew just enough French to be able to transmit her mistress’s +wishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most +peremptory instructions from Monte Cristo to treat Haydée with all the +deference they would observe to a queen. + +The young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the +farther end of her apartments. This was a sort of boudoir, circular, +and lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass. +Haydée was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin +spotted with silver; her head, supported by one of her exquisitely +moulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the +other was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich +narghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant by +its passage through perfumed water. Her attitude, though perfectly +natural for an Eastern woman would, in a European, have been deemed too +full of coquettish straining after effect. + +Her dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair +of white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet +so exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have +been taken for Parian marble, had not the eye been undeceived by their +movements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little +slippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and +pearls. She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves, +trimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice, +which, closing only from the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole +of the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened with +three magnificent diamond clasps. The junction of the bodice and +drawers was entirely concealed by one of the many-colored scarves, +whose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so +precious in the eyes of Parisian belles. + +Tilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored +silk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled +its glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair, of which the +blackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue. + +The extreme beauty of the countenance, that shone forth in loveliness +that mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly +and purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the +finely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to +her race and country. + +And, to complete the whole, Haydée was in the very springtide and +fulness of youthful charms—she had not yet numbered more than nineteen +or twenty summers. + +Monte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether +it would be agreeable to her mistress to receive his visit. Haydée’s +only reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the +tapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the +framework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the +graceful tableau presented by the young girl’s picturesque attitude and +appearance. + +As Monte Cristo approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that +held the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a +smile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the +women of Athens and Sparta: + +“Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or +have I ceased to be your slave?” + +Monte Cristo returned her smile. + +“Haydée,” said he, “you well know.” + +“Why do you address me so coldly—so distantly?” asked the young Greek. +“Have I by any means displeased you? Oh, if so, punish me as you will; +but do not—do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and +constrained.” + +“Haydée,” replied the count, “you know that you are now in France, and +are free.” + +“Free to do what?” asked the young girl. + +“Free to leave me.” + +“Leave you? Why should I leave you?” + +“That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society—to +visit and be visited.” + +“I don’t wish to see anybody but you.” + +“And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so +unjust——” + +“I have never seen anyone I preferred to you, and I have never loved +anyone but you and my father.” + +“My poor child,” replied Monte Cristo, “that is merely because your +father and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you.” + +“I don’t want anybody else to talk to me. My father said I was his +‘joy’—you style me your ‘love,’—and both of you have called me ‘my +child.’” + +“Do you remember your father, Haydée?” + +The young Greek smiled. + +“He is here, and here,” said she, touching her eyes and her heart. + +“And where am I?” inquired Monte Cristo laughingly. + +“You?” cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, “you are +everywhere!” Monte Cristo took the delicate hand of the young girl in +his, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of +nature hastily withdrew it, and presented her cheek. + +“You now understand, Haydée,” said the count, “that from this moment +you are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are +at liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it +may suit your inclination. Within this mansion you are absolute +mistress of your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your +apartments as may seem most agreeable to you. A carriage waits your +orders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire +to go. There is but one favor I would entreat of you.” + +“Speak.” + +“Guard carefully the secret of your birth. Make no allusion to the +past; nor upon any occasion be induced to pronounce the names of your +illustrious father or ill-fated mother.” + +“I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one.” + +“It is possible, Haydée, that so perfect a seclusion, though +conformable with the habits and customs of the East, may not be +practicable in Paris. Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our +manner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome, +Florence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days, +whether you remain here or return to the East.” + +The young girl raised her tearful eyes towards Monte Cristo as she said +with touching earnestness, “Whether _we_ return to the East, you mean +to say, my lord, do you not?” + +“My child,” returned Monte Cristo “you know full well that whenever we +part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the +flower—the flower falls from the tree.” + +“My lord,” replied Haydée, “I never will leave you, for I am sure I +could not exist without you.” + +“My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still +young.” + +“My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years +old, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw.” + +“Then tell me, Haydée, do you believe you shall be able to accustom +yourself to our present mode of life?” + +“Shall I see you?” + +“Every day.” + +“Then what do you fear, my lord?” + +“You might find it dull.” + +“No, my lord. In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your +coming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have +enjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty +pictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering +mountains of Pindus and Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three great +passions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, _ennui_ +can find no place.” + +“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, and your charming and +poetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who +claim your country as their birthplace. Depend on my care to see that +your youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial +solitude; and of this be well assured, that if you love me as a father, +I love you as a child.” + +“You are wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from +the love I had for my father. My father died, but I did not die. If you +were to die, I should die too.” + +The count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and +she carried it to her lips. + +Monte Cristo, thus attuned to the interview he proposed to hold with +Morrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of +Pindar, “Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who, +after having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call +it his own.” The carriage was prepared according to orders, and +stepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace. + + + + Chapter 50. The Morrel Family + +In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The +house was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two small +beds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gate +the count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye +had become somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did not +recognize the count. + +The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to +avoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork,—an ornament that +had excited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the +place the appellation of _The Little Versailles_. It is needless to add +that there were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with +kitchens and cellars below, had above the ground floor, two stories and +attics. The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop, +two pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had +been purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make +of it a profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the +garden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had +let them upon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden. So +that for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut +out from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the +Faubourg St. Germain. + +The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the +furnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and +green damask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a +music-room for Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story +was set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister’s +apartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a +billiard-room, where he received his friends. He was superintending the +grooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the +garden, when the count’s carriage stopped at the gate. + +Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired +whether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel +would see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo. + +“The Count of Monte Cristo?” cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and +hastening to the carriage; “I should think we would see him. Ah, a +thousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise.” + +And the young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly, that Monte +Cristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he saw +that he had been expected with impatience, and was received with +pleasure. + +“Come, come,” said Maximilian, “I will serve as your guide; such a man +as you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My sister is in the +garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers, +_la Presse_ and _les Débats_, within six steps of her; for wherever you +see Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four +yards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and ‘reciprocally,’ as they say at +the Polytechnic School.” + +At the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five-and-twenty, +dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the dead +leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, who +had become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had +predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise at +the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh. + +“Don’t disturb yourself, Julie,” said he. “The count has only been two +or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman +of the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him.” + +“Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bring +you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon, +Penelon!” + +An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade +in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid +of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray +mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his +bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who +had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics. + +“I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he. + +Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master’s daughter +“Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name to +Madame Herbault. + +“Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this +gentleman’s visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon.” + +Then, turning to Monte Cristo,—“I hope you will permit me to leave you +for a few minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply, +disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a +lateral alley. + +30041m + + + +“I am sorry to see,” observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, “that I cause no +small disturbance in your house.” + +“Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changing +his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue +Meslay.” + +“Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as if +speaking to himself. + +“Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them +happy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each +other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy +themselves as rich as Rothschild.” + +“Five-and-twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,” replied +Monte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to +Maximilian’s heart like the voice of a father; “but they will not be +content with that. Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?” + +“He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my +poor father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which were +divided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children. +Her husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his +noble probity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation, +wished to possess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he +had amassed 250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object. +Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young +creatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling +together, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs +of their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less +scrupulous people would have effected in two or three. Marseilles +resounded with their well-earned praises. At last, one day, Emmanuel +came to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts. + +“‘Julie,’ said he to her, ‘Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of +a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the +limits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortune +which we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house +transacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we +derive an income of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if +we please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay, +in which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite +with his own, for 300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do.’ + +“‘Emmanuel,’ returned my sister, ‘the house of Morrel can only be +carried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our +father’s name from the chances of evil fortune and failure?’ + +“‘I thought so,’ replied Emmanuel; ‘but I wished to have your advice.’ + +“‘This is my counsel:—Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all +we have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.’ + +“This was done instantly. It was three o’clock; at a quarter past, a +merchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit +of 15,000 francs. + +“‘Monsieur,’ said Emmanuel, ‘have the goodness to address yourself to +M. Delaunay. We have quitted business.’ + +“‘How long?’ inquired the astonished merchant. + +30043m + + + +“‘A quarter of an hour,’ was the reply. + +“And this is the reason, monsieur,” continued Maximilian, “of my sister +and brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year.” + +Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count’s +heart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and +coat. He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the +rank of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the +little garden, he returned to the house. + +A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the +air with their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed, +and her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten +minutes), received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds +were heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose +acacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains. +Everything in this charming retreat, from the warble of the birds to +the smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose. + +The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he +entered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting that +he was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the +first salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painful +when, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie: + +“Madame,” said he at length, “I pray you to excuse my emotion, which +must astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here; +but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary of +looking at yourself and your husband.” + +“We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie; “but we have also known +unhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than +ourselves.” + +The count’s features displayed an expression of the most intense +curiosity. + +“Oh, all this is a family history, as Château-Renaud told you the other +day,” observed Maximilian. “This humble picture would have but little +interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the +misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have +experienced bitter sorrows.” + +“And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all +who are in affliction?” said Monte Cristo inquiringly. + +“Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has +done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his +angels.” + +The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an +excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth. + +“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every +wish,” said Emmanuel, “know not what is the real happiness of life, +just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on +a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.” + +Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness +of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the +apartment with a slow step. + +“Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who had +followed him with his eyes. + +“No, no,” returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on +his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a +crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet +cushion. “I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse, +with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other.” + +“Count,” replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, “those are our +most precious family treasures.” + +“The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count. + +“Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been +estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in +this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now.” + +“This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation, +madame,” replied Monte Cristo bowing. “Pardon me, I had no intention of +committing an indiscretion.” + +“Indiscretion,—oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for +expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action +this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh, +would we could relate it everywhere, and to everyone, so that the +emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence.” + +“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice. + +“Monsieur,” returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and +respectfully kissing the silken purse, “this has touched the hand of a +man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from +shame and disgrace,—a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor +children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear everyone +envying our happy lot. This letter” (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a +letter from the purse and gave it to the count)—“this letter was +written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution, +and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her +dowry.” + +Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable +feeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers know) to +Julie, and signed “Sinbad the Sailor.” + +“Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service—unknown to +you?” + +“Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,” continued +Maximilian. “We have supplicated Heaven in vain to grant us this favor, +but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot +comprehend—we have been guided by an invisible hand,—a hand as powerful +as that of an enchanter.” + +“Oh,” cried Julie, “I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that +hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago, +Penelon was at Trieste—Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the +garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener—Penelon, when +he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point +of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who +called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this +letter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity, +but he did not venture to address him.” + +“An Englishman,” said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention +with which Julie looked at him. “An Englishman you say?” + +“Yes,” replied Maximilian, “an Englishman, who represented himself as +the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It +was this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de +Morcerf’s, that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That +happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell me, did you know +this Englishman?” + +“But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have +constantly denied having rendered you this service?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be someone who, +grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself +had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?” + +“Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle.” + +“What was his name?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“He gave no other name,” answered Julie, looking earnestly at the +count, “than that at the end of his letter—‘Sinbad the Sailor.’” + +“Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one.” + +Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice: + +“Tell me,” continued he, “was he not about my height, perhaps a little +taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his +coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?” + +“Oh, do you then know him?” cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy. + +“No,” returned Monte Cristo “I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who +was constantly doing actions of this kind.” + +“Without revealing himself?” + +“He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of +gratitude.” + +“Oh, Heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did he +believe, then?” + +30047m + + + +“He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said Monte +Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie’s voice; “but, +perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist.” + +“And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?” inquired Emmanuel. + +“Oh, if you do know him,” cried Julie, “can you tell us where he +is—where we can find him? Maximilian—Emmanuel—if we do but discover +him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!” + +Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked +hastily up and down the room. + +“In the name of Heaven,” said Maximilian, “if you know anything of him, +tell us what it is.” + +“Alas,” cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, “if Lord +Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him +again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on +the point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he +will never return.” + +“Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and +the young lady’s eyes swam with tears. + +“Madame,” replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two +liquid pearls that trickled down Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seen +what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you +shed would reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to +Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the +count. + +“But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must +have known someone, can we not——” + +“Oh, it is useless to inquire,” returned the count; “perhaps, after +all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no +secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me.” + +“And he told you nothing?” + +“Not a word.” + +“Nothing that would lead you to suppose?” + +“Nothing.” + +“And yet you spoke of him at once.” + +“Ah, in such a case one supposes——” + +“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur +is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us, +‘It was no Englishman that thus saved us.’” + +Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said +he eagerly. + +“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed—he +believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it +was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself +believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith. +How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend—a +friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near +approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with +supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a +doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, ‘Maximilian, it +was Edmond Dantès!’” + +At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been +increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch +like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to +Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and +Maximilian,—“Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow me to visit you +occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for +your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have +thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment. + +“This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,” said Emmanuel. + +“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart, +and that he likes us.” + +“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I +fancied that I had heard it before.” + + + + Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe + +About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in the +rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood, +where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and +magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the +wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls +in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a +shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases +that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron +gate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII. + +This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and +the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they +waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with +their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of +the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves +to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted +courtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and to the garden +shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine +kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a +line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the +kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted +up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to +the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for +the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the +line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication +with the Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself, one of the most important +thoroughfares in the city of Paris. + +In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” yet “money +disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost +in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high +price for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his +bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging +to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it +that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the +interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented +himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners, +at a yearly rental of 500 francs. + +And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden +had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to +eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers +and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic +enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a +height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but +that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the +strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left +no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that +circumstance. + +Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted +kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons +had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its +being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from +the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the +ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters, +and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not +even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house +the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall, +without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and +flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as +though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one +corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a +large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered +spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant +of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of +verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred +paces off. + +Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the +boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly +justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool, +refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the +sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of +hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the +entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the +mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet +bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown +upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which +hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little +distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the +iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means +of the openings in the planks,—the earnestness of her attitude and the +fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes, +proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter. + +At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to +the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man +appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but +his carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest +and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After +casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he +was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing +and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the +barrier. + +At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a +costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a +hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the +narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe, +and observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close +to the planks, he exclaimed: + +“Don’t be alarmed, Valentine—it is I!” + +Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as +she did so: + +“And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had +to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my +too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me +about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never +to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made +me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular +that at first I did not recognize you.” + +“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our +respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love, +but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour +forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to +carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even +thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you +did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to +suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my +being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the +reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have +chosen a trade.” + +“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such +deep cause for uneasiness?” + +“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than +life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about +it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously +alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about +here your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief. +That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of +the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place +where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might +well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently, +adopted the costume of my calling.” + +“What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!” + +“Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my +life by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually +screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger.” + +30053m + + + +“I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you +really mean.” + +“Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I +stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by +the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucern. Think of +that, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a +little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you. +Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely +contain myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price—as +a thing impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I +purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would +cheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of +500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to +fear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a +ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having +any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious +character. I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of +my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your +favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to +professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a +blouse and cap.” + +A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of +Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though +some envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart: + +“Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should +presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led +astray by our blind confidence in each other’s prudence.” + +“How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear +Valentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance, +schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you +have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to +me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I +placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other +reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since, +by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from +the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you? +You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d’Épinay, +and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that +from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known +to change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you +wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but +hoping that Providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and +order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties, +Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on +me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure +anything.” + +“Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and +which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask +myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my +stepmother, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I +now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these +meetings, so fraught with danger to both.” + +“I will not admit that word,” returned the young man; “it is at once +cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than +myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time, +Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or +elsewhere—have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this +enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate—to be +close to you without really seeing you—have I ever asked so much as to +touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a +trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a +murmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any +knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what +I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust.” + +30055m + + + +“It is true,” said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender +fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian +to press his lips to them, “and you are a true and faithful friend; but +still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for +you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an +opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to +bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend +but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father, +harassed and persecuted by my stepmother, and left to the sole +companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered +hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye +alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness +for his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either +as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my +only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed, +Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of +pity.” + +“Valentine,” replied the young man, deeply affected, “I will not say +you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and +brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no +manner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart +beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but +I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and +intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render +them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to +return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable +and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the +best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while +reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to +me—the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise +of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience +I have evinced?—none whatever. What granted me?—scarcely more. You tell +me of M. Franz d’Épinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the +idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other +sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life +and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your +service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours—that +were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing +misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the +wife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel +conscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as +mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between +these iron bars, and said, ‘Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and +believe that, living or dead, I am yours—yours only, and forever!’” + +The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs +and tears. A rapid change took place in the young man’s feelings. + +“Dearest, dearest Valentine,” exclaimed he, “forgive me if I have +offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly +caused you pain.” + +“No, Maximilian, I am not offended,” answered she, “but do you not see +what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in +my father’s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been +thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the +iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted, +day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for, +even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the +subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am +surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The +general remark is, ‘Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a +character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do +on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender +age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de +Villefort.’ The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from +utter indifference, while my stepmother detests me with a hatred so +much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.” + +“Hate you, sweet Valentine,” exclaimed the young man; “how is it +possible for anyone to do that?” + +“Alas,” replied the weeping girl, “I am obliged to own that my +stepmother’s aversion to me arises from a very natural source—her +overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward.” + +“But why should it?” + +“I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into +our present conversation, I will just say this much—that her extreme +dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the +fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than +doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Méran, whose sole heiress +I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for +being so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of +this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father’s love. God +knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me +a happy and affectionate home.” + +“Poor Valentine!” + +“I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same +time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the +restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too, +my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity; +protected as he is by his high position and firmly established +reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose +him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a +word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not +attempt to resist my father’s commands it is more on your account than +my own.” + +“But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst,—why +picture so gloomy a future?” + +“Because I judge it from the past.” + +“Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is +termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not +altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such +distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in +France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with +those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself +with the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class; +and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging +as well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered, +and the memory of my late father is respected in our country, +Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the +city; I say our country, because you were born not far from +Marseilles.” + +“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word +brings back my mother to my recollection—my angel mother, who died too +soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her +child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I +fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were +still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would +tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.” + +“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should +never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been +too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on +me.” + +“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there +is one thing I wish to know.” + +“And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine +hesitated. + +“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers +dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?” + +“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any +ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties—your +father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine +was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any +other difference between them. But why do you ask?” + +“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you +should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of +the Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting +with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also—you +recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses +ran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed +them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching +marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my +grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had +done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know +you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy, +and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before +so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but +for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause +of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly +and as steadily as I could.” + +30059m + + + +“Dear Valentine!” + +“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of +your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing, +I was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by +the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father +start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must +have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.” + +“‘Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, ‘stop a bit;’ then knitting his +brows into a deep frown, he added, ‘surely this cannot be one of the +Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from +their violent Bonapartism—I mean about the year 1815.’ + +“‘Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, ‘I believe he is the son of the old +shipowner.’” + +“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then, +Valentine?” + +“Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.” + +“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile. + +“‘Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, ‘their idolized emperor +treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them ‘food for +cannon,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted +to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle +with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to +furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it +would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it +certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that +uncivilized country.’” + +“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach +any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was +not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘does not +the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of +improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and +legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could +maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that +for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much +to choose between the language of either party. But what did M. +Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?” + +“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to +himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up +and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation +of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only +person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I +suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his +presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old +man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong +impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him +to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that +depreciating manner.” + +“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated +throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or +may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every +Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the +Bourbons.” + +“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most +strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have +been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics? +But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to +question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at +the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear +grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the +affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in +the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign +in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I +didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion +of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being +so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had +been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim +on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I +love him for showing so much interest in you.” + +“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your +grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by +politics.” + +“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian +leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up +in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in +weeding it. + +“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees. +“Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the +drawing-room.” + +“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?” + +“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte +Cristo.” + +“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud. + +The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man +on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s _“I am coming”_ +was the customary signal of farewell. + +“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I +would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of +Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.” + + + + Chapter 52. Toxicology + +It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame +de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and +at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in +confusion. + +Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count +was announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly +to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great +personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come +to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of +gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance +remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent +speeches which made his mother say: + +“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really +_so_ bright.” + +After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort. + +“My husband dines with the chancellor,” replied the young lady; “he has +just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the +pleasure of seeing you before he went.” + +Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him +with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which +politeness admits and curiosity requires. + +“What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of +Edward; “tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor +of introducing her to the count.” + +“You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the count; “very young, I +presume?” + +“The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the +young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.” + +“But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out +of the tail of a splendid paroquet that was screaming on its gilded +perch, in order to make a plume for his hat. + +Madame de Villefort merely cried, “Be still, Edward!” She then added, +“This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes +what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de +Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy +disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of +her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.” + +“Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.” + +“And where are they looking for her?” + +“With grandpapa Noirtier.” + +“And do you think she is not there?” + +“No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his +words. + +“And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?” + +“She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he +gave, in spite of his mother’s commands, live flies to the parrot, +which seemed keenly to relish such fare. + +Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct +her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the +young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected; +and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the +traces of recent tears in her eyes. + +Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented +to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and +graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, +and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her +mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks +tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who +have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of +a swan. + +She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger +of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish +awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that +redoubled the count’s attention. + +He rose to return the salutation. + +“Mademoiselle de Villefort, my step-daughter,” said Madame de Villefort +to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards +Valentine with her hand. + +“And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said +the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister. + +Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly +angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward; +but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy +complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy +and enthusiasm. + +“But, madame,” replied the count, continuing the conversation, and +looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not +already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I +could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as +mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light +thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark.” + +“I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very +fond of society, and we very seldom go out,” said the young lady. + +“Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself, +madame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world +is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in +Paris but very few days. No,—but, perhaps, you will permit me to call +to mind—stay!” + +The Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts. + +“No—it was somewhere—away from here—it was—I do not know—but it appears +that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some +religious _fête_; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the +interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you, +madame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid, +madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?” + +“No, indeed,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and yet it appears to me, +sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have +been imprinted on my memory.” + +“Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly. + +“Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,” replied Monte Cristo; +“you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?” + +“Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for +my lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples. We went by Bologna, +Perugia, and Rome.” + +“Ah, yes—true, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple +explanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought. “It +was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hôtel des +Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and +her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you.” + +“I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hôtel des Postes, and +the festival of which you speak,” said Madame de Villefort, “but in +vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really +do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you +before.” + +“It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,” observed +Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count. + +30065m + + + +“But I remember it perfectly,” interposed the darling Edward. + +“I will assist your memory, madame,” continued the count; “the day had +been burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in +consequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of +the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock.” + +“And I caught it, mamma, don’t you remember?” interposed Edward, “and I +pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail.” + +“You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while +you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you, +Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed +for a considerable time with somebody?” + +“Yes, in truth, yes,” answered the young lady, turning very red, “I do +remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he +was a medical man, I think.” + +“Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been +at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a +fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a +reputation as a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame, +on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raphael, of manners, customs, of +the famous _aqua Tofana_, of which they had told you, I think you said, +that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.” + +“Yes, true,” replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily, “I +remember now.” + +“I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we +discoursed, madame,” continued the count with perfect calmness; “but I +perfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had +entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of +Mademoiselle de Villefort.” + +“Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,” said Madame de +Villefort, “since you had cured the sick.” + +“Molière or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was +precisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself, +I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the +natural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you +understand.” + +At this moment the clock struck six. + +“It is six o’clock,” said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated. +“Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his +dinner?” + +Valentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without +speaking. + +“Oh, madame,” said the count, when Valentine had left the room, “was it +on my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?” + +“By no means,” replied the young lady quickly; “but this is the hour +when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his +pitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of +my husband’s father?” + +“Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me—a paralysis, I think.” + +“Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone +is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and +flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me, +sir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the +moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist.” + +“No, madame, I did not say as much as that,” replied the count with a +smile; “quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having +determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of +following the example of King Mithridates.” + +“_Mithridates, rex Ponticus_,” said the young scamp, as he tore some +beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, “the individual who took +cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast.” + +“Edward, you naughty boy,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the +mutilated book from the urchin’s grasp, “you are positively past +bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join +your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier’s room.” + +“The album,” said Edward sulkily. + +“What do you mean?—the album!” + +“I want the album.” + +“How dare you tear out the drawings?” + +“Oh, it amuses me.” + +“Go—go at once.” + +“I won’t go unless you give me the album,” said the boy, seating +himself doggedly in an armchair, according to his habit of never giving +way. + +“Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer,” said Madame de +Villefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door, +led by his mother. The count followed her with his eyes. + +“Let us see if she shuts the door after him,” he muttered. + +Madame de Villefort closed the door carefully after the child, the +count appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance +around the chamber, the young wife returned to her chair, in which she +seated herself. + +“Allow me to observe, madame,” said the count, with that kind tone he +could assume so well, “you are really very severe with that dear clever +child.” + +“Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary,” replied Madame de +Villefort, with all a mother’s real firmness. + +“It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he +referred to King Mithridates,” continued the count, “and you +interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no +means neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years.” + +“The fact is, count,” answered the mother, agreeably flattered, “he has +great aptitude, and learns all that is set before him. He has but one +fault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment +to what he said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these +precautions, and that these precautions were efficacious?” + +“I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I +might not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna—that is to +say, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must +have lost my life.” + +“And your precautions were successful?” + +“Completely so.” + +“Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this +sort.” + +“Indeed?” said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well +counterfeited; “I really did not remember.” + +“I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect, +on men of the North as on men of the South; and you answered me that +the cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same +aptitude as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the +South.” + +“And that is the case,” observed Monte Cristo. “I have seen Russians +devour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances +which would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab.” + +“And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us +than in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would +habituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this +progressive absorption of poison?” + +“Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he +should have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not +been accustomed.” + +“Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for +instance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it?” + +“Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be +made use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance, +brucine���—” + +“Brucine is extracted from the false angostura8 is it not?” inquired +Madame de Villefort. + +“Precisely, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but I perceive I have not +much to teach you. Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such +learning is very rare among ladies.” + +“Oh, I am aware of that,” said Madame de Villefort; “but I have a +passion for the occult sciences, which speak to the imagination like +poetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but +go on, I beg of you; what you say interests me to the greatest degree.” + +30069m + + + +“Well,” replied Monte Cristo “suppose, then, that this poison was +brucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two +milligrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days +you would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days, +increasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred +centigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without +inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person +who had not taken the same precautions as yourself. Well, then, at the +end of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would +kill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise +than from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance +mingled with this water.” + +“Do you know any other counter-poisons?” + +“I do not.” + +“I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates,” said +Madame de Villefort in a tone of reflection, “and had always considered +it a fable.” + +“No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell +me, madame, what you inquire of me, is not the result of a chance +query, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said +then, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had +occupied your mind.” + +“True, sir. The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and +mineralogy, and subsequently, when I learned that the use of simples +frequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life +of individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love +affair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a +Flamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis.” + +“And the more, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “as the Orientals do not +confine themselves, as did Mithridates, to make a cuirass of his +poisons, but they also made them a dagger. Science becomes, in their +hands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an +offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings, +the other against all their enemies. With opium, belladonna, brucea, +snake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in +their way. There is not one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or +Greek, whom here you call ‘good women,’ who do not know how, by means +of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a +confessor.” + +“Really,” said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange +fire at this conversation. + +“Oh, yes, indeed, madame,” continued Monte Cristo, “the secret dramas +of the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion—begin +with paradise and end with—hell. There are as many elixirs of every +kind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral +nature of humanity; and I will say further—the art of these chemists is +capable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the +remedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance.” + +“But, sir,” remarked the young woman, “these Eastern societies, in the +midst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as +fantastic as the tales that come from their strange land. A man can +easily be put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and +Bassora of the _Thousand and One Nights_. The sultans and viziers who +rule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the +government, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only +pardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister, if his crime has +been an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the +whole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of +idleness and _ennui_.” + +“By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East. There, +disguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are +police agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They hang, +behead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible +manner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape +human justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning +stratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or +cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose +of, goes straight to the grocer’s or druggist’s, gives a false name, +which leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under +the pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or +six grammes of arsenic—if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to +five or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only +five or six times more easily traced;—then, when he has acquired his +specific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of +arsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which, +without rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans which alarm the +entire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables. +They fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the +entrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next day a +hundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and +the murderer. The same evening the grocer or grocers, druggist or +druggists, come and say, ‘It was I who sold the arsenic to the +gentleman;’ and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they +will recognize twenty. Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned, +interrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or +steel; or if she be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for +life. This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry, +madame. Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful.” + +“What would you have, sir?” said the lady, laughing; “we do what we +can. All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias.” + +“Now,” replied the count, shrugging his shoulders, “shall I tell you +the cause of all these stupidities? It is because, at your theatres, by +what at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see +persons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring, +and fall dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards the curtain falls, and +the spectators depart. They are ignorant of the consequences of the +murder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of +office, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor fools +believe that the whole thing is as easy as lying. But go a little way +from France—go either to Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome, +and you will see people passing by you in the streets—people erect, +smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by +the skirt of his mantle, would say, ‘That man was poisoned three weeks +ago; he will be a dead man in a month.’” + +“Then,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “they have again discovered the +secret of the famous _aqua Tofana_ that they said was lost at Perugia.” + +“Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything? The arts change about +and make a tour of the world; things take a different name, and the +vulgar do not follow them—that is all; but there is always the same +result. Poisons act particularly on some organ or another—one on the +stomach, another on the brain, another on the intestines. Well, the +poison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or +some other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however, +by no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were +not, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by +foolish doctors, who are generally bad chemists, and which will act in +favor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there is a +human being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of +whom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my +acquaintance, the worthy Abbé Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has +studied these national phenomena very profoundly.” + +“It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting,” said the young lady, +motionless with attention. “I thought, I must confess, that these +tales, were inventions of the Middle Ages.” + +“Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours. What is the use of time, +rewards of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead +society towards more complete perfection? Yet man will never be perfect +until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and +that is half the battle.” + +“So,” added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object, +“the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the Renées, the Ruggieris, +and later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so +misused by modern drama and romance——” + +“Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more,” replied the count. “Do +you suppose that the real _savant_ addresses himself stupidly to the +mere individual? By no means. Science loves eccentricities, leaps and +bounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term +them. Thus, for instance, the excellent Abbé Adelmonte, of whom I spoke +just now, made in this way some marvellous experiments.” + +“Really?” + +“Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full +of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he +selected the most simple—a cabbage, for instance. For three days he +watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the +cabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that moment he cut it. In +the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its +wholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abbé Adelmonte. He +then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits—for the Abbé +Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as +fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the +Abbé Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage. +The rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to +insinuate, anything against this? What procureur has ever ventured to +draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in +consequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed?—not +one. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice. This +rabbit dead, the Abbé Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook +and thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking +these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At the +moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is +flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte’s country); this +bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it +dines off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has +been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy +while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond. +The pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows—well, +they feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these +eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at +your table. Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth +remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the +intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the +body and say with an air of profound learning, ‘The subject has died of +a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!’” + +“But,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “all these circumstances which you +link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the +vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the +fish-pond.” + +“Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East, +one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved.” + +Madame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively. + +“But,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “arsenic is indelible, indestructible; +in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of +the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient +quantity to cause death.” + +“Precisely so,” cried Monte Cristo—“precisely so; and this is what I +said to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by +a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb, ‘My son, +the world was not made in a day—but in seven. Return on Sunday.’ On the +Sunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his +cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of +salts, having their basis in strychnine, _strychnos colubrina_, as the +learned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of +disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust; +yet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at +the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the +vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had +disappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar +indication in any organ—an excitement of the nervous system—that was +it; a case of cerebral congestion—nothing more. The fowl had not been +poisoned—she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among +fowls, I believe, but very common among men.” + +Madame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful. + +“It is very fortunate,” she observed, “that such substances could only +be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning +each other.” + +“By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,” said Monte +Cristo carelessly. + +“And then,” said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and +with effort, to get away from her thoughts, “however skilfully it is +prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it +does not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are +in cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell—that is the +point.” + +30075m + + + +“Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure +mind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning. +The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of +Jean Jacques Rousseau,—you remember,—the mandarin who is killed five +hundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger. Man’s whole life +passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by +reflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and +brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will +administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe +on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of +which we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule—eccentric +or stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to +thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings +excited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is +permissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym, +then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an +‘elimination;’ you merely and simply remove from your path the +individual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence, +without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a +punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense +of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no +groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid +and compromising moment of accomplishing the act,—then one escapes the +clutch of the human law, which says, ‘Do not disturb society!’ This is +the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern +climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very +little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance.” + +“Yet conscience remains,” remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated +voice, and with a stifled sigh. + +“Yes,” answered Monte Cristo “happily, yes, conscience does remain; and +if it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring +exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a +thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons, +howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little +before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III., +for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the +putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say, +‘These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited +the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their +juvenile propensities—these two children are impediments in my way of +promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they +(the children) would infallibly have caused.’ Thus was Lady Macbeth +served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her +husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is +a great virtue, a powerful motive—so powerful that it excuses a +multitude of things, even if, after Duncan’s death, Lady Macbeth had +been at all pricked by her conscience.” + +Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and +horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical +simplicity which was peculiar to him. + +After a moment’s silence, the lady inquired: + +“Do you know, my dear count,” she said, “that you are a very terrible +reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered +medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through +alembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the +elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost +instantaneously——” + +30077m + + + +“Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; _one_ drop of that +elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would +have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have +produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his +respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was; +ten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched +him from those phials which he so imprudently touched?” + +“Is it then so terrible a poison?” + +“Oh, no! In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not +exist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons, +which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies.” + +“What, then, is it?” + +“A skilful preparation of my friend’s the worthy Abbé Adelmonte, who +taught me the use of it.” + +“Oh,” observed Madame de Villefort, “it must be an admirable +anti-spasmodic.” + +“Perfect, madame, as you have seen,” replied the count; “and I +frequently make use of it—with all possible prudence though, be it +observed,” he added with a smile of intelligence. + +“Most assuredly,” responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone. “As +for me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a +Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and +tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of +suffocation. In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in +France, and your abbé is not probably disposed to make a journey to +Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche’s +anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman’s drops are among my favorite +remedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they +are compounded doubly strong.” + +Monte Cristo opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to +him, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur +who thoroughly appreciated their composition. + +“They are indeed exquisite,” he said; “but as they are necessarily +submitted to the process of deglutition—a function which it is +frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish—I prefer my +own specific.” + +“Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen +produced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as +to ask it of you.” + +“But I,” said Monte Cristo, rising as he spoke—“I am gallant enough to +offer it you.” + +30079m + + + +“How kind you are.” + +“Only remember one thing—a small dose is a remedy, a large one is +poison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will +inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured +into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its +flavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were +prescribing for you.” + +The clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of +Madame de Villefort, who came to dine with her. + +“If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time, +count, instead of only for the second,” said Madame de Villefort; “if I +had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the +happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on +detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first +refusal.” + +“A thousand thanks, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “but I have an +engagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the +Académie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your +grand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither.” + +“Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription.” + +“Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour’s conversation +I have had with you, which is indeed impossible.” + +Monte Cristo bowed, and left the house. Madame de Villefort remained +immersed in thought. + +“He is a very strange man,” she said, “and in my opinion is himself the +Adelmonte he talks about.” + +As to Monte Cristo the result had surpassed his utmost expectations. + +“Good,” said he, as he went away; “this is a fruitful soil, and I feel +certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground.” + +Next morning, faithful to his promise, he sent the prescription +requested. + + + + Chapter 53. Robert le Diable + +The pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as +there chanced to be on that very night a more than ordinary attraction +at the Académie Royale. Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe +illness, made his reappearance in the character of _Bertram_, and, as +usual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite +composer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience. +Morcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his +orchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at +least a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his +acquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus +box. Château-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as +a journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre. It happened +that on this particular night the minister’s box was placed at the +disposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who +again, upon his rejection of it by Mercédès, sent it to Danglars, with +an intimation that he should probably do himself the honor of joining +the baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their +accepting the box in question. The ladies received the offer with too +much pleasure to dream of a refusal. To no class of persons is the +presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the +wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying +a king’s ransom in his waistcoat pocket. + +Danglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a +ministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his +parliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not +permit him so to commit himself; the baroness had, therefore, +despatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being +wholly impossible for her to go alone with Eugénie to the opera. + +There is no gainsaying the fact that a very unfavorable construction +would have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone +without escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her +mother’s admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice +and ill-nature. One must take the world as one finds it. + +30083m + + + +The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of +the absurdities of Parisian fashion never to appear at the opera until +after the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is +generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that +part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in +observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of +opening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation. + +“Surely,” said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened, +“that must be the Countess G——.” + +“And who is the Countess G——?” inquired Château-Renaud. + +“What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick +a quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who +the Countess G—— was.” + +“Ah, to be sure,” replied Château-Renaud; “the lovely Venetian, is it +not?” + +“Herself.” At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned +his salutation with a smile. + +“You know her, it seems?” said Château-Renaud. + +“Franz introduced me to her at Rome,” replied Albert. + +“Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you +in Rome?” + +“With pleasure.” + +There was a cry of “Shut up!” from the audience. This manifestation on +the part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the +music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who +continued their conversation. + +“The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,” said +Château-Renaud. + +“Today?” + +“Yes.” + +“Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?” + +“Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.” + +“And who was the winner?” + +“Nautilus. I staked on him.” + +“But there were three races, were there not?” + +“Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club—a gold cup, you +know—and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.” + +“What was it?” + +“Oh, shut up!” again interposed some of the audience. + +“Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.” + +“Is that possible?” + +“True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the +name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last +moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist, +presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff +at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to +make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare, +against whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths.” + +“And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey +belonged?” + +“No.” + +“You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?” + +“Exactly; that was the title.” + +“Then,” answered Albert, “I am better informed than you are, and know +who the owner of that horse was.” + +“Shut up, there!” cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and +manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility +that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate +was addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized +the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one +person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they +deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the +challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and +affected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of +the minister’s box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her +daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted +them to their seats. + +“Ha, ha,” said Château-Renaud, “here come some friends of yours, +viscount! What are you looking at there? don’t you see they are trying +to catch your eye?” + +Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan +from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugénie, she scarcely vouchsafed +to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of +the stage. + +“I tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “I cannot +imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle +Danglars—that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat +inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very much about. +Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!” + +“Handsome, certainly,” replied Albert, “but not to my taste, which I +confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.” + +“Ah, well,” exclaimed Château-Renaud, who because he had seen his +thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of +paternal air with his more youthful friend, “you young people are never +satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you +a bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not +content.” + +“No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked +something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this +chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a +sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.” + +And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to +comprehend the justness of Morcerf’s remark. She was beautiful, but her +beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious +taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat +rebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by +well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost +habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of +firmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler +attributes of her sex—her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have +chosen for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found +fault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered +still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips, +contrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion. But that which +completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his +taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of +nature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the +effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that +characterized her countenance. + +The rest of Mademoiselle Eugénie’s person was in perfect keeping with +the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as +Château-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute. + +As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was +the same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her +beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young +a person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote +poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to +be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance, +assisted by a schoolfellow,—a young woman without fortune whose talent +promised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored +that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the +principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in +the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of +wealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided +Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public +with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this +principle, the banker’s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow +Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa) +to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen +in her company. Still, though not actually received at the Hôtel +Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated +with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a +governess. + +The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame +Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the +accustomed half-hour’s interval allowed between the acts, and the +audience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to +pay and receive visits in their respective boxes. + +Morcerf and Château-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves +of this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that +this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his +impatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her +daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them. +Mademoiselle Eugénie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of +the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her +mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the +Countess G——, and where Morcerf had just made his appearance. + +30087m + + + +“So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?” cried the countess, +extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old +acquaintance; “it was really very good of you to recognize me so +quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.” + +“Be assured,” replied Albert, “that if I had been aware of your arrival +in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to +you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de +Château-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in +France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of +the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.” + +Château-Renaud bowed to the countess. + +“So you were at the races, baron?” inquired the countess eagerly. + +“Yes, madame.” + +“Well, then,” pursued Madame G—— with considerable animation, “you can +probably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes?” + +“I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking +the same question of Albert.” + +“Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert. + +“To know what?” + +“The name of the owner of the winning horse?” + +“Excessively; only imagine—but do tell me, viscount, whether you really +are acquainted with it or no?” + +“I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story, +were you not? You said, ‘only imagine,’—and then paused. Pray +continue.” + +“Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid +roan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a +pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their +success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were +at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the +winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with +joy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I +met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I +concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse +must live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments, +I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and +rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written +these words—‘From Lord Ruthven to Countess G——.’” + +“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf. + +“Sure of what?” + +“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.” + +“What Lord Ruthven do you mean?” + +“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!” + +“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?” + +“To be sure,—why not?” + +“And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?” + +“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud +has also the honor of his acquaintance.” + +“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club +prize?” + +“Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?” + +“What of that?” + +“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I +was made prisoner?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a +manner?” + +“To be sure, I remember it all now.” + +“He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the count got the +name.” + +“But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?” + +“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you +may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a +countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.” + +“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish +remarks we used to make about him?” + +“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his +presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven——” + +“Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.” + +“Does his action appear like that of an enemy?” + +“No; certainly not.” + +“Well, then——” + +“And so he is in Paris?” + +“Yes.” + +“And what effect does he produce?” + +“Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the +coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of +Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.” + +“My good fellow,” said Château-Renaud, “the count is your friend and +you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you, +countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by +the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon +myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding +act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth +32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous +preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has +carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain, +in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest +at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a +month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, +after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.” + +“Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the +Russian ambassador’s box?” + +“Which box do you mean?” asked the countess. + +“The one between the pillars on the first tier—it seems to have been +fitted up entirely afresh.” + +“Did you observe anyone during the first act?” asked Château-Renaud. + +“Where?” + +“In that box.” + +“No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first +act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she +said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte +Cristo that gained the prize?” + +“I am sure of it.” + +“And who afterwards sent the cup to me?” + +“Undoubtedly.” + +“But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to +return it.” + +“Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed +of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is +his way, and you must take him as you find him.” + +At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain +for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place. + +“Shall I see you again?” asked the countess. + +“At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and +inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?” + +“Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22 +Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday +evening. So now, you are both forewarned.” + +The young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls, +they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and +directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian +ambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in +deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed +after the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the +rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her. + +“Hullo,” said Albert; “it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!” + +The strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Haydée. In a +few moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole +house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize +her magnificent diamonds. + +The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices—one deep +whisper—intimating that some great and universally interesting event +had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and +beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most +extraordinary spectacle. + +Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated +her desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the +second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would +permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the +close of the act he therefore went to the baroness. + +Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the +baroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eugénie received him +with her accustomed coldness. + +“My dear fellow,” said Debray, “you have come in the nick of time. +There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count; +she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and +parentage, where he came from, and whither he is going. Being no +disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of +getting out of the scrape, I said, ‘Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole +history of his beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers’ ends;’ whereupon +the baroness signified her desire to see you.” + +“Is it not almost incredible,” said Madame Danglars, “that a person +having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command, +should possess so little information?” + +“Let me assure you, madame,” said Lucien, “that had I really the sum +you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in +troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte +Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich +as a nabob. However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so +pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own +part, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings.” + +30093m + + + +“I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth +32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000 +francs each.” + +“He seems to have a mania for diamonds,” said Morcerf, smiling, “and I +verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for +the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint +stones.” + +“Perhaps he has discovered some mine,” said Madame Danglars. “I suppose +you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron’s banking +establishment?” + +“I was not aware of it,” replied Albert, “but I can readily believe +it.” + +“And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only +staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six +millions. + +“He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling _incog_.” + +“Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?” +inquired Eugénie. + +“I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms +of another as yourself,” responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his +eye. “A most lovely creature, upon my soul!” was his verdict. + +“Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?” inquired Eugénie; “does +anybody know?” + +“Mademoiselle,” said Albert, replying to this direct appeal, “I can +give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most +points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now +conversing—the young woman is a Greek.” + +“So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that, +everyone here is as well-informed as yourself.” + +“I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a _cicerone_,” replied +Morcerf, “but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing +further to communicate—yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely, +that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting +with the count, I heard the sound of a guzla—it is impossible that it +could have been touched by any other finger than her own.” + +“Then your count entertains visitors, does he?” asked Madame Danglars. + +“Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you.” + +“I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner, +or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in +return.” + +“What,” said Debray, laughing; “do you really mean you would go to his +house?” + +“Why not? my husband could accompany me.” + +“But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor?” + +“You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,” said the +baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek. + +“No, no!” exclaimed Debray; “that girl is not his wife: he told us +himself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling +us so at your breakfast?” + +“Well, then,” said the baroness, “if slave she be, she has all the air +and manner of a princess.” + +“Of the ‘Arabian Nights’.” + +“If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes +a princess. Why, diamonds—and she is covered with them.” + +“To me she seems overloaded,” observed Eugénie; “she would look far +better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely +formed throat and wrists.” + +“See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor +Eugénie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.” + +“I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady. + +“What do you think of the count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much +amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.” + +“The count,” repeated Eugénie, as though it had not occurred to her to +observe him sooner; “the count?—oh, he is so dreadfully pale.” + +“I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very +pallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G—— insists upon it +that he is a vampire.” + +“Then the Countess G—— has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the +baroness. + +“Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugénie; “almost opposite to us, with that +profusion of beautiful light hair?” + +“Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you +ought to do, Morcerf?” + +“Command me, madame.” + +“Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us.” + +“What for?” asked Eugénie. + +“What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no +desire to meet him?” + +“None whatever,” replied Eugénie. + +“Strange child,” murmured the baroness. + +“He will very probably come of his own accord,” said Morcerf. “There; +do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows.” + +The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful +manner. + +“Well,” said Morcerf, “I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself +away to forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go and try if there are any +means of speaking to him.” + +“Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan.” + +“But I have never been presented.” + +“Presented to whom?” + +“To the beautiful Greek.” + +“You say she is only a slave?” + +“While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I +hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out.” + +“That is possible—go.” + +“I am going,” said Albert, as he made his parting bow. + +Just as he was passing the count’s box, the door opened, and Monte +Cristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in +the lobby, the count took Albert’s arm. Carefully closing the box door, +Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled +round the Nubian. + +“Upon my word,” said Monte Cristo, “Paris is a strange city, and the +Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected +around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one +might suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can +promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in +Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that +way.” + +“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste +their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as +far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is +merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant—you, who are +at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.” + +“Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction?” + +“What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand +louis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the +name of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not +larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy +of victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the +first handsome woman you think of!” + +“And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?” + +“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the +by, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by +others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly, +from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call +your horse Vampa?” + +“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the count; “but tell me, +does the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking +for him, but without success.” + +“He will be here tonight.” + +“In what part of the house?” + +“In the baroness’s box, I believe.” + +“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?” + +“Yes.” + +“I congratulate you.” + +Morcerf smiled. + +“We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he. +“But what do you think of the music?” + +“What music?” + +“Why, the music you have been listening to.” + +“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by +featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.” + +“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure +enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of +paradise?” + +30097m + + + +“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more +exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I +go to sleep.” + +“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what +else was opera invented for?” + +“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner +I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain +preparation——” + +“I know—the famous hashish!” + +“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with +music come and sup with me.” + +“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said +Morcerf. + +“Do you mean at Rome?” + +“I do.” + +“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haydée’s guzla; the poor exile +frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her +native land.” + +Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into +a silent reverie. + +The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain. + +“You will excuse my leaving you,” said the count, turning in the +direction of his box. + +“What? Are you going?” + +“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—— on the part of her +friend the vampire.” + +“And what message shall I convey to the baroness!” + +“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my +respects in the course of the evening.” + +The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf, +according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame +Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either +interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence, +therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in +which he had just seated himself. + +The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight +though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haydée, whose soul seemed +centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures, +delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear. + +30099m + + + +The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julia, and +Leroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the +Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella, +taking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic +strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and +mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured +forth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon. + +The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne +Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and +surprise. + +“You are welcome, count!” she exclaimed, as he entered. “I have been +most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing +can so ill express.” + +“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your +remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.” + +“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day +after your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame +de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity +restored to me.” + +30101m + + + +“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my +Nubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort.” + +“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the +hands of bandits?” + +“No, count,” replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by +the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your +thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your +debt—if indeed there existed one—and I feel almost mortified to find +you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to +honor me with an introduction to your daughter?” + +“Oh, you are no stranger—at least not by name,” replied Madame +Danglars, “and the last two or three days we have really talked of +nothing but you. Eugénie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her +daughter, “this is the Count of Monte Cristo.” + +The count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly. + +“You have a charming young person with you tonight, count,” said +Eugénie. “Is she your daughter?” + +“No, mademoiselle,” said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and +freedom of the question. “She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my +care.” + +“And what is her name?” + +“Haydée,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf. + +“Yes, indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever +see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly +served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?” + +“Did I hear rightly, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo “that you served at +Yanina?” + +“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and +it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality +of the illustrious Albanese chief.” + +“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. + +“Where?” stammered Morcerf. + +“There,” said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and +leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haydée, whose eyes +were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian, +perceived his pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the +young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to +assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint +cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people +about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door. + +“Why, count,” exclaimed Eugénie, “what has happened to your ward? she +seems to have been taken suddenly ill. + +“Very probably,” answered the count. “But do not be alarmed on her +account. Haydée’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is +peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers—nay, there are some +which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,” +continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have +an infallible remedy.” + +So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a +parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame +Danglars’ box. Upon his return to Haydée he found her still very pale. +As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist +and icy cold. + +“Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked. + +“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered Monte Cristo. “He tells me he +served your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him.” + +“Wretch!” exclaimed Haydée, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my +father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his +treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?” + +“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said Monte Cristo; “but the +particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my +child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.” + +“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain +long near that dreadful man.” + +So saying, Haydée arose, and wrapping herself in her burnouse of white +cashmere embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box +at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act. + +“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—— to Albert, who had returned to +her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most +devoutly to the third act of _Robert le Diable_, and when the fourth +begins, takes his departure.” + + + + Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks + +Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of +Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs-Élysées, which had already +assumed that palace-like appearance which the count’s princely fortune +enabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to +renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to +the count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars, +_née_ Hermine de Servieux.” + +Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s +conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the +count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was +convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity, +the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussée +d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to +examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a +man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera +with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of +money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to +give her a faithful account of the mode of life of this +incomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that +there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the +curiosity of the baroness. + +“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the count +inquired of Albert de Morcerf. + +“Yes, count, you know what I told you?” + +“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?” + +“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien,—and, considering +that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make, +he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed +cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and +the pictures. + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “I did not expect that the affair would be so +promptly concluded.” + +“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are +forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when, +again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the +progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M. +Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M. +Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father, +ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any +patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit +which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien, +who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugénie is +pretty—I think I remember that to be her name.” + +“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that +style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow.” + +“You speak as if you were already her husband.” + +“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien +was doing. + +“Really,” said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to +me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.” + +“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that +frightens me.” + +“Bah,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you +not rich yourself?” + +“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give +me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.” + +“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris +especially,” said the count; “but everything does not depend on wealth, +and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high +station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; +and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see +the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; +disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can +shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a +most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.” + +Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful. + +“There is still something else,” said he. + +“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in +comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and +beautiful.” + +“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, +is not all on my side.” + +“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the +marriage.” + +“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating +judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account +for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the +Danglars.” + +30107m + + + +“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily +explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement +itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with +one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.” + +“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do +know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite +miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to +talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of +indisposition——” + +“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling. + +“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless,—at any rate they postponed +the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet +twenty-one, and Eugénie is only seventeen; but the two months expire +next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my +mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!” + +“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from +being so?” + +“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not +marry Mademoiselle Danglars.” + +“Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the +shoulders. + +“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive +grief.” + +“Then do not marry her,” said the count. + +“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to +be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible +extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give +pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.” + +Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark. + +“Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at +the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right +hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are +you making a sketch after Poussin?” + +“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt +anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.” + +“In arithmetic?” + +“Yes; I am calculating—by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns +you—I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the +last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three +days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must +have made 300,000 livres.” + +“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a +million in Spaniards this last year?” + +“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who +will say to you, as the Italians do,— + + “‘Denaro e santità, + + Metà della metà.’9 + + +“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say +nothing.” + +“But you were speaking of Haitians?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Ah, Haitians,—that is quite another thing! Haitians are the _écarté_ +of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be +enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always +come back to _écarté_—it is not only a game, it is a _hors-d’œuvre_! M. +Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but +waited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of +gaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.” + +“And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?” asked Monte +Cristo. “I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing +intrigues.” + +“Because,” said Albert, laughing, “one piece of news follows another, +and there is often great dissimilarity between them.” + +“Ah,” said the count, “I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at +gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.” + +“It is not he who plays!” exclaimed Lucien; “it is Madame Danglars; she +is indeed daring.” + +“But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little +dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the +fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,” said Morcerf, with a +smile. + +“How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?” asked Lucien; +“you know the character of the baroness—no one has any influence with +her, and she does precisely what she pleases.” + +“Ah, if I were in your place——” said Albert. + +“Well?” + +“I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future +son-in-law.” + +“How would you set about it?” + +“Ah, that would be easy enough—I would give her a lesson.” + +“A lesson?” + +“Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority +great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but +the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a +hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.” + +“I do not understand,” stammered Lucien. + +“It is very clear, notwithstanding,” replied the young man, with an +artlessness wholly free from affectation; “tell her some fine morning +an unheard-of piece of intelligence—some telegraphic despatch, of which +you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen +yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the market; she will buy +heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the +following day, in his gazette, ‘The report circulated by some usually +well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s +house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his +majesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf.’” + +Lucien half smiled. Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had +not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had +even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary. +This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien +to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in +taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he +answered, “Willingly, count; I accept.” The count returned to young +Morcerf. + +“Do you not think, on reflection,” said he to him, “that you have done +wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M. +Debray?” + +“My dear count,” said Morcerf, “I beg of you not to apply that title so +prematurely.” + +“Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very +much averse to this marriage?” + +“So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my +mother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole +life.” + +“Then,” said the count, “I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M. +Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with +politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune +enabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of +dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be +beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting +M. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my +country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and +Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of +being a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look +upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the +honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in +aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to +stand high in her esteem.” + +“Indeed, count,” said Morcerf, “I thank you sincerely for having used +so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which +you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you +it is already yours to a very unusual extent.” + +30111m + + + +“Do you think so?” said Monte Cristo, with interest. + +“Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the +other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could +know of this attention on your part—and I will venture to tell her—I am +sure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father +will be equally angry.” The count laughed. + +“Well,” said he to Morcerf, “but I think your father will not be the +only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very +ill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you—that you +are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances—and they +will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not +invite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement +which shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact +to me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a +written document will be valid.” + +“I will do better than that,” said Albert; “my mother is wishing to go +to the sea-side—what day is fixed for your dinner?” + +“Saturday.” + +“This is Tuesday—well, tomorrow evening we leave, and the day after we +shall be at Tréport. Really, count, you have a delightful way of +setting people at their ease.” + +“Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what +will be agreeable to you, that is all.” + +“When shall you send your invitations?” + +“This very day.” + +“Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my +mother and myself must leave Paris tomorrow. I have not seen you, +consequently I know nothing of your dinner.” + +“How foolish you are! Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen +you at my house?” + +“Ah, true.” + +“Fix it this way. I have seen you, and invited you without any +ceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for +you to accept, as you were going to Tréport.” + +“Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother +before tomorrow?” + +“Before tomorrow?—that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides, +I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure.” + +“Well, you can do better. You were only a charming man before, but, if +you accede to my proposal, you will be adorable.” + +“What must I do to attain such sublimity?” + +“You are today free as air—come and dine with me; we shall be a small +party—only yourself, my mother, and I. You have scarcely seen my +mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely. +She is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist +another like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure +you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As +to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines +with the chief referendary. We will talk over our travels; and you, who +have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures—you shall tell +us the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night +at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a +princess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation, +and my mother will thank you.” + +“A thousand thanks,” said the count, “your invitation is most gracious, +and I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it. I am +not so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most +important engagement.” + +“Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an +invitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse. I require +the proof of a pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but +I am quite as incredulous as he is.” + +“I am going to give you a proof,” replied the count, and he rang the +bell. + +“Humph,” said Morcerf, “this is the second time you have refused to +dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her.” + +Monte Cristo started. “Oh, you do not mean that,” said he; “besides, +here comes the confirmation of my assertion.” + +Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door. + +“I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?” + +“Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer +for it.” + +“At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.” + +“Probably not.” + +“Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I +called you into my laboratory?” + +“To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,” +replied the valet. + +“What then?” + +“Ah, my dear count,” said Albert. + +“No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you +have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting +Manfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin.” + +“Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.” + +“You hear—Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti—a man who ranks amongst the most +ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth +canto of _The Inferno_, you remember it, do you not? Then there is his +son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount, +bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into +the Parisian world, aided by his father’s millions. The major will +bring his son with him this evening, the _contino_, as we say in Italy; +he confides him to my care. If he proves himself worthy of it, I will +do what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work, +will you not?” + +“Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, +then?” + +“By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and +agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of +very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence, +Bologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his +arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort +of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention +which you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a +passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the +man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your +journey. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of +Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire, +when he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he +will confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I +shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then +I shall have done my part.” + +“Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor,” said Albert “Good-bye, we +shall return on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz.” + +“Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy?” + +“I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you +were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy; +I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains.” + +“His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?” + +“No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible +and mysterious of beings.” + +“He is a charming young man,” said Monte Cristo “and I felt a lively +interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met +him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion +of mine. He is, I think, the son of General d’Épinay?” + +“He is.” + +“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?” + +“By the Bonapartists.” + +“Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial +engagement contemplated for him?” + +“Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.” + +“Indeed?” + +30115m + + + +“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert, +laughing. + +“You smile.” + +“Yes.” + +“Why do you do so?” + +“I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination +for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my +own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they +do of us; it is unpardonable.” + +Albert rose. + +“Are you going?” + +“Really, that is a good idea!—two hours have I been boring you to death +with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if +I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world. +And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite +a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get +such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see +in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit +themselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part +with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him.” + +“By all means.” + +“That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese, +Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing +to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her +mother’s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will +help you in the search.” + +“Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, really, nothing is certain in this world.” + +“Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a +hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain +a bachelor, even were it only for ten years.” + +“Nothing is impossible,” gravely replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave +of Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times. +Bertuccio appeared. + +“Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company +on Saturday at Auteuil.” Bertuccio slightly started. “I shall require +your services to see that all be properly arranged. It is a beautiful +house, or at all events may be made so.” + +“There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your +excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old.” + +“Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of +the sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that +exactly as it is.” Bertuccio bowed. “You will not touch the garden +either; as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should +prefer that being altered beyond all recognition.” + +“I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your +excellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency’s +commands concerning the dinner.” + +“Really, my dear M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “since you have been in +Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your +element; you no longer seem to understand me.” + +“But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you +are expecting to receive?” + +“I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do +so. ‘Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.” + +Bertuccio bowed, and left the room. + + + + Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti + +Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to +Morcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristo +as a pretext for declining Albert’s invitation. Seven o’clock had just +struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given +him, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the +door, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately +hurried away, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about +fifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts, +ornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their +popularity all over Europe. He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots +tolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too +thick in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape +those usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with +white, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will, +might have passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one. Such was +the picturesque costume of the person who rang at the gate, and +demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées that +the Count of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being answered by the porter +in the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to +ascend the steps. + +The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray +moustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had +received an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was +awaiting him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to +pronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival. He was +ushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to +meet him with a smiling air. + +“Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.” + +“Indeed,” said the Italian, “was your excellency then aware of my +visit?” + +“Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o’clock.” + +“Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?” + +“Of course.” + +“Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have +been forgotten.” + +30119m + + + +“What precaution?” + +“That of informing you beforehand of my coming.” + +“Oh, no, it has not.” + +“But you are sure you are not mistaken.” + +“Very sure.” + +“It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o’clock this +evening?” + +“I will prove it to you beyond a doubt.” + +“Oh, no, never mind that,” said the Italian; “it is not worth the +trouble.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Monte Cristo. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy. +“Let me see,” said the count; “are you not the Marquis Bartolomeo +Cavalcanti?” + +“Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,” joyfully replied the Italian; “yes, I am +really he.” + +“Ex-major in the Austrian service?” + +“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier. + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “you were a major; that is the title the +French give to the post which you filled in Italy.” + +“Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand——” + +“Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said +Monte Cristo. + +“No, certainly not.” + +“You were sent by some other person?” + +“Yes.” + +“By the excellent Abbé Busoni?” + +“Exactly so,” said the delighted major. + +“And you have a letter?” + +“Yes, there it is.” + +“Give it to me, then.” And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he +opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring +eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost +immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room. + +“Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a +descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’” continued Monte Cristo, +reading aloud, “‘possessing an income of half a million.’” + +Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed. + +“Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!” + +“Half a million, is it?” said the major. + +“Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctly +the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.” + +“Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea +that it was so much.” + +“Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation +in that quarter.” + +“You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show the +gentlemen the door.” + +Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter: + +“‘And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.’” + +“Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh. + +“‘Which is to recover a lost and adored son.’” + +“A lost and adored son!” + +“‘Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or +by the gypsies.’” + +“At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and +raising his eye to heaven. + +“Unhappy father,” said Monte Cristo. The count continued: + +“‘I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you +have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for +fifteen years.’” + +The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of +anxiety. + +“I have the power of so doing,” said Monte Cristo. The major recovered +his self-possession. + +“So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?” + +“Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?” + +“No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office, +as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a +joke; but your excellency has not read all.” + +“Ah, true,” said Monte Cristo “there is a postscript.” + +“Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes—there—is—a—postscript.” + +“‘In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his +banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling +expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which +you still owe me.’” + +The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with +great anxiety. + +“Very good,” said the count. + +“He said ‘very good,’” muttered the major, “then—sir——” replied he. + +“Then what?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“Then the postscript——” + +“Well; what of the postscript?” + +“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the +letter?” + +“Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open +between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I +am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference. +You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear +Monsieur Cavalcanti?” + +“I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in the +signature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other +funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found +myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.” + +“Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed +anywhere?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Why, really I know no one,” said the major. + +“But then you yourself are known to others?” + +“Yes, I am known, so that——” + +“Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.” + +“So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?” + +“Certainly, at your first request.” The major’s eyes dilated with +pleasing astonishment. “But sit down,” said Monte Cristo; “really I do +not know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept you +standing for the last quarter of an hour.” + +“Don’t mention it.” The major drew an armchair towards him, and +proceeded to seat himself. + +“Now,” said the count, “what will you take—a glass of sherry, port, or +Alicante?” + +“Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.” + +“I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will +you not?” + +“Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.” + +Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him. + +“Well?” said he in a low voice. + +“The young man is here,” said the valet de chambre in the same tone. + +“Into what room did you take him?” + +“Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.” + +“That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.” + +Baptistin left the room. + +“Really,” said the major, “I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am +giving you.” + +“Pray don’t mention such a thing,” said the count. Baptistin re-entered +with glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in +the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The +bottle was covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which +indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man’s face. +The major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The +count told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who +began by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction, +and then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine. + +30123m + + + +“So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in +great esteem—had all that could render a man happy?” + +“All,” said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, “positively +all.” + +“And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your +happiness?” + +“Only one thing,” said the Italian. + +“And that one thing, your lost child.” + +“Ah,” said the major, taking a second biscuit, “that consummation of my +happiness was indeed wanting.” The worthy major raised his eyes to +heaven and sighed. + +“Let me hear, then,” said the count, “who this deeply regretted son +was; for I always understood you were a bachelor.” + +“That was the general opinion, sir,” said the major, “and I——” + +“Yes,” replied the count, “and you confirmed the report. A youthful +indiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the +world at large?” + +The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at the +same time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose +his countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an +under-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still +announced the same polite curiosity. + +“Yes,” said the major, “I did wish this fault to be hidden from every +eye.” + +“Not on your own account, surely,” replied Monte Cristo; “for a man is +above that sort of thing?” + +“Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,” said the major with a smile +and a shake of the head. + +“But for the sake of the mother?” said the count. + +“Yes, for the mother’s sake—his poor mother!” cried the major, taking a +third biscuit. + +“Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring out +for him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcome +you.” + +“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal +gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false +tear. + +“She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she +not?” + +“She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.” + +“And her name was——” + +“Do you desire to know her name——?” + +“Oh,” said Monte Cristo “it would be quite superfluous for you to tell +me, for I already know it.” + +“The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing. + +“Oliva Corsinari, was it not?” + +“Oliva Corsinari!” + +“A marchioness?” + +“A marchioness!” + +“And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her +family?” + +“Yes, that was the way it ended.” + +“And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said Monte +Cristo. + +“What papers?” + +“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the +register of your child’s birth.” + +“The register of my child’s birth?” + +“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his +name Andrea?” + +“I believe so,” said the major. + +“What? You believe so?” + +“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a +time.” + +“Well, then,” said Monte Cristo “you have all the documents with you?” + +“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to +come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.” + +“That is unfortunate,” returned Monte Cristo. + +“Were they, then, so necessary?” + +“They were indispensable.” + +The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, _perbacco_, +indispensable, were they?” + +“Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to +the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?” + +“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.” + +“In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.” + +“It would be fatal to his interests.” + +“It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.” + +“_O peccato!_” + +“You must know that in France they are very particular on these points; +it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say, ‘We +love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair +in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have +papers which undeniably establish your identity.” + +“That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.” + +“Fortunately, I have them, though,” said Monte Cristo. + +“You?” + +“Yes.” + +“You have them?” + +“I have them.” + +“Ah, indeed?” said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey +frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his +forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000 +francs—“ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really +is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.” + +“I do not at all wonder at it—one cannot think of everything; but, +happily, the Abbé Busoni thought for you.” + +“He is an excellent person.” + +“He is extremely prudent and thoughtful.” + +“He is an admirable man,” said the major; “and he sent them to you?” + +“Here they are.” + +The major clasped his hands in token of admiration. + +“You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del +Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.” + +“Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with +astonishment. + +“And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé +of Saravezza.” + +“All quite correct.” + +“Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them +to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.” + +“I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them——” + +“Well, and if he were to lose them?” said Monte Cristo. + +“In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to +the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be +obtained.” + +“It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Almost an impossibility,” replied the major. + +“I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.” + +“I regard them as invaluable.” + +“Now,” said Monte Cristo “as to the mother of the young man——” + +“As to the mother of the young man——” repeated the Italian, with +anxiety. + +“As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——” + +“Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will +she be wanted in any way?” + +“No, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “besides, has she not——” + +“Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has——” + +30127m + + + +“Paid the last debt of nature?” + +“Alas, yes,” returned the Italian. + +“I knew that,” said Monte Cristo; “she has been dead these ten years.” + +“And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from +his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the +left and then the right eye. + +“What would you have?” said Monte Cristo; “we are all mortal. Now, you +understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to +tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for +fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all +in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent +him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you +wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the +reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived +since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.” + +“You think so?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Very well, then.” + +“If they should hear of the separation——” + +“Ah, yes; what could I say?” + +“That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family——” + +“By the Corsinari?” + +“Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might +become extinct.” + +“That is reasonable, since he is an only son.” + +“Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened +remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I +was preparing a surprise for you?” + +“An agreeable one?” asked the Italian. + +“Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his +heart.” + +“Hum!” said the major. + +“Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was +here.” + +“That who was here?” + +“Your child—your son—your Andrea!” + +“I did guess it,” replied the major with the greatest possible +coolness. “Then he is here?” + +“He is,” said Monte Cristo; “when the valet de chambre came in just +now, he told me of his arrival.” + +“Ah, very well, very well,” said the major, clutching the buttons of +his coat at each exclamation. + +“My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you must +have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare +the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is +not less impatient for it than yourself.” + +“I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti. + +“Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.” + +“You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to +present him to me yourself?” + +“No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview +will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of +nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by +this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too +fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for +yourself.” + +“By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs +which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling +expenses, and——” + +“And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. +Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.” + +The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly. + +“It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same +time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat. + +“For what?” said the count. + +“I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.” + +“Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a +receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I +think, quite unnecessary.” + +“Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.” + +“One word more,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Say on.” + +“You will permit me to make one remark?” + +“Certainly; pray do so.” + +“Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.” + +“Indeed,” said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete +satisfaction. + +“Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant +in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.” + +“That’s unfortunate.” + +“Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can +easily resume it when you leave Paris.” + +“But what shall I wear?” + +“What you find in your trunks.” + +“In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.” + +“I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring +one’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to +march with as little baggage as possible.” + +“That is just the case—precisely so.” + +“But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your +luggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue de +Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.” + +“Then, in these trunks——” + +“I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all +you are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand +occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not +forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always +wear them, for all that.” + +“Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at the +attention paid him by the count. + +“Now,” said Monte Cristo, “that you have fortified yourself against all +painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet +your lost Andrea.” + +Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry, +leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful +reception which he had received at the hands of the count. + + + + Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti + +The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin +had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of +graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab +about half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty +in recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for +admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red +beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so +particularly described to him. When the count entered the room the +young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the +gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he +rose quickly. + +“The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?” said he. + +“Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea +Cavalcanti?” + +“Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying his +words with a bow. + +“You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you +not?” said the count. + +“I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so +strange.” + +“The letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?” + +“Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception +of the one celebrated in the _Thousand and One Nights_——” + +“Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is +a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name +is Lord Wilmore.” + +“Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” said +Andrea. “He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met—at—ah—yes, indeed. +Well, monsieur, I am at your service.” + +“If what you say be true,” replied the count, smiling, “perhaps you +will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your +family?” + +“Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness which +gave proof of his ready invention. “I am (as you have said) the Count +Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of +the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at +Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income +amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I +myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my +tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my +existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my +own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At +length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my +father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for +information respecting him.” + +“Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” said +Monte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “and +you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend +Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.” + +The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not +once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he +had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice; +but at these words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed +here, and is seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My +father? Is my father here?” + +“Most undoubtedly,” replied Monte Cristo; “your father, Major +Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.” The expression of terror which, for the moment, +had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared. + +“Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And +you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?” + +“Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company. +The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the +quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might +furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he +one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now +offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be +found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of +ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent +to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were +in the south of France, I think?” + +“Yes,” replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, “I was in the south of +France.” + +“A carriage was to await you at Nice?” + +“Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to +Turin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and +from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.” + +30133m + + + +“Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for +it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we +have been able to trace your journey to this place.” + +“But,” said Andrea, “if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have +recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me.” + +“Oh, the voice of nature,” said Monte Cristo. + +“True,” interrupted the young man, “I had not looked upon it in that +light.” + +“Now,” replied Monte Cristo “there is only one source of uneasiness +left in your father’s mind, which is this—he is anxious to know how you +have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been +treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves +towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is +anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad +moral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely +more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover +if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been +weakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider +yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high +position to which your rank entitles you.” + +“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, “I hope no false +report——” + +“As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the +philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but +do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive. +Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been +interesting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the +position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until +he found him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is +here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave +me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite +aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as +rich as a gold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities +without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to +his instructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I +am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your +patron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to +you—misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree +diminish my regard for you—I would wish to know if they have not, in +some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in +which your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous +figure?” + +“Sir,” returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, “make your +mind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and who +always intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original +proprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make +the most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in +possession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to +increase the value, if possible. I have, therefore, received a very +good education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as +the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them +grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch +a higher price in the Roman market.” + +Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had not +expected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti. + +“Besides,” continued the young man, “if there did appear some defect in +education, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I +suppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which +accompanied my birth, and followed me through my youth.” + +“Well,” said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone, “you will do as you +please, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the +person most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not +divulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance, +and the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely +mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they +be gilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished +to represent to you, my dear count. You would hardly have recited your +touching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed +unlikely and unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, but +you would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a +mushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it is +not everyone who likes to be made the centre of observation and the +subject of unpleasant remark.” + +“I agree with you, monsieur,” said the young man, turning pale, and, in +spite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his +companion, “such consequences would be extremely unpleasant.” + +“Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,” said Monte Cristo, +“for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another. You +must resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man +of your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must +form honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice +which may attach to the obscurity of your former life.” + +Andrea visibly changed countenance. + +“I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,” said Monte +Cristo, “did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and a +sort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in +departing from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a +part quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being +hissed, which would be an act of folly.” + +“However, your excellency,” said Andrea, “in consideration of Lord +Wilmore, by whom I was recommended to you——” + +“Yes, certainly,” interrupted Monte Cristo; “but Lord Wilmore did not +omit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was +rather a stormy one. Ah,” said the count, watching Andrea’s +countenance, “I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely +to avoid that necessity that your father was sent for from Lucca. You +shall soon see him. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and +he is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has +been for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be +pardoned. We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In +short, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure +you.” + +“Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were +separated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides, +you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all +defects.” + +“He is a millionaire—his income is 500,000 francs.” + +“Then,” said the young man, with anxiety, “I shall be sure to be placed +in an agreeable position.” + +“One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an +income of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in +Paris.” + +“Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there.” + +“You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; ‘man proposes, and God +disposes.’” Andrea sighed. + +“But,” said he, “so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me +to quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum +you just now mentioned to me?” + +“You may.” + +“Shall I receive it from my father?” asked Andrea, with some +uneasiness. + +“Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore +will be the security for the money. He has, at the request of your +father, opened an account of 5,000 francs a month at M. Danglars’, +which is one of the safest banks in Paris.” + +“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea. + +“Only a few days,” replied Monte Cristo. “His service does not allow +him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together.” + +“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea +of his speedy departure. + +“Therefore,” said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his +meaning—“therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure +of your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?” + +“I hope you do not doubt it.” + +30137m + + + +“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find +your father awaiting you.” + +Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room. +Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring +in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from +the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived +that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied +by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and +advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps +approaching him. + +“Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the +count might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?” + +“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely. + +“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the same +tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is +to meet again!” + +“Indeed it is, after so long a separation.” + +“Will you not embrace me, sir?” said Andrea. + +30139m + + + +“If you wish it, my son,” said the major; and the two men embraced each +other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each +rested his head on the other’s shoulder. + +“Then we are once more reunited?” said Andrea. + +“Once more,” replied the major. + +“Never more to be separated?” + +“Why, as to that—I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so +accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.” + +“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I should be exceedingly +grieved to leave it.” + +“As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca; +therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can.” + +“But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in +possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my +descent.” + +“Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much +trouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands, +and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few +remaining years of my life.” + +“Where are these papers, then?” + +“Here they are.” + +Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his own +baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness +which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a +facility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and +with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the +contents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression +of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a +most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan: + +“Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to +the galleys?” + +The major drew himself up to his full height. + +“Why?—what do you mean by that question?” + +“I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with +impunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a +piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to +Toulon for five years, for change of air.” + +“Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?” said the major, +endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest +majesty. + +“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a +confidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?” + +The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice: + +“Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me +50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand +that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent.” + +The major looked anxiously around him. + +“Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,” said Andrea; “besides, we are +conversing in Italian.” + +“Well, then,” replied the major, “they paid me 50,000 francs down.” + +“Monsieur Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, “do you believe in fairy tales?” + +“I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have +faith in them.” + +“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some +proofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful of +gold. + +“Most palpable proofs,” said he, “as you may perceive.” + +“You think, then, that I may rely on the count’s promises?” + +“Certainly I do.” + +“You are sure he will keep his word with me?” + +“To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to +play our respective parts. I, as a tender father——” + +“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from +you.” + +“Whom do you mean by they?” + +“_Ma foi_, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the +letter; you received one, did you not?” + +“Yes.” + +“From whom?” + +“From a certain Abbé Busoni.” + +“Have you any knowledge of him?” + +“No, I have never seen him.” + +“What did he say in the letter?” + +“You will promise not to betray me?” + +“Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same.” + +“Then read for yourself;” and the major gave a letter into the young +man’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice: + +“‘You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to +become rich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris, +and demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. +30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken +from you at five years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In +order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this +letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in +Florence, at Signor Gozzi’s; also a letter of introduction to the Count +of Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember +to go to the count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening. + + +“(Signed) ‘Abbé Busoni.’” + + +“It is the same.” + +“What do you mean?” said the major. + +“I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same +effect.” + +“You?” + +“Yes.” + +“From the Abbé Busoni?” + +“No.” + +“From whom, then?” + +“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad +the Sailor.” + +“And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbé Busoni?” + +“You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you.” + +“You have seen him, then?” + +“Yes, once.” + +“Where?” + +“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you +as wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do.” + +“And what did the letter contain?” + +“Read it.” + +“‘You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you +wish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master?’” + + +“_Parbleu!_” said the young man; “was it possible there could be two +answers to such a question?” + +“‘Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de +Gênes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambéry, and +Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des +Champs-Élysées, on the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening, +and demand of him your father. You are the son of the Marchese +Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you +some papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear +under that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual +income of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably. I +enclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice, +and also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I +have directed to supply all your wants. + + +“‘Sinbad the Sailor.’” + + +“Humph,” said the major; “very good. You have seen the count, you say?” + +“I have only just left him.” + +“And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?” + +“He has.” + +“Do you understand it?” + +“Not in the least.” + +“There is a dupe somewhere.” + +“At all events, it is neither you nor I.” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Well, then——” + +“Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?” + +“No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, and +consent to be blindfolded.” + +“Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to +admiration.” + +“I never once doubted your doing so.” Monte Cristo chose this moment +for re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his +footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while +they were in the midst of this embrace, the count entered. + +“Well, marquis,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be in no way +disappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you.” + +“Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight.” + +“And what are your feelings?” said Monte Cristo, turning to the young +man. + +“As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness.” + +“Happy father, happy son!” said the count. + +“There is only one thing which grieves me,” observed the major, “and +that is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon.” + +“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have +had the honor of presenting you to some of my friends.” + +“I am at your service, sir,” replied the major. + +“Now, sir,” said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea, “make your +confession.” + +“To whom?” + +“Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances.” + +“_Ma foi!_ monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord.” + +“Do you hear what he says, major?” + +“Certainly I do.” + +“But do you understand?” + +“I do.” + +“Your son says he requires money.” + +“Well, what would you have me do?” said the major. + +“You should furnish him with some of course,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“I?” + +“Yes, you,” said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea, +and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man’s hand. + +“What is this?” + +“It is from your father.” + +“From my father?” + +“Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then, +he deputes me to give you this.” + +“Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?” + +“No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris.” + +“Ah, how good my dear father is!” + +“Silence,” said Monte Cristo; “he does not wish you to know that it +comes from him.” + +“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the notes +hastily into his pocket. + +“And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,” said Monte Cristo. + +“And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your +excellency?” asked Cavalcanti. + +“Ah,” said Andrea, “when may we hope for that pleasure?” + +“On Saturday, if you will—Yes.—Let me see—Saturday—I am to dine at my +country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28. +Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your +banker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should +know you, as he is to pay your money.” + +“Full dress?” said the major, half aloud. + +“Oh, yes, certainly,” said the count; “uniform, cross, knee-breeches.” + +“And how shall I be dressed?” demanded Andrea. + +30145m + + + +“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white +waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin +or Véronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do +not know their address. The less pretension there is in your attire, +the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to +buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go +to Baptiste for it.” + +“At what hour shall we come?” asked the young man. + +“About half-past six.” + +“We will be with you at that time,” said the major. The two Cavalcanti +bowed to the count, and left the house. Monte Cristo went to the +window, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm. + +“There go two miscreants;” said he, “it is a pity they are not really +related!” Then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go +to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more +sickening than hatred.” + +30147m + + + + + Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch + +Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure +surrounding M. de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate, half +screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides +spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our +acquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to arrive. He was +intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting +with anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk. + +At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure, +as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The +delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugénie, +which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was +expected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to +Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take +a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was +doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect +on her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover, +quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily +placed, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming +within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could +see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed, +unperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young +man, which seemed to say, “Have patience! You see it is not my fault.” + +And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally +contrasting the two girls,—one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a +figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette, +with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It +is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine +did not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went +away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars’ visit had +at last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the +garden alone. For fear that anyone should be observing her return, she +walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards +the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her +eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she +presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian. + +“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice. + +“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw +the cause of my delay.” + +“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were +so intimate with her.” + +“Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?” + +“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked +and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls +telling your secrets to each other.” + +“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she +was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and +I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to +think of marrying M. d’Épinay.” + +“Dear Valentine!” + +“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed +between me and Eugénie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not +love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections +were fixed.” + +“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which +can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm +which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the +fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.” + +“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.” + +“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you +both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at +all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot +understand how any man can really love her.” + +“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the +effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.” + +“No; but tell me—it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was +suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle +Danglars——” + +“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It +only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,” +interrupted Valentine. + +“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each +other.” + +“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of +excitement. But return to your question.” + +30151m + + + +“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf +on account of loving another?” + +“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.” + +“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly +intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see +you are smiling.” + +“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden +partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight +security.” + +“Come, what did she say?” + +“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked +the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an +independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father +might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her +friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.” + +“Ah, you see——” + +“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine. + +“Nothing,” replied Maximilian. + +“Then why did you smile?” + +“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, +Valentine.” + +“Do you want me to go away?” + +“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which +I wish to speak.” + +“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass +together.” + +“_Ma foi!_” said Maximilian, in consternation. + +“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause +you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I +bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.” + +“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and +feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five +minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a +deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, +harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to +separate us at last.” + +“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both, +Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.” + +“But why must you leave me so soon?” + +“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de +Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to +make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune, +I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will +leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were +poor, would you not, Maximilian?” + +“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or +poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one +could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication +may relate to your marriage?” + +“I do not think that is the case.” + +“However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you +that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!” + +“Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian?” + +“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you +that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.” + +“Well?” + +“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.” + +“What then?” + +“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his +immediate return.” Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against +the gate. + +“Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come +through Madame de Villefort.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because—I scarcely know why—but it has appeared as if Madame de +Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not +choose openly to oppose it.” + +“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.” + +“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad +smile. + +“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Épinay, she would be all the more +likely to listen to any other proposition.” + +“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort +objects, it is marriage itself.” + +“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry +herself?” + +“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of +retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks +which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the +proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was +only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the +project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye +when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I +had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my +resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on +me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his +lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such +remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I +exclaimed,—‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may +do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased +speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering +a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my +grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.” + +“Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know +what I—sabring right and left among the Bedouins—can have done to merit +your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, Heaven took into +consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But +tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining +unmarried?” + +“Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian—too rich? I +possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and +my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, will leave me +as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My +brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore, +be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this +fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his +son.” + +“Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should +be so avaricious.” + +“It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you +regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of +maternal love.” + +“But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your +fortune to her son?” + +“How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always +professes to be so entirely disinterested?” + +“Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something +sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and +hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even +my sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to +make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?” + +Valentine started. “A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I +tremble to give my permission.” + +“Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for anyone that sudden +and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it +had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the +first time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to +recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse, +and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits +must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior +to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of +the past?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first +saw that extraordinary man.” + +“Extraordinary, did you say?” + +“Yes.” + +“You have known him for some time, then?” + +“Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.” + +“And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight +or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the +title of friend.” + +“Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can +never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession +of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be +associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me, +and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to +come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according +to his own will.” + +“He must be a prophet, then,” said Valentine, smiling. + +“Indeed,” said Maximilian, “I have often been almost tempted to +attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a +wonderful power of foretelling any future good.” + +“Ah,” said Valentine in a mournful tone, “do let me see this man, +Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently +to make amends for all I have suffered.” + +“My poor girl, you know him already.” + +“I know him?” + +“Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son.” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“The same.” + +“Ah,” cried Valentine, “he is too much the friend of Madame de +Villefort ever to be mine.” + +“The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine, +you are mistaken?” + +“No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household +is almost unlimited. Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the +epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never +before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by +Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count’s large black eyes, +runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he +is sure to find some delightful present,—M. de Monte Cristo appears to +exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the +members of our family.” + +“If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt, +or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets +Albert de Morcerf in Italy—it is to rescue him from the hands of the +banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars—it is that he may +give her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his +door—it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man +evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards +men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater +magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget +it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever +looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you +will be happy.” + +“Me?” said the young girl, “he never even glances at me; on the +contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid +me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural +penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have +perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me +sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and +since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart +with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how +do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like +you, with a fierce moustache and a long sabre, but they think they may +crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.” + +“Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken.” + +“If it were otherwise—if he treated me diplomatically—that is to say, +like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in +the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its +occupants—he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the +smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he +understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no +attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame +de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in +his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any +reason. Ah, forgive me,” said Valentine, perceiving the effect which +her words were producing on Maximilian: “I have done wrong, for I have +given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even +know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you +speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has +been productive of evil rather than good.” + +“Well, Valentine,” said Morrel with a sigh, “we will not discuss the +matter further. I will not make a confidant of him.” + +“Alas!” said Valentine, “I see that I have given you pain. I can only +say how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I +am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this +Count of Monte Cristo has done for you.” + +30157m + + + +“I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say +that the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have +already told you, I have an instinctive affection for him, the source +of which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No; +he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see +you—nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No; +its odor charms one of my senses—that is all I can say when I am asked +why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable +as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be +something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of +friendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret +thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me +when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have +involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has +befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty +years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a +little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on +Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have +I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming +to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future +advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be +no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some +hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is +apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular +man, who appears to fathom the motives of everyone, has purposely +arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I +confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he +was in possession of the secret of our love.” + +“My good friend,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary, +and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk +in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything +more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My +father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of +refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is +burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own +house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father +to accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian,—there is no +one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my +grandfather, who is little better than a corpse—no support to cling to +but my mother in heaven!” + +“I see that you are right, logically speaking,” said Maximilian; “but +the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince +me today.” + +“I feel the same as regards yourself.” said Valentine; “and I own that, +if you have no stronger proof to give me——” + +“I have another,” replied Maximilian; “but I fear you will deem it even +more absurd than the first.” + +“So much the worse,” said Valentine, smiling. + +“It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service +have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for +I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which +directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in +order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side, +while it left me unharmed.” + +“Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers +for your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but +for you.” + +30159m + + + +“Yes, since you have known me,” said Morrel, smiling; “but that cannot +apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.” + +“You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but +let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.” + +“Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new +horse which I rode here.” + +“Ah! what a beautiful creature!” cried Valentine; “why did you not +bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?” + +“He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,” said Maximilian. “You know +that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man +of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw +this magnificent horse, which I have named Médéah. I asked the price; +they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it +up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy +heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his +head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most +delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with +him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me,—M. de +Château-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom +you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of _bouillotte_. I +never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently +poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so +there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did. + +“Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. +He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost +ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at +midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and +drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door. +The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed +at once to the stable. Médéah was standing at the rack, eating his hay. +I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent +himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs +into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my +intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs-Élysées. As I +rode by the count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows, +and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain. +Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess +this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of +procuring him.” + +“My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love +even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of +poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common, +every-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do +you hear?” + +“Ah, Valentine,” said Maximilian, “give me but one finger through this +opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I +may have the happiness of kissing it.” + +“Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two +shadows.” + +“As you will, Valentine.” + +“Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?” + +“Oh, yes!” + +Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her +whole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, +and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and +imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The little hand was +then immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying +towards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own +sensations. + + + + Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort + +We will now relate what was passing in the house of the king’s attorney +after the departure of Madame Danglars and her daughter, and during the +time of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which we +have just detailed. + +M. de Villefort entered his father’s room, followed by Madame de +Villefort. Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and +speaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years +in his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic. + +M. Noirtier was sitting in an armchair, which moved upon casters, in +which he was wheeled into the room in the morning, and in the same way +drawn out again at night. He was placed before a large glass, which +reflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move, +which would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room +and everything which was going on around him. M. Noirtier, although +almost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the new-comers with a quick +and intelligent expression, perceiving at once, by their ceremonious +courtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official +character. + +Sight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two +solitary sparks, remained to animate the miserable body which seemed +fit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one of +these senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still +occupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his +inner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller +sees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being +dwells beyond the silence and obscurity. + +Noirtier’s hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders; +while in his eyes, shaded by thick black lashes, was concentrated, as +it often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the +others, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were +formerly diffused over his whole body; and so although the movement of +the arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were +wanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all. He commanded with it; it +was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short, his +whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with +living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the +expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the +rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the +power of participation. Three persons only could understand this +language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and +the old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw +his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he +never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all +the old man’s happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by +means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read +in Noirtier’s look all the varied feelings which were passing in his +mind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she +answered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her +countenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained +between the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could +scarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a +fund of knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as +ever although clogged by a body rendered utterly incapable of obeying +its impulses. + +Valentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand his +thoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring +and devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions +of every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living, +thinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body. + +As to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for +five-and-twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was +seldom that Noirtier found it necessary to ask for anything, so prompt +was he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid. + +Villefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in +order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was +about to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man’s +vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only +indifference and _ennui_ which prevented him from so doing. He +therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois, +and after having seated himself at his father’s right hand, while +Madame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus: + +“I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come +with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one +which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either. +Madame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you.” + +Noirtier’s face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble, +while, on the contrary, Villefort’s eye was endeavoring to penetrate +into the inmost recesses of the old man’s heart. + +“This communication,” continued the procureur, in that cold and +decisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion, “will, +we are sure, meet with your approbation.” + +The eye of the invalid still retained that vacancy of expression which +prevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which +were passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more. + +“Sir,” resumed Villefort, “we are thinking of marrying Valentine.” Had +the old man’s face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less +emotion at this news than was now to be traced there. “The marriage +will take place in less than three months,” said Villefort. + +Noirtier’s eye still retained its inanimate expression. + +Madame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added: + +“We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have +always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only +now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she +is destined. It is one of the most desirable connections which could +possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and +every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely +happy,—his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M. +Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Épinay.” + +While his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old +man’s countenance. When Madame de Villefort pronounced the name of +Franz, the pupil of M. Noirtier’s eye began to dilate, and his eyelids +trembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an +individual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame +de Villefort and his son. The procureur, who knew the political hatred +which had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d’Épinay, +well understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had +produced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed +the narrative begun by his wife. + +“Sir,” said he, “you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her +nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no +time in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been +forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that +Valentine’s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for +that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should +live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each +other, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly +the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead +of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you +two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you.” + +30165m + + + +Noirtier’s look was furious; it was very evident that something +desperate was passing in the old man’s mind, for a cry of anger and +grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance, +appeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple +with the struggle. Villefort quietly opened a window, saying, “It is +very warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier.” He then returned to his +place, but did not sit down. + +“This marriage,” added Madame de Villefort, “is quite agreeable to the +wishes of M. d’Épinay and his family; besides, he had no relations +nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and +his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he +was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was +permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom +acknowledged any other authority but that of his own will.” + +“That assassination was a mysterious affair,” said Villefort, “and the +perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has +fallen on the head of more than one person.” + +Noirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile. + +“Now,” continued Villefort, “those to whom the guilt really belongs, by +whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may +probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would +rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a +peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so +ruthlessly destroyed.” Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion +more than could have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and +shattered frame. + +“Yes, I understand,” was the reply contained in his look; and this look +expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound +contempt. Villefort fully understood his father’s meaning, and answered +by a slight shrug of his shoulders. He then motioned to his wife to +take leave. + +“Now sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “I must bid you farewell. Would +you like me to send Edward to you for a short time?” + +It had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by +closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he +had some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven. If he +wanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the +left. At Madame de Villefort’s proposition he instantly winked his +eyes. + +Provoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said, “Then shall I +send Valentine to you?” The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby +intimating that such was his wish. + +M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that +Valentine should be summoned to her grandfather’s presence, and feeling +sure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the +perturbed spirit of the invalid. Valentine, with a color still +heightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had +quitted it. One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather +was suffering, and that there was much on his mind which he was wishing +to communicate to her. + +“Dear grandpapa,” cried she, “what has happened? They have vexed you, +and you are angry?” + +The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent. + +“Who has displeased you? Is it my father?” + +“No.” + +“Madame de Villefort?” + +“No.” + +“Me?” The former sign was repeated. + +“Are you displeased with me?” cried Valentine in astonishment. M. +Noirtier again closed his eyes. + +“And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with +me?” cried Valentine. + +There was no answer, and she continued: + +“I have not seen you all day. Has anyone been speaking to you against +me?” + +“Yes,” said the old man’s look, with eagerness. + +“Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa—Ah—M. and Madame de +Villefort have just left this room, have they not?” + +“Yes.” + +“And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was +it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of +making my peace with you?” + +“No, no,” said Noirtier’s look. + +“Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?” and she again tried to +think what it could be. + +“Ah, I know,” said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old +man. “They have been speaking of my marriage,—have they not?” + +“Yes,” replied the angry look. + +“I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on +the subject. The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping +the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They +did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered +them by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear +grandpapa. Pray forgive me.” + +But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say +was, “It is not only your reserve which afflicts me.” + +“What is it, then?” asked the young girl. “Perhaps you think I shall +abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am +married?” + +“No.” + +“They told you, then, that M. d’Épinay consented to our all living +together?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then why are you still vexed and grieved?” The old man’s eyes beamed +with an expression of gentle affection. + +“Yes, I understand,” said Valentine; “it is because you love me.” The +old man assented. + +“And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?” + +“Yes.” + +“You do not like M. Franz?” The eyes repeated several times, “No, no, +no.” + +“Then you are vexed with the engagement?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, listen,” said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and +putting her arm round her grandfather’s neck, “I am vexed, too, for I +do not love M. Franz d’Épinay.” + +An expression of intense joy illumined the old man’s eyes. + +“When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you +were with me?” A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid. “Well,” +continued Valentine, “the reason of my proposing it was that I might +escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair.” Noirtier’s +breathing came thick and short. + +“Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you +could but help me—if we could both together defeat their plan! But you +are unable to oppose them,—you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will +is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am +myself. Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me +in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my +joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them. +However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and Heaven has not taken +away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness.” + +At these words there appeared in Noirtier’s eye an expression of such +deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words +there: “You are mistaken; I can still do much for you.” + +“Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine. + +“Yes.” Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him +and Valentine when he wanted anything. + +“What is it you want, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine, and she +endeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be likely to +need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated +them aloud, then,—finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a +constant _“No,”_—she said, “Come, since this plan does not answer, I +will have recourse to another.” + +She then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When +she arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she +had spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted. + +“Ah,” said Valentine, “the thing you desire begins with the letter N; +it is with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you +want that begins with N? Na—Ne—Ni—No——” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” said the old man’s eye. + +“Ah, it is No, then?” + +“Yes.” + +Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before +Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the old man’s eye was +thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down +the columns. During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first +fell into this sad state, Valentine’s powers of invention had been too +often put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients +for gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so +perfected her in the art that she guessed the old man’s meaning as +quickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted. At +the word _Notary_, Noirtier made a sign to her to stop. + +30169m + + + +“Notary,” said she, “do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?” The old man +again signified that it was a notary he desired. + +“You would wish a notary to be sent for then?” said Valentine. + +“Yes.” + +“Shall my father be informed of your wish?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you +want?” + +“Yes.” Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell +Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M. +Noirtier’s room. + +“Are you satisfied now?” inquired Valentine. + +“Yes.” + +“I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that.” And the +young girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a child. M. de +Villefort entered, followed by Barrois. + +“What do you want me for, sir?” demanded he of the paralytic. + +“Sir,” said Valentine, “my grandfather wishes for a notary.” At this +strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged +looks. + +“Yes,” motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare +that with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what +his wishes were, he was quite prepared to maintain the contest. + +“Do you wish for a notary?” asked Villefort. + +“Yes.” + +“What to do?” + +Noirtier made no answer. + +“What do you want with a notary?” again repeated Villefort. The +invalid’s eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to +intimate that his resolution was unalterable. + +“Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is worth while?” said +Villefort. + +“Still,” said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant, +“if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really wishes for a +notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one.” Barrois +acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in +any way to be contradicted. + +30171m + + + +“Yes, I do want a notary,” motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with +a look of defiance, which seemed to say, “and I should like to see the +person who dares to refuse my request.” + +“You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,” said +Villefort; “but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make +excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous +one.” + +“Never mind that,” said Barrois; “I shall go and fetch a notary, +nevertheless.” And the old servant departed triumphantly on his +mission. + + + + Chapter 59. The Will + +As soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with +a malicious expression that said many things. The young girl perfectly +understood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became +clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily. He took a seat, and +quietly awaited the arrival of the notary. Noirtier saw him seat +himself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time +giving a side look at Valentine, which made her understand that she +also was to remain in the room. Three-quarters of an hour after, +Barrois returned, bringing the notary with him. + +“Sir,” said Villefort, after the first salutations were over, “you were +sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here. All his limbs have become +completely paralysed, he has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find +much trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning.” + +Noirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so +earnest and imperative, that she answered immediately. + +“Sir,” said she, “I perfectly understand my grandfather’s meaning at +all times.” + +“That is quite true,” said Barrois; “and that is what I told the +gentleman as we walked along.” + +“Permit me,” said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to +Valentine—“permit me to state that the case in question is just one of +those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act +without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing +necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be +thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and +wishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the +approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the +object of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me, +on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite +useless, and cannot be legally exercised.” + +The notary then prepared to retire. An imperceptible smile of triumph +was expressed on the lips of the procureur. Noirtier looked at +Valentine with an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the +departure of the notary. + +“Sir,” said she, “the language which I speak with my grandfather may be +easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it +almost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in +order to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject?” + +“In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation +or disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the +validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite.” + +“Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you +presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather +is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M. +Noirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey +his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify ‘yes,’ and to +wink when he means ‘no.’ You now know quite enough to enable you to +converse with M. Noirtier;—try.” + +Noirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it +was comprehended even by the notary himself. + +“You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying, +sir, have you?” asked the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes. + +“And you approve of what she said—that is to say, you declare that the +signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are +accustomed to convey your thoughts?” + +“Yes.” + +“It was you who sent for me?” + +“Yes.” + +“To make your will?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original +intentions?” The old man winked violently. + +“Well, sir,” said the young girl, “do you understand now, and is your +conscience perfectly at rest on the subject?” + +But before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside. + +“Sir,” said he, “do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a +physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment +to his mental faculties?” + +“It is not exactly that, sir,” said the notary, “which makes me uneasy, +but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so +as to be able to get his answers.” + +“You must see that to be an utter impossibility,” said Villefort. +Valentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed +his eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the +look. + +“Sir,” said she, “that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it +may at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my +grandfather’s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and +fears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and +let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a +thought which he was unable to make me understand.” + +“No,” signed the old man. + +“Let us try what we can do, then,” said the notary. “You accept this +young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you +wish to be drawn up?” + +Valentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W. At +this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was +to stop. + +“It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants,” +said the notary. + +“Wait,” said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated, +“Wa—We—Wi——” The old man stopped her at the last syllable. Valentine +then took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned +over the pages. + +She passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the +word “Will,” M. Noirtier’s eye bade her stop. + +“Will,” said the notary; “it is very evident that M. Noirtier is +desirous of making his will.” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” motioned the invalid. + +“Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary,” said the +astonished notary, turning to M. de Villefort. + +“Yes,” said the procureur, “and I think the will promises to be yet +more extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without +the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as +too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable +interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather.” + +“No, no, no,” replied the eye of the paralytic. + +“What?” said Villefort, “do you mean to say that Valentine is not +interested in your will?” + +“No.” + +“Sir,” said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and +who had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this +extraordinary and picturesque scene, “what appeared so impossible to me +an hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be +a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven +witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the +presence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very +much more than the generality of wills. There are certain forms +necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the +details, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in +which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having +had the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the +subject. But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be +contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity, +therefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom, +will assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir?” +continued the notary, addressing the old man. + +30175m + + + +“Yes,” looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready +interpretation of his meaning. + +“What is he going to do?” thought Villefort, whose position demanded +much reserve, but who was longing to know what his father’s intentions +were. He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent, +but Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master’s +wishes, and had already gone to fetch one. The procureur then told his +wife to come up. In the course of a quarter of an hour everyone had +assembled in the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also +arrived. + +A few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two +officers of the law. They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will, +in order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are +generally couched; then, in order to test the capacity of the testator, +the first notary said, turning towards him: + +“When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in +prejudice of some person.” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune?” + +“Yes.” + +“I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you +will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own +possessions?” + +“Yes.” + +There was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation. Never had the +struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it +was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle. They had +formed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a +table, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the +testator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we +have alluded. + +“Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?” asked he. Noirtier +made a sign that it did. + +“Do you possess 400,000 francs?” inquired the notary. Noirtier’s eye +remained immovable. + +“500,000?” The same expression continued. + +“600,000—700,000—800,000—900,000?” + +Noirtier stopped him at the last-named sum. + +“You are then in possession of 900,000 francs?” asked the notary. + +“Yes.” + +“In landed property?” + +“No.” + +“In stock?” + +“Yes.” + +“The stock is in your own hands?” + +The look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was +something wanting which he knew where to find. The old servant left the +room, and presently returned, bringing with him a small casket. + +“Do you permit us to open this casket?” asked the notary. Noirtier gave +his assent. + +They opened it, and found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first +notary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague. + +The total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated. + +“It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still +retains its full force and vigor.” Then, turning towards the paralytic, +he said, “You possess, then, 900,000 francs of capital, which, +according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring +in an income of about 40,000 livres?” + +“Yes.” + +“To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?” + +“Oh!” said Madame de Villefort, “there is not much doubt on that +subject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de +Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and +has, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had +almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that +she should reap the fruit of her devotion.” + +The eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression that he was not +deceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort’s words and +manner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain. + +“Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave +these 900,000 francs?” demanded the notary, thinking he had only to +insert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which +it was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this +singular scene. + +Valentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had +stepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast +down, and she was crying. The old man looked at her for an instant with +an expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the +notary, he significantly winked his eye in token of dissent. + +“What,” said the notary, “do you not intend making Mademoiselle +Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?” + +“No.” + +“You are not making any mistake, are you?” said the notary; “you really +mean to declare that such is not your intention?” + +“No,” repeated Noirtier; “No.” + +Valentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment. It was not so +much the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief, +but her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked +her grandfather to such an act. But Noirtier looked at her with so much +affectionate tenderness that she exclaimed: + +“Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you +deprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed.” + +“Ah, yes, most assuredly,” said the eyes of the paralytic, for he +closed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake. + +“Thank you, thank you,” murmured she. The old man’s declaration that +Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the +hopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and +said: + +“Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to +your grandson, Edward de Villefort?” + +The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and +terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred. + +“No?” said the notary; “then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de +Villefort?” + +“No.” The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and +inquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator. Villefort +and his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger. + +“What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine; “you no +longer seem to love any of us?” + +The old man’s eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and +rested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness. + +“Well,” said she; “if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love +to bear upon your actions at this present moment. You know me well +enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune; +besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother—too rich, +even. Explain yourself, then.” + +Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine’s hand. + +“My hand?” said she. + +“Yes.” + +“Her hand!” exclaimed everyone. + +“Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father’s mind is +really impaired,” said Villefort. + +“Ah,” cried Valentine suddenly, “I understand. It is my marriage you +mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of +joyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning. + +30179m + + + +“You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?” + +“Yes?” + +“Really, this is too absurd,” said Villefort. + +“Excuse me, sir,” replied the notary; “on the contrary, the meaning of +M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the +train of ideas passing in his mind.” + +“You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d’Épinay?” observed Valentine. + +“I do not wish it,” said the eye of her grandfather. + +“And you disinherit your granddaughter,” continued the notary, “because +she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?” + +“Yes.” + +“So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir?” + +“Yes.” + +There was a profound silence. The two notaries were holding a +consultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair. +Valentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense +gratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while +Madame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling +of joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance. + +“But,” said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence, “I +consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in +question. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my +daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz +d’Épinay—and she shall marry him.” + +Valentine sank weeping into a chair. + +“Sir,” said the notary, “how do you intend disposing of your fortune in +case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz?” +The old man gave no answer. + +“You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?” + +“Yes.” + +“In favor of some member of your family?” + +“No.” + +“Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?” pursued the +notary. + +“Yes.” + +“But,” said the notary, “you are aware that the law does not allow a +son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?” + +“Yes.” + +“You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which +the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son?” +Noirtier made no answer. + +“Do you still wish to dispose of all?” + +“Yes.” + +“But they will contest the will after your death?” + +“No.” + +“My father knows me,” replied Villefort; “he is quite sure that his +wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my +position I cannot plead against the poor.” The eye of Noirtier beamed +with triumph. + +“What do you decide on, sir?” asked the notary of Villefort. + +“Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know +he never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs +will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is +ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall, +therefore, act according to my conscience.” + +Having said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his +father at liberty to do as he pleased. The same day the will was made, +the witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in +the presence of all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family +notary. + + + + Chapter 60. The Telegraph + +M. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of +Monte Cristo, who had come to visit them in their absence, had been +ushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there. +Madame de Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her +late emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately, +retired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend +upon himself, proceeded at once to the salon. + +Although M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view, +he had completely masked the feelings which were passing in his mind, +he did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much +so that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his +sombre and thoughtful air. + +“_Ma foi!_” said Monte Cristo, after the first compliments were over, +“what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have I arrived at the +moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?” + +Villefort tried to smile. + +“No, count,” he replied, “I am the only victim in this case. It is I +who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have +caused it to be decided against me.” + +“To what do you refer?” said Monte Cristo with well-feigned interest. +“Have you really met with some great misfortune?” + +“Oh, no, monsieur,” said Villefort with a bitter smile; “it is only a +loss of money which I have sustained—nothing worth mentioning, I assure +you.” + +“True,” said Monte Cristo, “the loss of a sum of money becomes almost +immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your +philosophic spirit.” + +“It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,” said +Villefort, “though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but +I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to +call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may +blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old +man relapsed into second childhood.” + +30183m + + + +“What do you say?” said the count; “900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum +which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of +all this annoyance?” + +“My father, as I told you.” + +“M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely +paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?” + +“Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak, +nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described. +I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating +his will to two notaries.” + +“But to do this he must have spoken?” + +“He has done better than that—he has made himself understood.” + +“How was such a thing possible?” + +“By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you +perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.” + +“My dear,” said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room, +“perhaps you exaggerate the evil.” + +“Good-morning, madame,” said the count, bowing. + + + +Madame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most +gracious smiles. + +“What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?” demanded Monte +Cristo “and what incomprehensible misfortune——” + +“Incomprehensible is the word!” interrupted the procureur, shrugging +his shoulders. “It is an old man’s caprice!” + +“And is there no means of making him revoke his decision?” + +“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort; “and it is still entirely in the power +of my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of +Valentine, to be altered in her favor.” + +The count, who perceived that M. and Madame de Villefort were beginning +to speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation, +and feigned to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was +mischievously pouring some ink into the bird’s water-glass. + +“My dear,” said Villefort, in answer to his wife, “you know I have +never been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I +ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my +nod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in +my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child +should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained +for so many years. The Baron d’Épinay was my friend, as you know, and +an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly +be arranged.” + +“Do you think,” said Madame de Villefort, “that Valentine is in league +with him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should +not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing +but the execution of a plan concerted between them.” + +“Madame,” said Villefort, “believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is +not so easily renounced.” + +“She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir, +since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a +convent.” + +“Never mind,” replied Villefort; “I say that this marriage _shall_ be +consummated.” + +“Notwithstanding your father’s wishes to the contrary?” said Madame de +Villefort, selecting a new point of attack. “That is a serious thing.” + +Monte Cristo, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every +word that was said. + +30185m + + + +“Madame,” replied Villefort “I can truly say that I have always +entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural +feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral +superiority. The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be +reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to +obey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting +the wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his +anger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct +by such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect +toward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary +deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my +determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his +side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz +d’Épinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match +for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my +daughter’s hand on whomever I please.” + +“What?” said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had +frequently solicited during this speech. “What? Do you say that M. +Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to +marry M. le Baron Franz d’Épinay?” + +“Yes, sir, that is the reason,” said Villefort, shrugging his +shoulders. + +“The apparent reason, at least,” said Madame de Villefort. + +“The _real_ reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father.” + +“But I want to know in what way M. d’Épinay can have displeased your +father more than any other person?” + +“I believe I know M. Franz d’Épinay,” said the count; “is he not the +son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d’Épinay by Charles +X.?” + +“The same,” said Villefort. + +“Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas.” + +“He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier +to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in +their affection,” said Madame de Villefort. + +“But,” said Monte Cristo “do you not know any cause for this hatred?” + +“Ah, _ma foi!_ who is to know?” + +“Perhaps it is some political difference?” + +“My father and the Baron d’Épinay lived in the stormy times of which I +only saw the ending,” said Villefort. + +“Was not your father a Bonapartist?” asked Monte Cristo; “I think I +remember that you told me something of that kind.” + +“My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else,” said Villefort, +carried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence; “and the +senator’s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to +disguise the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father +conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for +M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian +schemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities, +and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible +theories of The Mountain,—theories that never shrank from any means +that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result.” + +“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “it is just as I thought; it was politics +which brought Noirtier and M. d’Épinay into personal contact. Although +General d’Épinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain +royalist sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one +evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited +on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?” + +Villefort looked at the count almost with terror. + +“Am I mistaken, then?” said Monte Cristo. + +“No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated,” said Madame +de Villefort; “and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M. +de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the +two children of these inveterate enemies.” + +“It was a sublime and charitable thought,” said Monte Cristo, “and the +whole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle +Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d’Épinay.” + +Villefort shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished to read +in his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he +had just uttered. But the count completely baffled the procureur, and +prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile +he was so constantly in the habit of assuming. + +“Although,” said Villefort, “it will be a serious thing for Valentine +to lose her grandfather’s fortune, I do not think that M. d’Épinay will +be frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in +greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice +everything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that +Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all +probability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran, her +mother’s parents, who both love her tenderly.” + +“And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier,” +said Madame de Villefort; “besides, they are to come to Paris in about +a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not +consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut +up with M. Noirtier.” + +The count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love +and defeated ambition. + +“But it seems to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and I must begin by asking +your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits +Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose +father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against +this dear Edward.” + +“True,” said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it +is impossible to describe; “is it not unjust—shamefully unjust? Poor +Edward is as much M. Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if +she had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left +her all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her +grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he.” + +The count listened and said no more. + +“Count,” said Villefort, “we will not entertain you any longer with our +family misfortunes. It is true that my patrimony will go to endow +charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my +lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have +the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and +feeling. M. d’Épinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum, +shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations.” + +“However,” said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which +incessantly occupied her mind, “perhaps it would be better to explain +this unlucky affair to M. d’Épinay, in order to give him the +opportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle +de Villefort.” + +“Ah, that would be a great pity,” said Villefort. + +“A great pity,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Undoubtedly,” said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice, “a +marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit +on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to +put an end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M. +d’Épinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than +ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a +decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible.” + +“I agree with M. de Villefort,” said Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on +Madame de Villefort; “and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to +allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told +M. d’Épinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all +possibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project +which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort.” + +The procureur arose, delighted with the proposition, but his wife +slightly changed color. + +“Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor +such as you are,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo. +“Therefore let everyone here look upon what has passed today as if it +had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as +a change in our original plans.” + +“Sir,” said the count, “the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased +with your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M. +d’Épinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry, +which he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a +family which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and +fulfil a duty.” + +At the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart. + +“Are you going to leave us, count?” said Madame de Villefort. + +“I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of +your promise for Saturday.” + +“Did you fear that we should forget it?” + +“You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important +and urgent occupations.” + +“My husband has given me his word, sir,” said Madame de Villefort; “you +have just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose, +and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has +everything to gain.” + +“And,” said Villefort, “is it at your house in the Champs-Élysées that +you receive your visitors?” + +“No,” said Monte Cristo, “which is precisely the reason which renders +your kindness more meritorious,—it is in the country.” + +“In the country?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?” + +“Very near, only half a league from the Barriers,—it is at Auteuil.” + +“At Auteuil?” said Villefort; “true, Madame de Villefort told me you +lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in +what part of Auteuil do you reside?” + +“Rue de la Fontaine.” + +“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what +number?” + +“No. 28.” + +“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s +house!” + +“Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?” demanded Monte Cristo. + +“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it, +count——” + +“Believe what?” + +“You think this house pretty, do you not?” + +“I think it charming.” + +“Well, my husband would never live in it.” + +“Indeed?” returned Monte Cristo, “that is a prejudice on your part, M. +de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.” + +“I do not like Auteuil, sir,” said the procureur, making an evident +effort to appear calm. + +“But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me +of the pleasure of your company, sir,” said Monte Cristo. + +“No, count,—I hope—I assure you I shall do my best,” stammered +Villefort. + +“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six +o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall +think—for how do I know to the contrary?—that this house, which has +remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition +or dreadful legend connected with it.” + +“I will come, count,—I will be sure to come,” said Villefort eagerly. + +“Thank you,” said Monte Cristo; “now you must permit me to take my +leave of you.” + +“You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,” said +Madame de Villefort, “and you were about to tell us why when your +attention was called to some other subject.” + +“Indeed madame,” said Monte Cristo: “I scarcely know if I dare tell you +where I am going.” + +“Nonsense; say on.” + +“Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for +hours together.” + +“What is it?” + +“A telegraph. So now I have told my secret.” + +“A telegraph?” repeated Madame de Villefort. + +“Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on +a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every +direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I +assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could +not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should +be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the +distance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting +at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at +the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of +volition on the part of the sender of the message. I began to think of +genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult +sciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination. +Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these +large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find +under their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with +cabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned +that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for +twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the +heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler, +or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him, +but all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied, +black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At +length I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and +to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors +when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of +string.” + +30191m + + + +“And are you going there?” + +“I am.” + +“What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or +of the observatory?” + +“Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand +things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to +explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not +understand. _Ma foi!_ I should wish to keep my illusions concerning +insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I +had formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either +of these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a +good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is +employed to work.” + +“You are a singular man,” said Villefort. + +“What line would you advise me to study?” + +“The one that is most in use just at this time.” + +“The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?” + +“Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain +to you——” + +“No,” said Monte Cristo; “since, as I told you before, I do not wish to +comprehend it. The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a +telegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duchâtel, +or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified +by two Greek words, _têle_, _graphein_. It is the insect with black +claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in +all its purity and all its importance.” + +“Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will +not be able to see anything.” + +“_Ma foi!_ you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne?” + +“Yes; the road to Bayonne.” + +“And afterwards the road to Châtillon?” + +“Yes.” + +“By the tower of Montlhéry, you mean?” + +“Yes.” + +“Thank you. Good-bye. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions +concerning the telegraph.” + +At the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just +completed the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were +leaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not +fail of redounding considerably to their credit. + + + + Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice that Eat His + Peaches + +Not on the same night as he had stated, but the next morning, the Count +of Monte Cristo went out by the Barrière d’Enfer, taking the road to +Orléans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the +telegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count +reached the tower of Montlhéry, situated, as everyone knows, upon the +highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the +count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about +eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself +stopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and +white flowers. + +Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long +in finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened +with a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate +opened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet +long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which +contained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the +other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers. + +No one would have thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten, +floral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed +up to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have +been capable of telling strange things, if,—in addition to the menacing +ears which the proverb says all walls are provided with,—it had also a +voice. + +The garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of +thick box, of many years’ growth, and of a tone and color that would +have delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was +formed in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a +walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty. + +Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been +honored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was +paid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees +which formed the _parterre_, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor +were there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so +destructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not +because the damp had been excluded from the garden; the earth, black as +soot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides, +had natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately +supplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk in one of +the corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a +toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two +opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of grass to be seen +in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained +and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, in her +porcelain _jardinière_ with more pains than this hitherto unseen +gardener bestowed upon his little enclosure. + +Monte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the +string to the nail, and cast a look around. + +“The man at the telegraph,” said he, “must either engage a gardener or +devote himself passionately to agriculture.” + +Suddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow +filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of +astonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a man about fifty +years old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon +grape leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries, +which, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand. + +“You are gathering your crop, sir?” said Monte Cristo, smiling. + +30193m + + + +“Excuse me, sir,” replied the man, raising his hand to his cap; “I am +not up there, I know, but I have only just come down.” + +“Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,” said the +count; “gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left.” + +“I have ten left,” said the man, “for here are eleven, and I had +twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the +spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir. +This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have +this year, you see, eleven, already plucked—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, +fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here +last night, sir—I am sure they were here—I counted them. It must be the +son of Mère Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here +this morning. Ah, the young rascal—stealing in a garden—he does not +know where that may lead him to.” + +“Certainly, it is wrong,” said Monte Cristo, “but you should take into +consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent.” + +“Of course,” said the gardener, “but that does not make it the less +unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an +officer that I am detaining here.” And he glanced timidly at the +count’s blue coat. + +30197m + + + +“Calm yourself, my friend,” said the count, with the smile which he +made at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed +only the kindliest feeling; “I am not an inspector, but a traveller, +brought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to +lose your time.” + +“Ah, my time is not valuable,” replied the man with a melancholy smile. +“Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but, +having received the signal that I might rest for an hour” (here he +glanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of +Montlhéry, even a sun-dial), “and having ten minutes before me, and my +strawberries being ripe, when a day longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think +dormice eat them?” + +“Indeed, I should think not,” replied Monte Cristo; “dormice are bad +neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did.” + +“What? Did the Romans eat them?” said the gardener—“ate dormice?” + +“I have read so in Petronius,” said the count. + +“Really? They can’t be nice, though they do say ‘as fat as a dormouse.’ +It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to +eat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots—they stole one, I +had one nectarine, only one—well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall; +a splendid nectarine—I never ate a better.” + +“You ate it?” + +“That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was +exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels; +like Mère Simon’s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But +this year,” continued the horticulturist, “I’ll take care it shall not +happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch +when the strawberries are ripe.” + +Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man has a devouring passion in his +heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was +horticulture. He began gathering the grape-leaves which screened the +sun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener. + +“Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?” he said. + +“Yes, if it isn’t contrary to the rules.” + +“Oh, no,” said the gardener; “not in the least, since there is no +danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying.” + +“I have been told,” said the count, “that you do not always yourselves +understand the signals you repeat.” + +“That is true, sir, and that is what I like best,” said the man, +smiling. + +“Why do you like that best?” + +“Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and +nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me.” + +“Is it possible,” said Monte Cristo to himself, “that I can have met +with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans.” + +“Sir,” said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, “the ten minutes +are almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?” + +“I follow you.” + +Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into three stories. +The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots, +hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the +man’s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it contained a few +poor articles of household furniture—a bed, a table, two chairs, a +stone pitcher—and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which the +count recognized as sweet peas, and of which the good man was +preserving the seeds; he had labelled them with as much care as if he +had been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes. + +“Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?” asked +Monte Cristo. + +“The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that +was so tedious.” + +“And what is the pay?” + +“A thousand francs, sir.” + +“It is nothing.” + +“No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.” + +Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was +the telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in turn at the two iron handles +by which the machine was worked. “It is very interesting,” he said, +“but it must be very tedious for a lifetime.” + +“Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end +of a year I became used to it; and then we have our hours of +recreation, and our holidays.” + +“Holidays?” + +“Yes.” + +“When?” + +“When we have a fog.” + +“Ah, to be sure.” + +“Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I +prune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long.” + +“How long have you been here?” + +“Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen.” + +“You are——” + +“Fifty-five years old.” + +“How long must you have served to claim the pension?” + +“Oh, sir, twenty-five years.” + +“And how much is the pension?” + +“A hundred crowns.” + +“Poor humanity!” murmured Monte Cristo. + +“What did you say, sir?” asked the man. + +“I was saying it was very interesting.” + +“What was?” + +“All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these +signals?” + +“None at all.” + +“And have you never tried to understand them?” + +“Never. Why should I?” + +“But still there are some signals only addressed to you.” + +“Certainly.” + +“And do you understand them?” + +“They are always the same.” + +“And they mean——” + +“‘_Nothing new; You have an hour;_’ or ‘_Tomorrow_.’” + +“This is simple enough,” said the count; “but look, is not your +correspondent putting itself in motion?” + +“Ah, yes; thank you, sir.” + +“And what is it saying—anything you understand?” + +“Yes; it asks if I am ready.” + +“And you reply?” + +“By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand +correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand +correspondent to prepare in his turn.” + +“It is very ingenious,” said the count. + +“You will see,” said the man proudly; “in five minutes he will speak.” + +“I have, then, five minutes,” said Monte Cristo to himself; “it is more +time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a +question?” + +“What is it, sir?” + +“You are fond of gardening?” + +“Passionately.” + +“And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty +feet, an enclosure of two acres?” + +“Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it.” + +“You live badly on your thousand francs?” + +“Badly enough; but yet I do live.” + +“Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden.” + +“True, the garden is not large.” + +“And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat +everything.” + +“Ah, they are my scourges.” + +“Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your +right-hand correspondent was telegraphing——” + +“I should not see him.” + +“Then what would happen?” + +“I could not repeat the signals.” + +“And then?” + +“Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined.” + +“How much?” + +“A hundred francs.” + +“The tenth of your income—that would be fine work.” + +“Ah!” said the man. + +“Has it ever happened to you?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree.” + +“Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?” + +“Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my +pension.” + +“Three hundred francs?” + +“A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any +of these things.” + +“Not even for fifteen years’ wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?” + +“For fifteen thousand francs?” + +“Yes.” + +“Sir, you alarm me.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“Sir, you are tempting me?” + +“Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?” + +“Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent.” + +“On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this.” + +“What is it?” + +“What? Do you not know these bits of paper?” + +“Bank-notes!” + +“Exactly; there are fifteen of them.” + +“And whose are they?” + +“Yours, if you like.” + +“Mine?” exclaimed the man, half-suffocated. + +“Yes; yours—your own property.” + +“Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling.” + +“Let him signal.” + +“Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined.” + +“That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to +take my bank-notes.” + +“Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is +impatient.” + +“Never mind—take these;” and the count placed the packet in the man’s +hands. “Now this is not all,” he said; “you cannot live upon your +fifteen thousand francs.” + +“I shall still have my place.” + +“No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent’s +message.” + +“Oh, sir, what are you proposing?” + +“A jest.” + +“Sir, unless you force me——” + +“I think I can effectually force you;” and Monte Cristo drew another +packet from his pocket. “Here are ten thousand more francs,” he said, +“with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make +twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little +house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring +you in a thousand francs a year.” + +“A garden with two acres of land!” + +“And a thousand francs a year.” + +“Oh, heavens!” + +“Come, take them,” and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes into his +hand. + +“What am I to do?” + +“Nothing very difficult.” + +“But what is it?” + +“To repeat these signs.” Monte Cristo took a paper from his pocket, +upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order +in which they were to be worked. + +“There, you see it will not take long.” + +“Yes; but——” + +“Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest.” + +The shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his +brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by +the count, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand +correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the +gardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously +repeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted to the +Minister of the Interior. + +“Now you are rich,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Yes,” replied the man, “but at what a price!” + +“Listen, friend,” said Monte Cristo. “I do not wish to cause you any +remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no +man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind.” + +The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale, +then red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he +had no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his +dried herbs. Five minutes after the new telegram reached the minister, +Debray had the horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars’ +house. + +“Has your husband any Spanish bonds?” he asked of the baroness. + +“I think so, indeed! He has six millions’ worth.” + +“He must sell them at whatever price.” + +“Why?” + +“Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain.” + +30203m + + + +“How do you know?” Debray shrugged his shoulders. + +“The idea of asking how I hear the news,” he said. + +The baroness did not wait for a repetition; she ran to her husband, who +immediately hastened to his agent, and ordered him to sell at any +price. When it was seen that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell +directly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand francs; but he rid +himself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the following was +read in _Le Messager_: + +“[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his +guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian +frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor.” + +All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars, +who had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only +lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept +their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as +ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning _Le Moniteur_ +contained the following: + +“It was without any foundation that _Le Messager_ yesterday announced +the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don +Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of +profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to +the fog, was the cause of this error.” + +The funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This, +reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, made the difference +of a million to Danglars. + +“Good,” said Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house when the news +arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had been +the victim, “I have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand +francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand.” + +“What have you discovered?” asked Morrel. + +“I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that +eat his peaches.” + + + + Chapter 62. Ghosts + +At first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no +indications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destined +residence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicity +was according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing +to be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost before +the door opened, the scene changed. + +M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing, +and in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc +d’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed +Louis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court +with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of +the house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones, +half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid +down, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the +orders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to +Bertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the +shape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of the +paving-stones. + +Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself +declared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework +of trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it, +to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had +positively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however, +by loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with +flowers. + +What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the +profound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of +the other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so +sad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy +to be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of +life, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the very +light regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had +under his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favorite +pictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the +antechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with +their music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like the +sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses +we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them, +we leave a part of our souls. + +The servants passed gayly along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to +the kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day, +as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the +coach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to +have been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the +horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much +more respect than many servants pay their masters. + +The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and +contained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely +devoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the +day before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red +and gold binding. + +On the other side of the house, to match with the library, was the +conservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars; +and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and +smell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned +during the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth. + +One chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio. +Before this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by +the back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio +with terror. + +At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at +Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival with +impatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments, +while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo +descended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving +any sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom, +situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a +little piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a +previous visit. + +“That can only be to hold gloves,” he said. + +“Will your excellency deign to open it?” said the delighted Bertuccio, +“and you will find gloves in it.” + +Elsewhere the count found everything he required—smelling-bottles, +cigars, knick-knacks. + +30207m + + + +“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so +powerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all who +surrounded him. + +At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at the +entrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on Médéah. +“I am sure I am the first,” cried Morrel; “I did it on purpose to have +you a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a +thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell +me, count, will your people take care of my horse?” + +“Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian—they understand.” + +“I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he +came—like the wind!” + +“I should think so,—a horse that cost 5,000 francs!” said Monte Cristo, +in the tone which a father would use towards a son. + +“Do you regret them?” asked Morrel, with his open laugh. + +“I? Certainly not,” replied the count. “No; I should only regret if the +horse had not proved good.” + +“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of the +best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s +Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars, +who always go at six leagues an hour.” + +“Then they follow you?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“See, they are here.” And at the same minute a carriage with smoking +horses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate, +which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the +steps, followed by the horsemen. + +The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door. +He offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a +peculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but Monte Cristo. But +nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note, +passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the +hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary. + +After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued +from his tomb instead of his carriage. + +Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be +interpreted by Monte Cristo, around the courtyard, over the peristyle, +and across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion, +which must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her +color, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel: + +“Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell +your horse.” + +Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned +round to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to extricate him from his +embarrassment. The count understood him. + +“Ah, madame,” he said, “why did you not make that request of me?” + +“With you, sir,” replied the baroness, “one can wish for nothing, one +is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——” + +“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannot +give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.” + +“How so?” + +“He laid a wager he would tame Médéah in the space of six months. You +understand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time +named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was +afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify +a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred +obligations in the world.” + +“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile +on Monte Cristo. + +“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a +forced smile, “that you have already got horses enough.” + +Madame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed, +but, to the surprise of the young people, she pretended not to hear it, +and said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at her unusual humility, and +showed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants, +of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness +was astonished. + +“Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the +Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?” + +“Ah! madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “you must not ask of us, the +manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of +another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.” + +“How so?—at what period can that have been?” + +“I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven +built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were +successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten +were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing +what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them +with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by +two hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a +revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and +only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their +descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents +were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended +in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they +were thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been +broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, +misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in +which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the +pursuit of their enemies.” + +Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was +mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one +after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at +the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree, +pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though +awaking from a dream. + +“Sir,” said Monte Cristo to him, “I do not recommend my pictures to +you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are +two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, +a Van Dyck, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.” + +“Stay,” said Debray; “I recognize this Hobbema.” + +“Ah, indeed!” + +“Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.” + +“Which, I believe, does not contain one?” said Monte Cristo. + +“No; and yet they refused to buy it.” + +“Why?” said Château-Renaud. + +“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.” + +“Ah, pardon me,” said Château-Renaud; “I have heard of these things +every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them +yet.” + +“You will, by and by,” said Debray. + +“I think not,” replied Château-Renaud. + +“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced +Baptistin. + +A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a +bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five +crosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was the +appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom +we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new +clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son, +whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the +entrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and +then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began +criticising. + +“Cavalcanti!” said Debray. + +“A fine name,” said Morrel. + +“Yes,” said Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly +dressed.” + +“You are fastidious, Château-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothes +are well cut and quite new.” + +“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well +dressed for the first time in his life.” + +“Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of Monte Cristo. + +“You heard—Cavalcanti.” + +“That tells me their name, and nothing else.” + +“Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all +descended from princes.” + +“Have they any fortune?” + +“An enormous one.” + +“What do they do?” + +“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from +what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them +here today on your account. I will introduce you to them.” + +“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said +Danglars. + +“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near +Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.” + +“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars. + +“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from +Paris.” + +“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders. +Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any +other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she +controlled herself. + +“The baron appears thoughtful today,” said Monte Cristo to her; “are +they going to put him in the ministry?” + +“Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse, +and has lost money.” + +“M. and Madame de Villefort,” cried Baptistin. + +They entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his self-control, was +visibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt it +tremble. + +“Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Cristo to +himself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the procureur, +and embracing his wife. + +After a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been +occupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room. +He went to him. + +“What do you want, M. Bertuccio?” said he. + +“Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.” + +“Ah, true.” + +“How many covers?” + +“Count for yourself.” + +“Is everyone here, your excellency?” + +“Yes.” + +Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched +him. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. + +“What is the matter?” said the count. + +“That woman—that woman!” + +“Which?” + +“The one with a white dress and so many diamonds—the fair one.” + +“Madame Danglars?” + +“I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!” + +“Whom do you mean?” + +“The woman of the garden!—she that was _enceinte_—she who was walking +while she waited for——” + +Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair +on end. + +“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort +with something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo. + +“Oh, oh!” he at length muttered, “do you see?” + +“What? Who?” + +“Him!” + +“Him!—M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.” + +“Then I did not kill him?” + +“Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,” said the count. + +“Then he is not dead?” + +30213m + + + +“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the +sixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have +struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or +rather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a fright +of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of +thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had +the nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M. +and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de +Château-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo +Cavalcanti, eight.” + +“Eight!” repeated Bertuccio. + +“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of my +guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti, +the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s ‘Madonna’; now he +is turning.” + +This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look +from Monte Cristo silenced him. + +“Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!” + +“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the count +severely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;” +and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the +wall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards +the doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing +said, with a violent effort, “The dinner waits.” + +The Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Madame de Villefort. “M. +de Villefort,” he said, “will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?” + +Villefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room. + + + + Chapter 63. The Dinner + +It was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering +the dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them +to this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they +still felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events, +the solitary and eccentric position of the count, his enormous, nay, +almost incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have +altogether prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of +their own sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to +lead them to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum. + +And all present, even including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding +the stiffness of the one and the carelessness of the other, were +thoughtful, on finding themselves assembled at the house of this +incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars had started when Villefort, on +the count’s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his +glance was uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of +the baroness press upon his own. None of this had escaped the count, +and even by this mere contact of individuals the scene had already +acquired considerable interest for an observer. + +M. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on his left +Morrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and Danglars; +the other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between the two +Cavalcanti, and by Château-Renaud, seated between Madame de Villefort +and Morrel. + +The repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo had endeavored completely to +overturn the Parisian ideas, and to feed the curiosity as much as the +appetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to +them, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to +prepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe +could provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare +birds, retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread +upon massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the +Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose +grotesque shape seemed to give an additional flavor to the draught,—all +these, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his +guests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians, +who understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a +dinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls, +like Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de’ Medici. + +Monte Cristo noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing and +joking about it. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “you will admit that, when arrived at a certain +degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be +desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a +certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be more exalted. Now, +to follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous?—that which we do +not understand. What is it that we really desire?—that which we cannot +obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure +impossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by +two means—my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit +of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new railway line; +you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray, +in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Château-Renaud, in pleasing a woman; +and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one can ride. For example, +you see these two fish; one brought from fifty leagues beyond St. +Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to +see them both on the same table?” + +“What are the two fish?” asked Danglars. + +“M. Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of +one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of +the other.” + +“This one is, I think, a sterlet,” said Château-Renaud. + +“And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey.” + +“Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught.” + +“Sterlets,” said Château-Renaud, “are only found in the Volga.” + +“And,” said Cavalcanti, “I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies +lampreys of that size.” + +“Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro.” + +“Impossible!” cried all the guests simultaneously. + +“Well, this is just what amuses me,” said Monte Cristo. “I am like +Nero—_cupitor impossibilium_; and that is what is amusing you at this +moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no +better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it, +and here it is.” + +“But how could you have these fish brought to France?” + +“Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask—one filled +with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they +were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived +twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized +them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe +me, M. Danglars!” + +“I cannot help doubting,” answered Danglars with his stupid smile. + +“Baptistin,” said the count, “have the other fish brought in—the +sterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are +yet alive.” + +Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their hands. +Four servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants, and in +each of which was breathing a fish similar to those on the table. + +“But why have two of each sort?” asked Danglars. + +“Merely because one might have died,” carelessly answered Monte Cristo. + +“You are certainly an extraordinary man,” said Danglars; “and +philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich.” + +“And to have ideas,” added Madame Danglars. + +“Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans, +who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from +Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the +_mulus_, and which, from the description, must probably be the +goldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being +an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color +three or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass +through all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the +kitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit—if they were not seen +alive, they were despised when dead.” + +“Yes,” said Debray, “but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome.” + +“True,” said Monte Cristo; “but what would be the use of living +eighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he +could?” + +The two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense +not to say anything. + +“All this is very extraordinary,” said Château-Renaud; “still, what I +admire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which +your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this +house five or six days ago?” + +“Certainly not longer.” + +“Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember +rightly, it had another entrance, and the courtyard was paved and +empty; while today we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which +appear to be a hundred years old.” + +“Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort, “the door was towards the road before, +and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house +from the road, I remember.” + +“Yes, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “but I preferred having an entrance +which would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate.” + +“In four days,” said Morrel; “it is extraordinary!” + +“Indeed,” said Château-Renaud, “it seems quite miraculous to make a new +house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect +coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Méran advertised it +for sale two or three years ago.” + +“M. de Saint-Méran?” said Madame de Villefort; “then this house +belonged to M. de Saint-Méran before you bought it?” + +“It appears so,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it?” + +“Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me.” + +“It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied,” said +Château-Renaud, “and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the +blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if +the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one +might have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had +been committed.” + +Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of +rare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it +off. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then said: + +“It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time +I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my +steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow +had been bribed by the notary.” + +“It is probable,” stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; “but I can +assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This +house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Méran +wished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two +uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.” + +It was Morrel’s turn to become pale. + +“There was, above all, one room,” continued Monte Cristo, “very plain +in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to +me quite dramatic.” + +“Why so?” said Danglars; “why dramatic?” + +“Can we account for instinct?” said Monte Cristo. “Are there not some +places where we seem to breathe sadness?—why, we cannot tell. It is a +chain of recollections—an idea which carries you back to other times, +to other places—which, very likely, have no connection with the present +time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me +forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges10 or Desdemona. Stay, +since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will +take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.” + +Monte Cristo looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort +rose, Monte Cristo did the same, and the rest followed their example. +Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to +their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances. + +“Did you hear?” said Madame Danglars. + +“We must go,” replied Villefort, offering his arm. + +The others, attracted by curiosity, were already scattered in different +parts of the house; for they thought the visit would not be limited to +the one room, and that, at the same time, they would obtain a view of +the rest of the building, of which Monte Cristo had created a palace. +Each one went out by the open doors. Monte Cristo waited for the two +who remained; then, when they had passed, he brought up the rear, and +on his face was a smile, which, if they could have understood it, would +have alarmed them much more than a visit to the room they were about to +enter. They began by walking through the apartments, many of which were +fitted up in the Eastern style, with cushions and divans instead of +beds, and pipes instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms were decorated +with the rarest pictures by the old masters, the boudoirs hung with +draperies from China, of fanciful colors, fantastic design, and +wonderful texture. At length they arrived at the famous room. There was +nothing particular about it, excepting that, although daylight had +disappeared, it was not lighted, and everything in it was +old-fashioned, while the rest of the rooms had been redecorated. These +two causes were enough to give it a gloomy aspect. + +“Oh.” cried Madame de Villefort, “it is really frightful.” + +Madame Danglars tried to utter a few words, but was not heard. Many +observations were made, the import of which was a unanimous opinion +that there was something sinister about the room. + +30221m + + + +“Is it not so?” asked Monte Cristo. “Look at that large clumsy bed, +hung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon +portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say, +with their pale lips and staring eyes, ‘We have seen’?” + +Villefort became livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long seat placed +near the chimney. + +“Oh,” said Madame de Villefort, smiling, “are you courageous enough to +sit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was +committed?” + +Madame Danglars rose suddenly. + +“And then,” said Monte Cristo, “this is not all.” + +“What is there more?” said Debray, who had not failed to notice the +agitation of Madame Danglars. + +“Ah, what else is there?” said Danglars; “for, at present, I cannot say +that I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M. +Cavalcanti?” + +“Ah,” said he, “we have at Pisa, Ugolino’s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso’s +prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo.” + +“Yes, but you have not this little staircase,” said Monte Cristo, +opening a door concealed by the drapery. “Look at it, and tell me what +you think of it.” + +“What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,” said Château-Renaud with a +smile. + +“I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but +certainly everything appears to me black in this house,” said Debray. + +Ever since Valentine’s dowry had been mentioned, Morrel had been silent +and sad. + +“Can you imagine,” said Monte Cristo, “some Othello or Abbé de Ganges, +one stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying +a load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from +God?” + +Madame Danglars half fainted on the arm of Villefort, who was obliged +to support himself against the wall. + +“Ah, madame,” cried Debray, “what is the matter with you? how pale you +look!” + +“It is very evident what is the matter with her,” said Madame de +Villefort; “M. de Monte Cristo is relating horrible stories to us, +doubtless intending to frighten us to death.” + +“Yes,” said Villefort, “really, count, you frighten the ladies.” + +“What is the matter?” asked Debray, in a whisper, of Madame Danglars. + +“Nothing,” she replied with a violent effort. “I want air, that is +all.” + +“Will you come into the garden?” said Debray, advancing towards the +back staircase. + +“No, no,” she answered, “I would rather remain here.” + +“Are you really frightened, madame?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Oh, no, sir,” said Madame Danglars; “but you suppose scenes in a +manner which gives them the appearance of reality.” + +30223m + + + +“Ah, yes,” said Monte Cristo smiling; “it is all a matter of +imagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest +mother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess +Lucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not +to disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or even the father +carrying the sleeping child?” + +Here Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed by the soft picture, +uttered a groan and fainted. + +“Madame Danglars is ill,” said Villefort; “it would be better to take +her to her carriage.” + +“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” said Monte Cristo, “and I have forgotten my +smelling-bottle!” + +“I have mine,” said Madame de Villefort; and she passed over to Monte +Cristo a bottle full of the same kind of red liquid whose good +properties the count had tested on Edward. + +“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, taking it from her hand. + +“Yes,” she said, “at your advice I have made the trial.” + +“And have you succeeded?” + +“I think so.” + +Madame Danglars was carried into the adjoining room; Monte Cristo +dropped a very small portion of the red liquid upon her lips; she +returned to consciousness. + +“Ah,” she cried, “what a frightful dream!” + +Villefort pressed her hand to let her know it was not a dream. They +looked for M. Danglars, but, as he was not especially interested in +poetical ideas, he had gone into the garden, and was talking with Major +Cavalcanti on the projected railway from Leghorn to Florence. Monte +Cristo seemed in despair. He took the arm of Madame Danglars, and +conducted her into the garden, where they found Danglars taking coffee +between the Cavalcanti. + +“Really, madame,” he said, “did I alarm you much?” + +“Oh, no, sir,” she answered; “but you know, things impress us +differently, according to the mood of our minds.” Villefort forced a +laugh. + +“And then, you know,” he said, “an idea, a supposition, is sufficient.” + +“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “you may believe me if you like, but it is +my opinion that a crime has been committed in this house.” + +“Take care,” said Madame de Villefort, “the king’s attorney is here.” + +“Ah,” replied Monte Cristo, “since that is the case, I will take +advantage of his presence to make my declaration.” + +“Your declaration?” said Villefort. + +“Yes, before witnesses.” + +“Oh, this is very interesting,” said Debray; “if there really has been +a crime, we will investigate it.” + +“There has been a crime,” said Monte Cristo. “Come this way, gentlemen; +come, M. Villefort, for a declaration to be available, should be made +before the competent authorities.” + +He then took Villefort’s arm, and, at the same time, holding that of +Madame Danglars under his own, he dragged the procureur to the +plantain-tree, where the shade was thickest. All the other guests +followed. + +“Stay,” said Monte Cristo, “here, in this very spot” (and he stamped +upon the ground), “I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to +refresh these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather, +the iron-work of a box, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a +newly born infant.” + +30225m + + + +Monte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of +Villefort trembled. + +“A newly born infant,” repeated Debray; “this affair becomes serious!” + +“Well,” said Château-Renaud, “I was not wrong just now then, when I +said that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors +carried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because +it was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime.” + +“Who said it was a crime?” asked Villefort, with a last effort. + +“How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?” cried +Monte Cristo. “And pray what do you call such an action?” + +“But who said it was buried alive?” + +“Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a +cemetery.” + +“What is done to infanticides in this country?” asked Major Cavalcanti +innocently. + +“Oh, their heads are soon cut off,” said Danglars. + +“Ah, indeed?” said Cavalcanti. + +“I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo. + +��Yes, count,” replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human. + +Monte Cristo, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this +scene could scarcely endure it, and not wishing to carry it too far, +said: + +“Come, gentlemen,—some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,” and he +conducted the guests back to the table on the lawn. + +“Indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars, “I am ashamed to own it, but all +your frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me +sit down;” and she fell into a chair. + +Monte Cristo bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort. + +“I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,” he said. But +before Madame de Villefort could reach her friend, the procureur had +found time to whisper to Madame Danglars, “I must speak to you.” + +“When?” + +“Tomorrow.” + +“Where?” + +“In my office, or in the court, if you like,—that is the surest place.” + +“I will be there.” + +At this moment Madame de Villefort approached. + +“Thanks, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, trying to smile; “it is +over now, and I am much better.” + + + + Chapter 64. The Beggar + +The evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return +to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding +the uneasiness she experienced. On his wife’s request, M. de Villefort +was the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his +landau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his +wife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with +M. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While +Monte Cristo had begged the smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he +had noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon +guessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been +uttered in so low a voice as hardly to be heard by Madame Danglars. +Without opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Château-Renaud, +and Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort’s +carriage. Danglars, more and more delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had +offered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury +waiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the +English fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray +horse. + +Andrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad, +and he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people, +amongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king’s attorney. Then he +had been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the +stiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into +consideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he +was in the society of some nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly +education of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the +large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger; for the major, +like a prudent man, in case of any accident happening to his +bank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset. +Then, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the +father and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son, +previously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive +his 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of +affability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker’s +servants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself +upon. + +One thing above all the rest heightened the respect, nay almost the +veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the +principle of Horace, _nil admirari_, had contented himself with showing +his knowledge by declaring in what lake the best lampreys were caught. +Then he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore, +concluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the +illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca fed +upon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by +the same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake +Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much +politeness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words: + +“Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on +business.” + +“And I, sir,” said Danglars, “shall be most happy to receive you.” + +Upon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in his carriage to the Hôtel +des Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his +son. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his +son had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and +carriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult +for them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by +the side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of +order and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to +allow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a +fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres. + +As for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom, +who, instead of bringing the tilbury to the steps of the house, had +taken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking +thirty steps to reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the +bit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with the right held +out the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished +boot lightly on the step. + +At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round, +thinking that Danglars or Monte Cristo had forgotten something they +wished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But +instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face, +sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles, +and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white +teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s. A red handkerchief +encircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered his large +bony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they +would rattle as he walked; and the hand with which he leaned upon the +young man’s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw, seemed +of gigantic size. + +30229m + + + +Did the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in +his tilbury, or was he merely struck with the horrible appearance of +his interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that he +shuddered and stepped back suddenly. + +“What do you want of me?” he asked. + +“Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,” said the man with the red +handkerchief, “but I want to speak to you.” + +“You have no right to beg at night,” said the groom, endeavoring to rid +his master of the troublesome intruder. + +“I am not begging, my fine fellow,” said the unknown to the servant, +with so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile, +that he withdrew; “I only wish to say two or three words to your +master, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.” + +“Come,” said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to +perceive his agitation, “what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.” + +The man said, in a low voice: “I wish—I wish you to spare me the walk +back to Paris. I am very tired, and as I have not eaten so good a +dinner as you, I can scarcely stand.” + +The young man shuddered at this strange familiarity. + +“Tell me,” he said—“tell me what you want?” + +“Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry +me back.” Andrea turned pale, but said nothing. + +“Yes,” said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking +impudently at the youth; “I have taken the whim into my head; do you +understand, Master Benedetto?” + +At this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went +towards his groom, saying: + +“This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the +result of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier, there take a cab, +that you may not be too late.” + +The surprised groom retired. + +“Let me at least reach a shady spot,” said Andrea. + +“Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,” said the man with +the handkerchief; and taking the horse’s bit he led the tilbury where +it was certainly impossible for anyone to witness the honor that Andrea +conferred upon him. + +“Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,” said +he; “oh, no, it’s only because I am tired, and also because I have a +little business to talk over with you.” + +“Come, step in,” said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not +occurred in daylight, for it was curious to see this rascal throwing +himself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver +of the tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without +saying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though +well-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle. +Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself +that he could neither be seen nor heard, and then, stopping the horse +and crossing his arms before the man, he asked: + +“Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity?” + +“Let me ask you why you deceived me?” + +“How have I deceived you?” + +“‘How,’ do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you +were going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that, +you come to Paris.” + +“How does that annoy you?” + +“It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose.” + +“So,” said Andrea, “you are speculating upon me?” + +“What fine words he uses!” + +“I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken.” + +“Well, well, don’t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to +be unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were +earning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as _facchino_ or +_cicerone_, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own. +You know I always did call you my child.” + +“Come, come, what then?” + +“Patience—patience!” + +“I am patient, but go on.” + +“All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a +tilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else +become a stockbroker.” + +“So that, as you confess, you are jealous?” + +“No, I am pleased—so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as +I am not quite properly dressed, I chose my opportunity, that I might +not compromise you.” + +“Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen!” exclaimed Andrea; “you +speak to me before my servant.” + +“How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You +have a quick horse, a light tilbury, you are naturally as slippery as +an eel; if I had missed you tonight, I might not have had another +chance.” + +“You see, I do not conceal myself.” + +“You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself; +and then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did,” added +Caderousse with his unpleasant smile. “It was very polite of you.” + +“Come,” said Andrea, “what do you want?” + +“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that +is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.” + +This menace smothered the young man’s passion. He urged the horse again +into a trot. + +“You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you +said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am——” + +“Do you know then now what you are?” + +“No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am +young and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place, +everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune, +which has frowned on you, has been kind to me?” + +“Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your +clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,” said +Caderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice. + +“Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,” said Andrea, +becoming more and more excited. “If I had been wearing a handkerchief +like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet, +you would not have known me.” + +“You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being +as well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your +heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to +divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.” + +“True,” said Andrea. + +“What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?” + +“Oh, yes,” replied Andrea, laughing. + +“How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have +just left?” + +“He is not a prince; simply a count.” + +“A count, and a rich one too, eh?” + +“Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not +a very good-tempered gentleman.” + +“Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him +all to yourself. But,” said Caderousse, again smiling with the +disagreeable expression he had before assumed, “you must pay for it—you +understand?” + +“Well, what do you want?” + +“I think that with a hundred francs a month——” + +“Well?” + +“I could live——” + +“Upon a hundred francs!” + +“Come—you understand me; but that with——” + +“With?” + +“With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy.” + +“Here are two hundred,” said Andrea; and he placed ten gold louis in +the hand of Caderousse. + +30233m + + + +“Good!” said Caderousse. + +“Apply to the steward on the first day of every month, and you will +receive the same sum.” + +“There now, again you degrade me.” + +“How so?” + +“By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business +with you alone.” + +“Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I +receive my income, you shall be paid yours.” + +“Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing +when good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it?” + +“Why do you wish to know?” asked Cavalcanti. + +“What? do you again defy me?” + +“No; the fact is, I have found my father.” + +“What? a real father?” + +“Yes, so long as he pays me——” + +“You’ll honor and believe him—that’s right. What is his name?” + +“Major Cavalcanti.” + +“Is he pleased with you?” + +“So far I have appeared to answer his purpose.” + +“And who found this father for you?” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo.” + +“The man whose house you have just left?” + +“Yes.” + +“I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather, +since he holds the money-chest!” + +“Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?” + +“I?” + +“Yes, you.” + +“It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me.” + +“Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn +to ask you some questions.” + +“Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a +decent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a café. +Then, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some +retired baker. That is what I want.” + +“Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady, +nothing could be better.” + +“Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you—what will you become? A peer of +France?” + +“Ah,” said Andrea, “who knows?” + +“Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is +abolished.” + +“No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that +we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.” + +“Not at all, my good friend.” + +“How? Not at all?” + +“Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head, +with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my +pocket, without reckoning what was there before—making in all about two +hundred francs,—why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers. +Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this +would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without +giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of +the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-bye to +my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer +remaining honorably in the capital.” + +Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of +Major Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a +rapid glance around him, and then his hand fell instantly into his +pocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile, +Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his +hand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife, which he always +carried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we +see, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea’s hand left his +pocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red moustache, which it +played with for some time. + +“Good Caderousse,” he said, “how happy you will be.” + +“I will do my best,” said the innkeeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting +up his knife. + +“Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the +barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more +danger riding than on foot.” + +“Wait,” said Caderousse, “we shall see.” He then took the greatcoat +with the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury, +and put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti’s hat, which he +placed upon his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude +of a servant whose master drives himself. + +“But, tell me,” said Andrea, “am I to remain bareheaded?” + +“Pooh,” said Caderousse; “it is so windy that your hat can easily +appear to have blown off.” + +“Come, come; enough of this,” said Cavalcanti. + +“What are you waiting for?” said Caderousse. “I hope I am not the +cause.” + +“Hush,” said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the +first cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out. + +“Well!” said Andrea,—“my servant’s coat and my hat?” + +“Ah,” said Caderousse, “you would not like me to risk taking cold?” + +“But what am I to do?” + +“You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. _Au revoir_, +Benedetto;” and running into a court, he disappeared. + +“Alas,” said Andrea, sighing, “one cannot be completely happy in this +world!” + + + + Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene + +At the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated—that is to say, +Morrel went to the Boulevards, Château-Renaud to the Pont de la +Révolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and +Château-Renaud returned to their “domestic hearths,” as they say in the +gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of +the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with +Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the +left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through the Rue Saint-Roch, +and, issuing from the Rue de la Michodière, he arrived at M. Danglars’ +door just at the same time that Villefort’s landau, after having +deposited him and his wife at the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, stopped to +leave the baroness at her own house. + +Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first +into the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and +returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he offered his +arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray +and the baroness alone in the court, he asked: + +“What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at +that story, or rather fable, which the count related?” + +“Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my +friend,” said the baroness. + +“No, Hermine,” replied Debray; “you cannot make me believe that; on the +contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the +count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much +you care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one +to annoy you.” + +“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and +what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you +remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.” + +It was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous +irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to +themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some +secret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man +who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent +penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited +for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate +her, or receive an avowal _proprio motu_. + +At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornélie, +her confidential maid. + +“What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars. + +“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied +Mademoiselle Cornélie. + +“Yet I think I hear her piano.” + +“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle +Danglars is in bed.” + +“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.” + +They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch, +and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle +Cornélie. + +“My dear M. Lucien,” said Madame Danglars through the door, “you are +always complaining that Eugénie will not address a word to you.” + +“Madame,” said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him +as a friend of the house, expected to be caressed, “I am not the only +one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he +could not extract a word from his betrothed.” + +“True,” said Madame Danglars; “yet I think this will all pass off, and +that you will one day see her enter your study.” + +“My study?” + +“At least that of the minister.” + +“Why so!” + +“To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an +infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of +fashion.” + +Debray smiled. “Well,” said he, “let her come, with your consent and +that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though +we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.” + +“Go, Cornélie,” said Madame Danglars, “I do not require you any +longer.” + +Cornélie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a +charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she +began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her +for a moment in silence. + +“Come, Hermine,” he said, after a short time, “answer +candidly,—something vexes you—is it not so?” + +30239m + + + +“Nothing,” answered the baroness. + +And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went towards a +looking-glass. “I am frightful tonight,” she said. Debray rose, +smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter +point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray +reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned +round, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no +trouble to conceal. + +“Good-evening, madame,” said the banker; “good-evening, M. Debray.” + +Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire +to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming +a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her +husband. + +“Read me something, M. Debray,” she said. Debray, who was slightly +disturbed at this visit, recovered himself when he saw the calmness of +the baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife +inlaid with gold. + +“Excuse me,” said the banker, “but you will tire yourself, baroness, by +such late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here.” + +Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and +politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness +there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his +wife might wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her +astonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon +her husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where +he was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was, +that the proud look entirely failed of its purpose. + +“M. Lucien,” said the baroness, “I assure you I have no desire to +sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening, +which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.” + +“I am at your service, madame,” replied Lucien coldly. + +“My dear M. Debray,” said the banker, “do not kill yourself tonight +listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as +well tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will +allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife.” + +This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly, that Lucien +and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with +their eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the +irresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband +was victorious. + +“Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,” continued +Danglars; “oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to +ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I +make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.” + +Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking himself against +the edge of the door, like Nathan in _Athalie_. + +“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him, +“how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over +us.” + +30241m + + + +Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the +open book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he +began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him as well as +Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of +his neck and threw him upon a couch on the other side of the room. The +animal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its +destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such +unusual treatment remained silent and motionless. + +“Do you know, sir,” asked the baroness, “that you are improving? +Generally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal.” + +“It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,” replied Danglars. +Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances +frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took +no notice of them. + +“And what have I to do with your ill-humor?” said the baroness, +irritated at the impassibility of her husband; “do these things concern +me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have +clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.” + +“Not so,” replied Danglars; “your advice is wrong, so I shall not +follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier +says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks +are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their +deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore +I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in +a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my +fortune.” + +“And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain +yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.” + +“Oh, make yourself easy!—I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon +know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw +out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.” + +“I do not understand you, sir,” said the baroness, trying to disguise +the agitation of her voice and the flush of her face. + +“You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,” said Danglars: “but, if +you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs +upon the Spanish loan.” + +“And pray,” asked the baroness, “am I responsible for this loss?” + +“Why not?” + +“Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?” + +“Certainly it is not mine.” + +“Once for all, sir,” replied the baroness sharply, “I tell you I will +not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the +house of my parents or in that of my first husband.” + +“Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.” + +“The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the +bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that +noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and +re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more, +which is the sound of your voice.” + +“Really?” said Danglars. “Well, this surprises me, for I thought you +took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!” + +30243m + + + +“I? What could put such an idea into your head?” + +“Yourself.” + +“Ah?—what next?” + +“Most assuredly.” + +“I should like to know upon what occasion?” + +“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ that is very easily done. Last February you were the +first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had +entered the harbor at Le Havre, that this ship brought news that a +payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how +clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as +many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs +by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as +you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question +about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each +offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct,—and although +you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the +contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain +affairs,—well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the +grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two +thirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares +trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs +were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000 +francs?—it is no business of mine.” + +“When are you coming to the point?” cried the baroness, shivering with +anger and impatience. + +“Patience, madame, I am coming to it.” + +“That’s fortunate.” + +“In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private +conversation respecting Spanish affairs—on the expulsion of Don Carlos. +I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed +600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these +600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of +them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not +the less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres.” + +“Well, sir, and what then?” + +“Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.” + +“Really, your manner of speaking——” + +“It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days +after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his +words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares, +the news got out, and I no longer sold—I gave them away, next day I +find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000 +francs.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a +fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs.” + +“What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed +up in this affair.” + +“Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must +have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.” + +30245m + + + +“For shame!” exclaimed the baroness. + +“Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will +oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole +of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he +smiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful +players have never discovered—that is, a roulette where he wins without +playing, and is no loser when he loses.” + +The baroness became enraged. + +“Wretch!” she cried, “will you dare to tell me you did not know what +you now reproach me with?” + +“I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know +it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four +years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it +has not always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished +to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a +successful appearance at the Théâtre Italien; at the same time I felt +inclined to learn dancing of the _danseuse_ who acquired such a +reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000 +francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and +100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in +music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of +singing, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s +secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you +pay for your lessons out of your own cash box. But today I find you are +drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000 +francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the +diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or +he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand, +madame?” + +“Oh, this is too much,” cried Hermine, choking, “you are worse than +despicable.” + +“But,” continued Danglars, “I find you did not even pause there——” + +“Insults!” + +“You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I +have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me +in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash box. Be it +so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine. +Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the +minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the +popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin +me?” + +“A probable thing!” + +“Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this?—a false +telegraphic despatch—it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be +made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for +me—I am sure of it.” + +“Sir,” said the baroness humbly, “are you not aware that the man +employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with +him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would +have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which +proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake.” + +“Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a +sleepless night, which has caused the minister’s secretaries to blacken +several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.” + +“But, sir,” said Hermine suddenly, “if all this is, as you say, caused +by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell +me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?” + +“Do I know M. Debray?—do I wish to know him?—do I wish to know that he +gives advice?—do I wish to follow it?—do I speculate? No; you do all +this, not I.” + +“Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it——” + +Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed. +“Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three +intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had +even hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the +commencement of the art—for generally husbands _will_ not see—you would +then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the +women of the world. But it has not been so with me,—I see, and always +have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden +a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me, +while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you +had deceived me. What has been the result?—that, thanks to my pretended +ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M. +Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not +treated me as the master of the house,—the only title I desire with +respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to +speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make +me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above +all, I forbid you to ruin me.” + +The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort +had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if +touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an +apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as +though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which +he withheld from some odious calculation,—odious, as all his +calculations were. + +“M. de Villefort!—What do you mean?” + +“I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a +philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was +nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at +finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been _enceinte_ +six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of +the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill +himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs +to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his +share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become +bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear. +He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it +is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than +he.” + +Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to +reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of +Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes +which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and +changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous +debate. + +Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He +shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and +returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her +half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a +disagreeable dream. + + + + Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects + +The day following this scene, at the hour Debray usually chose to pay a +visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his _coupé_ did not +appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars +ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain, +watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he +should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two +o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to +the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From +twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his +dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure +upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major +Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself +precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business +with the banker. + +On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of +agitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against +the ministry, re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive +to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30. + +Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with someone and begged +Danglars to wait for a moment in the drawing-room. While the banker was +waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbé +and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and +instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments, +and disappeared. + +A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and +Monte Cristo appeared. + +“Pardon me,” said he, “my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbé +Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not +having seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave +him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made +you wait.” + +“Nay,” said Danglars, “it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a +wrong time, and will retire.” + +“Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with +you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a +capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to +the world.” + +“I have been in ill-luck for several days,” said Danglars, “and I have +heard nothing but bad news.” + +“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. “Have you had another fall at the +Bourse?” + +“No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a +bankrupt of Trieste.” + +“Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?” + +“Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I +don’t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during +the year. Never a mistake or delay—a fellow who paid like a prince. +Well, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo +Manfredi suspends payment!” + +“Really?” + +“It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my +bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of +exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his +correspondent’s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I +present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my +Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.” + +“Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?” + +“Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash box—nothing more!” + +“Why, how could you make such a mistake—such an old stager?” + +“Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to +Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she +dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction +I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she +speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not +mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave +the wife’s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to +say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous +noise.” + +“Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no +one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.” + +30251m + + + +“Then you do not speculate?” + +“I?—How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in +regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep +a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the +baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers +said something about it, did they not?” + +“Then you believe the papers?” + +“I?—not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest +_Messager_ was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced +telegraphic despatches.” + +“Well, that’s what puzzles me,” replied Danglars; “the news of the +return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.” + +“So that,” said Monte Cristo, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs +this month.” + +“Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.” + +“_Diable!_” said Monte Cristo compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a +third-rate fortune.” + +“Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?” + +“Certainly,” continued Monte Cristo, “I make three assortments in +fortune—first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those +first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s +hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as +France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property +form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate +fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock +companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than +1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions; +finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a +fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances +which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks, +speculations of the day—in fact, all operations under the influence of +greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious +capital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position, +is it not?” + +“Confound it, yes!” replied Danglars. + +“The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce +the third-rate house to despair.” + +“Oh,” said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on!” + +“Let us imagine seven such months,” continued Monte Cristo, in the same +tone. “Tell me, have you ever thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs +make nearly twelve millions? No, you have not;—well, you are right, for +if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your +principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized +man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others,—this is our +credit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on +retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of +about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are +never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive +on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam +surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your +real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of +course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune; +to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and +this if repeated three or four times will cause death—so pay attention +to it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to +lend you some?” + +30253m + + + +“What a bad calculator you are!” exclaimed Danglars, calling to his +assistance all his philosophy and dissimulation. “I have made money at +the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up the +loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been +defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some +galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.” + +“Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the +first loss.” + +“No, for I am only embarked in certainties,” replied Danglars, with the +air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; “to involve me, three +governments must crumble to dust.” + +“Well, such things have been.” + +“That there should be a famine!” + +“Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine.” + +“Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and +even then my vessels would become caravans.” + +“So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars,” said +Monte Cristo; “I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class +of second-rate fortunes.” + +“I think I may aspire to that honor,” said Danglars with a smile, which +reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond +of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of +business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing +the subject, “tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti.” + +“Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation +seems good.” + +“Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000 +francs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you +to me, with your endorsement—of course, I immediately counted him over +the forty bank-notes.” + +Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent. + +“But that is not all,” continued Danglars; “he has opened an account +with my house for his son.” + +“May I ask how much he allows the young man?” + +“Five thousand francs per month.” + +“Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing +that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon +5,000 francs a month?” + +“But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands +more——” + +“Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know +these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom +were they recommended to you?” + +“Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.” + +“I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold +to the terms of the agreement.” + +“Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?” + +“I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only +speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning +just now.” + +“And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him +for anything more than a mere major.” + +“And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no +manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old +lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the +Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not +glittering in Oriental splendor.” + +“The young man is better,” said Danglars. + +“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared +tolerable. I was uneasy about him.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the +world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe +tutor, and had never been to Paris before.” + +“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked +Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.” + +“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing +like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son +to France to choose a wife.” + +“Do you think so?” + +“I am sure of it.” + +“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?” + +“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and +others that he did not possess a farthing.” + +“And what is your opinion?” + +“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal +impression.” + +“Well, and it is that——” + +“My opinion is, that all these old _podestàs_, these ancient +_condottieri_,—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed +provinces,—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions +in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their +eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and +the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the +florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have +become reflected in them.” + +“Certainly,” said Danglars, “and this is further supported by the fact +of their not possessing an inch of land.” + +“Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses, +excepting his palace in Lucca.” + +“Ah, he has a palace?” said Danglars, laughing; “come, that is +something.” + +“Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while +he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old +fellow is very close.” + +“Come, you do not flatter him.” + +“I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life; +all I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was +telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant +in Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in +France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that +though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for +this.” + +“Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a +fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of +it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is +merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do +they give them any fortune?” + +“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as +a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons +married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they +married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month. +Should Andrea marry according to his father’s views, he will, perhaps, +give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were +the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the +father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the +major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would +be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling +cards or rattling the dice.” + +“Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will +want a crown, an El Dorado, and Potosí.” + +“No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry +into plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do +you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so +many questions?” + +“_Ma foi_,” said Danglars, “it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy, +and you know I am a speculator.” + +“You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not +like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?” + +“Albert,” repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders; “ah, well; he +would care very little about it, I think.” + +“But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?” + +“Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame +de Morcerf and Albert——” + +“You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?” + +“Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de +Morcerf.” + +“Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if +the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.” + +“Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me——” + +“What?” + +“Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner?” + +“I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being +obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Danglars, laughing, “it would do her a great deal of +good.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.” + +Monte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark. + +“But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,” said +the count, “you must allow that he has a fine name?” + +“So he has; but I like mine as well.” + +“Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have +adorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according +to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which +dates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon +twenty years.” + +“And for this very reason,” said Danglars with a smile, which he tried +to make sardonic, “I prefer M. Andrea Cavalcanti to M. Albert de +Morcerf.” + +“Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti?” + +“The Morcerfs!—Stay, my dear count,” said Danglars; “you are a man of +the world, are you not?” + +“I think so.” + +“And you understand heraldry?” + +“A little.” + +“Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf’s.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least, +Danglars.” + +“Well, what then?” + +“While his name is not Morcerf.” + +“How?—not Morcerf?” + +“Not the least in the world.” + +“Go on.” + +“I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a +count, so that he is not one at all.” + +“Impossible!” + +“Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my +acquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the +most of my arms, though I never forgot my origin.” + +“A proof of great humility or great pride,” said Monte Cristo. + +“Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman.” + +“And then he was called——” + +“Fernand.” + +“Only Fernand?” + +“Fernand Mondego.” + +“You are sure?” + +“_Pardieu!_ I have bought enough fish of him to know his name.” + +“Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him?” + +“Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become +noble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have +been certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me.” + +“What?” + +“Oh, nothing!” + +“Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of +Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece.” + +“In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha?” + +“Exactly so.” + +“This is the mystery,” said Danglars. “I acknowledge I would have given +anything to find it out.” + +“It would be very easy if you much wished it?” + +“How so?” + +“Probably you have some correspondent in Greece?” + +“I should think so.” + +“At Yanina?” + +“Everywhere.” + +“Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was +played by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali +Tepelini.” + +“You are right,” exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly, “I will write +today.” + +“Do so.” + +“I will.” + +30259m + + + +“And if you should hear of anything very scandalous——” + +“I will communicate it to you.” + +“You will oblige me.” + +Danglars rushed out of the room, and made but one leap into his +_coupé_. + + + + Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney + +Let us leave the banker driving his horses at their fullest speed, and +follow Madame Danglars in her morning excursion. We have said that at +half-past twelve o’clock Madame Danglars had ordered her horses, and +had left home in the carriage. She directed her course towards the +Faubourg Saint Germain, went down the Rue Mazarine, and stopped at the +Passage du Pont-Neuf. She descended, and went through the passage. She +was very plainly dressed, as would be the case with a woman of taste +walking in the morning. At the Rue Guénégaud she called a cab, and +directed the driver to go to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as she was +seated in the vehicle, she drew from her pocket a very thick black +veil, which she tied on to her straw bonnet. She then replaced the +bonnet, and saw with pleasure, in a little pocket-mirror, that her +white complexion and brilliant eyes were alone visible. The cab crossed +the Pont-Neuf and entered the Rue de Harlay by the Place Dauphine; the +driver was paid as the door opened, and stepping lightly up the stairs +Madame Danglars soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus. + +There was a great deal going on that morning, and many business-like +persons at the Palais; business-like persons pay very little attention +to women, and Madame Danglars crossed the hall without exciting any +more attention than any other woman calling upon her lawyer. + +There was a great press of people in M. de Villefort’s antechamber, but +Madame Danglars had no occasion even to pronounce her name. The instant +she appeared the door-keeper rose, came to her, and asked her whether +she was not the person with whom the procureur had made an appointment; +and on her affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a +private passage to M. de Villefort’s office. + +The magistrate was seated in an armchair, writing, with his back +towards the door; he did not move as he heard it open, and the +door-keeper pronounce the words, “Walk in, madame,” and then reclose +it; but no sooner had the man’s footsteps ceased, than he started up, +drew the bolts, closed the curtains, and examined every corner of the +room. Then, when he had assured himself that he could neither be seen +nor heard, and was consequently relieved of doubts, he said: + +“Thanks, madame,—thanks for your punctuality;” and he offered a chair +to Madame Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently +that she felt nearly suffocated. + +30261m + + + +“It is a long time, madame,” said the procureur, describing a +half-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite to +Madame Danglars,—“it is a long time since I had the pleasure of +speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to +enter upon a painful conversation.” + +“Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although +certainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for +you.” Villefort smiled bitterly. + +“It is true, then,” he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud than +addressing his companion,—“it is true, then, that all our actions leave +their traces—some sad, others bright—on our paths; it is true that +every step in our lives is like the course of an insect on the +sands;—it leaves its track! Alas, to many the path is traced by tears.” + +“Sir,” said Madame Danglars, “you can feel for my emotion, can you not? +Spare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room,—whence so many +guilty creatures have departed, trembling and ashamed, when I look at +that chair before which I now sit trembling and ashamed,—oh, it +requires all my reason to convince me that I am not a very guilty woman +and you a menacing judge.” + +Villefort dropped his head and sighed. + +“And I,” he said, “I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but +on the prisoner’s bench.” + +30263m + + + +“You?” said Madame Danglars. + +“Yes, I.” + +“I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation,” said Madame Danglars, +whose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. “The paths of which you +were just speaking have been traced by all young men of ardent +imaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse from the +indulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you men to fear +from all this? the world excuses, and notoriety ennobles you.” + +“Madame,” replied Villefort, “you know that I am no hypocrite, or, at +least, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be severe, it +is because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart be petrified, +it is that it might sustain the blows it has received. I was not so in +my youth, I was not so on the night of the betrothal, when we were all +seated around a table in the Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since then +everything has changed in and about me; I am accustomed to brave +difficulties, and, in the conflict to crush those who, by their own +free will, or by chance, voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with +me in my career. It is generally the case that what we most ardently +desire is as ardently withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it, +or from whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a +man’s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of +necessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of +excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided +and escaped it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness +could not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say, ‘Why did I not do +this, instead of that?’ Women, on the contrary, are rarely tormented +with remorse; for the decision does not come from you,—your misfortunes +are generally imposed upon you, and your faults the results of others’ +crimes.” + +“In any case, sir, you will allow,” replied Madame Danglars, “that, +even if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a severe +punishment for it.” + +“Poor thing,” said Villefort, pressing her hand, “it was too severe for +your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet——” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have not yet +heard all.” + +“Ah,” exclaimed Madame Danglars, alarmed, “what is there more to hear?” + +“You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough. Well, +picture to yourself a future more gloomy still—certainly frightful, +perhaps sanguinary!” + +The baroness knew how calm Villefort naturally was, and his present +excitement frightened her so much that she opened her mouth to scream, +but the sound died in her throat. + +“How has this terrible past been recalled?” cried Villefort; “how is it +that it has escaped from the depths of the tomb and the recesses of our +hearts, where it was buried, to visit us now, like a phantom, whitening +our cheeks and flushing our brows with shame?” + +“Alas,” said Hermine, “doubtless it is chance.” + +“Chance?” replied Villefort; “No, no, madame, there is no such thing as +chance.” + +“Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not by +chance the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? Was it not by +chance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance that the +unfortunate child was disinterred under the trees?—that poor innocent +offspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for whom I wept many, +many tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when he mentioned the dear +spoil found beneath the flowers.” + +“Well, no, madame,—this is the terrible news I have to tell you,” said +Villefort in a hollow voice—“no, nothing was found beneath the flowers; +there was no child disinterred—no. You must not weep, no, you must not +groan, you must tremble!” + +“What can you mean?” asked Madame Danglars, shuddering. + +“I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees, found +neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!” + +“Neither of them there?” repeated Madame Danglars, her staring, +wide-open eyes expressing her alarm. “Neither of them there!” she again +said, as though striving to impress herself with the meaning of the +words which escaped her. + +“No,” said Villefort, burying his face in his hands, “no, a hundred +times no!” + +“Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive +me? Where did you place it? tell me—where?” + +“There! But listen to me—listen—and you will pity me who has for twenty +years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal, +without casting the least portion upon you.” + +“Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen.” + +“You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on that bed +in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you, +awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me—motionless, +breathless, voiceless; we thought it dead.” + +Madame Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her +chair, but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore +her attention. + +“We thought it dead,” he repeated; “I placed it in the chest, which was +to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole, +and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with earth, +when the arm of the Corsican was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow +rise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to +cry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I +fell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I forget your +sublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness, I dragged +myself to the foot of the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came +to meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful +catastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by +your nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely +expected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken +to Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I +seemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men carried +me from Paris to Châlons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de +Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Châlons I was put +upon the Saône, thence I passed on to the Rhône, whence I descended, +merely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again placed on my +litter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six +months. I never heard you mentioned, and I did not dare inquire for +you. When I returned to Paris, I learned that you, the widow of M. de +Nargonne, had married M. Danglars. + +“What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness +returned to me? Always the same—always the child’s corpse, coming every +night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave +with menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on my return to +Paris; the house had not been inhabited since we left it, but it had +just been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I pretended that I +disliked the idea that a house belonging to my wife’s father and mother +should pass into the hands of strangers. I offered to pay them for +cancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I would have given +10,000—I would have given 20,000. I had the money with me; I made the +tenant sign the deed of resilition, and when I had obtained what I so +much wanted, I galloped to Auteuil. No one had entered the house since +I had left it. + +“It was five o’clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room, +and waited for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me +during my year of constant agony came back with double force. The +Corsican, who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me +from Nîmes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck +me, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child,—he might +become acquainted with your person,—nay, he might even then have known +it. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this terrible secret? +Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when he found that I had not +died from the blow of his dagger? It was therefore necessary, before +everything else, and at all risks, that I should cause all traces of +the past to disappear—that I should destroy every material vestige; too +much reality would always remain in my recollection. It was for this I +had annulled the lease—it was for this I had come—it was for this I was +waiting. + +“Night arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a +light in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I +continually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I seemed +everywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I dared not +turn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my wound would +open. At length, one by one, all the noises in the neighborhood ceased. +I understood that I had nothing to fear, that I should neither be seen +nor heard, so I decided upon descending to the garden. + +“Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but when I +drew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I had found +in my coat—that little key we both used to cherish so much, which you +wished to have fastened to a golden ring—when I opened the door, and +saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral +staircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly +shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I +descended the staircase step by step; the only thing I could not +conquer was a strange trembling in my knees. I grasped the railings; if +I had relaxed my hold for a moment, I should have fallen. I reached the +lower door. Outside this door a spade was placed against the wall; I +took it, and advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a +dark lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I +continued my path. + +“It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had +disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long +bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet. My +terror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the thicket, that I +took a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I fancied continually +that I saw the figure of the Corsican between the branches. I examined +the thicket with my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked carefully +around; I was indeed alone,—no noise disturbed the silence but the owl, +whose piercing cry seemed to be calling up the phantoms of the night. I +tied my lantern to a forked branch I had noticed a year before at the +precise spot where I stopped to dig the hole. + +“The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and when +autumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one place where +the grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently was there I had +turned up the ground. I went to work. The hour, then, for which I had +been waiting during the last year had at length arrived. How I worked, +how I hoped, how I struck every piece of turf, thinking to find some +resistance to my spade! But no, I found nothing, though I had made a +hole twice as large as the first. I thought I had been deceived—had +mistaken the spot. I turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to +recall the details which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind +whistled through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my +forehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling the +ground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against a +laburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve as a +resting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling, my hand, +relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of the stone. On +my right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood in the same +attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again began digging and +enlarging the hole; still I found nothing, nothing—the chest was no +longer there!” + +30269m + + + +“The chest no longer there?” murmured Madame Danglars, choking with +fear. + +“Think not I contented myself with this one effort,” continued +Villefort. “No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the assassin, +having discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a treasure, had +intended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error, had dug another +hole, and deposited it there; but I could find nothing. Then the idea +struck me that he had not taken these precautions, and had simply +thrown it in a corner. In the last case I must wait for daylight to +renew my search. I remained in the room and waited.” + +“Oh, Heaven!” + +30271m + + + +When daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to the +thicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in the +darkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than twenty +feet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not have done in +a day what occupied me an hour. But I could find nothing—absolutely +nothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing it had been thrown aside, +it would probably be on the path which led to the little gate; but this +examination was as useless as the first, and with a bursting heart I +returned to the thicket, which now contained no hope for me.” + +“Oh,” cried Madame Danglars, “it was enough to drive you mad!” + +“I hoped for a moment that it might,” said Villefort; “but that +happiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my ideas, +‘Why,’ said I, ‘should that man have carried away the corpse?’” + +“But you said,” replied Madame Danglars, “he would require it as a +proof.” + +“Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a year; +they are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken. Now, nothing +of the kind has happened.” + +“What then?” asked Hermine, trembling violently. + +“Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us—the child +was, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it!” + +Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, and, seizing Villefort’s hands, +exclaimed, “My child was alive?” said she; “you buried my child alive? +You were not certain my child was dead, and you buried it? Ah——” + +Madame Danglars had risen, and stood before the procureur, whose hands +she wrung in her feeble grasp. + +“I know not; I merely suppose so, as I might suppose anything else,” +replied Villefort with a look so fixed, it indicated that his powerful +mind was on the verge of despair and madness. + +“Ah, my child, my poor child!” cried the baroness, falling on her +chair, and stifling her sobs in her handkerchief. Villefort, becoming +somewhat reassured, perceived that to avert the maternal storm +gathering over his head, he must inspire Madame Danglars with the +terror he felt. + +“You understand, then, that if it were so,” said he, rising in his +turn, and approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone, +“we are lost. This child lives, and someone knows it lives—someone is +in possession of our secret; and since Monte Cristo speaks before us of +a child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it is he who +is in possession of our secret.” + +“Just God, avenging God!” murmured Madame Danglars. + +Villefort’s only answer was a stifled groan. + +“But the child—the child, sir?” repeated the agitated mother. + +“How I have searched for him,” replied Villefort, wringing his hands; +“how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I have longed +for royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from a million of +men, and to find mine among them! At last, one day, when for the +hundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself again and again what +the Corsican could have done with the child. A child encumbers a +fugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still alive, he had thrown it +into the river.” + +“Impossible!” cried Madame Danglars: “a man may murder another out of +revenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child.” + +“Perhaps,” continued Villefort, “he had put it in the foundling +hospital.” + +“Oh, yes, yes,” cried the baroness; “my child is there!” + +“I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night—the night of +the 20th of September—a child had been brought there, wrapped in part +of a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half. This portion of the +napkin was marked with half a baron’s crown, and the letter H.” + +“Truly, truly,” said Madame Danglars, “all my linen is marked thus; +Monsieur de Nargonne was a baron, and my name is Hermine. Thank God, my +child was not then dead!” + +“No, it was not dead.” + +“And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy? Where is +the child?” + +Villefort shrugged his shoulders. + +“Do I know?” said he; “and do you believe that if I knew I would relate +to you all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a +novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months after, +came to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This woman gave all +the requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to her.” + +“But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have traced +her.” + +“And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and +employed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in search of +her. They traced her to Châlons, and there they lost her.” + +“They lost her?” + +“Yes, forever.” + +Madame Danglars had listened to this recital with a sigh, a tear, or a +shriek for every detail. “And this is all?” said she; “and you stopped +there?” + +“Oh, no,” said Villefort; “I never ceased to search and to inquire. +However, the last two or three years I had allowed myself some respite. +But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since +fear urges me, not my conscience.” + +“But,” replied Madame Danglars, “the Count of Monte Cristo can know +nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does.” + +“Oh, the wickedness of man is very great,” said Villefort, “since it +surpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man’s eyes while he +was speaking to us?” + +“No.” + +“But have you ever watched him carefully?” + +“Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone struck +me,—of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he touched +nothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us.” + +“And you see you would have been deceived.” + +“Yes, doubtless.” + +“But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I wished +to see you, to speak to you, to warn you against everyone, but +especially against him. Tell me,” cried Villefort, fixing his eyes more +steadfastly on her than he had ever done before, “did you ever reveal +to anyone our connection?” + +“Never, to anyone.” + +“You understand me,” replied Villefort, affectionately; “when I say +anyone,—pardon my urgency,—to anyone living I mean?” + +“Yes, yes, I understand very well,” ejaculated the baroness; “never, I +swear to you.” + +“Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had +transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?” + +“No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself.” + +“Do you talk in your sleep?” + +30275m + + + +“I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?” + +The color mounted to the baroness’s face, and Villefort turned awfully +pale. + +“It is true,” said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be heard. + +“Well?” said the baroness. + +“Well, I understand what I now have to do,” replied Villefort. “In less +than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte +Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our +presence of children that have been disinterred in a garden.” + +Villefort pronounced these words with an accent which would have made +the count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed the hand the +baroness reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the +door. Madame Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the +other side of which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping +peacefully on his box while waiting for her. + + + + Chapter 68. A Summer Ball + +The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the +procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed +through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the +door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son’s +arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his +toilet, drove to the Champs-Élysées, to the house of Monte Cristo. + +The count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing +that no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man’s favor. Those +who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an +impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was +chilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply +held out his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his +invariable practice. + +“Here I am, dear count.” + +“Welcome home again.” + +“I arrived an hour since.” + +“From Dieppe?” + +“No, from Tréport.” + +“Indeed?” + +“And I have come at once to see you.” + +“That is extremely kind of you,” said Monte Cristo with a tone of +perfect indifference. + +“And what is the news?” + +“You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news.” + +“I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for +me?” + +“Had you commissioned me?” said Monte Cristo, feigning uneasiness. + +“Come, come,” said Albert, “do not assume so much indifference. It is +said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Tréport, I felt the +electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.” + +“Possibly,” said Monte Cristo, “I have indeed thought of you, but the +magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.” + +30277m + + + +“Indeed! Pray tell me how it happened.” + +“Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.” + +“I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.” + +“But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.” + +“Your Italian prince?” + +“Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.” + +“Calls himself, do you say?” + +“Yes, calls himself.” + +“Is he not a count?” + +“What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him +the same title, and everyone else does likewise.” + +“What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined +here?” + +“Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars, +M. and Madame de Villefort,—charming people,—M. Debray, Maximilian +Morrel, and M. de Château-Renaud.” + +“Did they speak of me?” + +“Not a word.” + +“So much the worse.” + +“Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?” + +“If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am +in despair.” + +“How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among +the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of +you at home.” + +“I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in +which I think of her.” + +“Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?” said the count. + +“Listen,” said Morcerf—“if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take +pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with +all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to +agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a +charming mistress—but a wife—_diable!_” + +“And this,” said Monte Cristo, “is your opinion of your intended +spouse?” + +“Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this +dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my +lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and +music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens +me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife,—good heavens! There she +must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.” + +“You are difficult to please, viscount.” + +“Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.” + +“What is that?” + +“To find such a wife as my father found.” + +Monte Cristo turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some +magnificent pistols. + +“Your father was fortunate, then?” said he. + +“You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her,—still beautiful, +witty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with +his mother for four days at Tréport, it would have been a condescension +or a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful—shall I +say more poetic!—than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my +companion.” + +30279m + + + +“That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make everyone vow +to live a single life.” + +“Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars. +Have you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we +obtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at +Marlé’s or Fossin’s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but +if we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and +still must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we +have to endure?” + +“Worldling,” murmured the count. + +“Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eugénie perceives I am but a +pitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has +millions.” Monte Cristo smiled. “One plan occurred to me,” continued +Albert; “Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in +love with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written +in the most alluring style, he invariably answered: ‘My eccentricity +may be great, but it will not make me break my promise.’” + +“That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one +whom you would not marry yourself.” Albert smiled. + +“Apropos,” continued he, “Franz is coming soon, but it will not +interest you; you dislike him, I think?” + +“I?” said Monte Cristo; “my dear viscount, how have you discovered that +I did not like M. Franz! I like everyone.” + +“And you include me in the expression everyone—many thanks!” + +“Let us not mistake,” said Monte Cristo; “I love everyone as God +commands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate +but a few. Let us return to M. Franz d’Épinay. Did you say he was +coming?” + +“Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get +Mademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle +Eugénie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a +grown-up daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one’s +pulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done.” + +“But M. d’Épinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently.” + +“Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie, +and speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and +Madame de Villefort.” + +“Which they deserve, do they not?” + +“I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but +a just man.” + +“There is, then, one,” said Monte Cristo, “whom you do not condemn like +poor Danglars?” + +“Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,” replied +Albert, laughing. + +“Indeed, my dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “you are revoltingly +foppish.” + +“I foppish? how do you mean?” + +“Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle +to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course; +perhaps you may not have to retract.” + +“Bah!” said Albert, staring. + +“Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and +seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?” + +“I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.” + +“Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum +to attain the same end.” + +“Am I, indeed, so happy?” said Albert, who still could not prevent an +almost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow. “But, my dear +count, has M. Danglars any reason?” + +“Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the +self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is +attacked with a needle.” + +“But yet, M. Danglars appeared——” + +“Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is +still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for +yourself.” + +“Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my +father intends giving a ball.” + +“A ball at this season?” + +“Summer balls are fashionable.” + +“If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would +become so.” + +“You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in +Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our +invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?” + +“When will it take place?” + +“On Saturday.” + +“M. Cavalcanti’s father will be gone.” + +“But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti?” + +“I do not know him, viscount.” + +“You do not know him?” + +“No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for +him.” + +“But you receive him at your house?” + +“That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abbé, who +may be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to +present him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you +would accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me,—besides, I +may not be there myself.” + +“Where?” + +“At your ball.” + +“Why should you not be there?” + +“Because you have not yet invited me.” + +“But I come expressly for that purpose.” + +“You are very kind, but I may be prevented.” + +“If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all +impediments.” + +“Tell me what it is.” + +“My mother begs you to come.” + +“The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said Monte Cristo, starting. + +“Ah, count,” said Albert, “I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely +to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I +spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them, +for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.” + +“You have talked of me?” + +“Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!” + +“Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too +reasonable to be led by imagination.” + +“A problem, my dear count, for everyone—for my mother as well as +others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do +not fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long +unsolved. I believe, while the Countess G—— takes you for Lord Ruthven, +my mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The +first opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy +for you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the +other.” + +“I thank you for the warning,” said the count; “I shall endeavor to be +prepared for all suppositions.” + +“You will, then, come on Saturday?” + +“Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me.” + +“You are very kind.” + +“Will M. Danglars be there?” + +“He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the +great d’Aguesseau,11 M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope +of seeing him.” + +“‘Never despair of anything,’ says the proverb.” + +“Do you dance, count?” + +“I dance?” + +“Yes, you; it would not be astonishing.” + +“That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I +like to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance?” + +“Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation.” + +“Indeed?” + +30283m + + + +“Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have +heard her speak with interest.” Albert rose and took his hat; the count +conducted him to the door. + +“I have one thing to reproach myself with,” said he, stopping Albert on +the steps. “What is it?” + +“I have spoken to you indiscreetly about Danglars.” + +“On the contrary, speak to me always in the same strain about him.” + +“I am glad to be reassured on that point. Apropos, when do you aspect +M. d’Épinay?” + +“Five or six days hence at the latest.” + +“And when is he to be married?” + +“Immediately on the arrival of M. and Madame de Saint-Méran.” + +“Bring him to see me. Although you say I do not like him, I assure you +I shall be happy to see him.” + +“I will obey your orders, my lord.” + +“Good-bye.” + +“Until Saturday, when I may expect you, may I not?” + +“Yes, I promised you.” The Count watched Albert, waving his hand to +him. When he had mounted his phaeton, Monte Cristo turned, and seeing +Bertuccio, “What news?” said he. + +“She went to the Palais,” replied the steward. + +“Did she stay long there?” + +“An hour and a half.” + +“Did she return home?” + +“Directly.” + +“Well, my dear Bertuccio,” said the count, “I now advise you to go in +quest of the little estate I spoke to you of in Normandy.” + +Bertuccio bowed, and as his wishes were in perfect harmony with the +order he had received, he started the same evening. + + + + Chapter 69. The Inquiry + +M. de Villefort kept the promise he had made to Madame Danglars, to +endeavor to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo had discovered the +history of the house at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for the required +information to M. de Boville, who, from having been an inspector of +prisons, was promoted to a high office in the police; and the latter +begged for two days time to ascertain exactly who would be most likely +to give him full particulars. At the end of the second day M. de +Villefort received the following note: + +“The person called the Count of Monte Cristo is an intimate +acquaintance of Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is sometimes seen +in Paris and who is there at this moment; he is also known to the Abbé +Busoni, a Sicilian priest, of high repute in the East, where he has +done much good.” + +M. de Villefort replied by ordering the strictest inquiries to be made +respecting these two persons; his orders were executed, and the +following evening he received these details: + +“The abbé, who was in Paris only for a month, inhabited a small +two-storied house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were two rooms on each +floor and he was the only tenant. The two lower rooms consisted of a +dining-room, with a table, chairs, and side-board of walnut, and a +wainscoted parlor, without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece. It was +evident that the abbé limited himself to objects of strict necessity. +He preferred to use the sitting-room upstairs, which was more library +than parlor, and was furnished with theological books and parchments, +in which he delighted to bury himself for months at a time, according +to his valet de chambre. His valet looked at the visitors through a +sort of wicket; and if their faces were unknown to him or displeased +him, he replied that the abbé was not in Paris, an answer which +satisfied most persons, because the abbé was known to be a great +traveller. Besides, whether at home or not, whether in Paris or Cairo, +the abbé always left something to give away, which the valet +distributed through this wicket in his master’s name. The other room +near the library was a bedroom. A bed without curtains, four armchairs, +and a couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a +_prie-Dieu_, all its furniture. + +“Lord Wilmore resided in Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of +those English tourists who consume a large fortune in travelling. He +hired the apartment in which he lived furnished, passed only a few +hours in the day there, and rarely slept there. One of his +peculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however +wrote with great facility.” + +The day after this important information had been given to the king’s +attorney, a man alighted from a carriage at the corner of the Rue +Férou, and rapping at an olive-green door, asked if the Abbé Busoni +were within. + +“No, he went out early this morning,” replied the valet. + +“I might not always be content with that answer,” replied the visitor, +“for I come from one to whom everyone must be at home. But have the +kindness to give the Abbé Busoni——” + +“I told you he was not at home,” repeated the valet. + +“Then on his return give him that card and this sealed paper. Will he +be at home at eight o’clock this evening?” + +“Doubtless, unless he is at work, which is the same as if he were out.” + +“I will come again at that time,” replied the visitor, who then +retired. + +At the appointed hour the same man returned in the same carriage, +which, instead of stopping this time at the end of the Rue Férou, drove +up to the green door. He knocked, and it opened immediately to admit +him. From the signs of respect the valet paid him, he saw that his note +had produced a good effect. + +“Is the abbé at home?” asked he. + +“Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,” replied +the valet. The stranger ascended a rough staircase, and before a table, +illumined by a lamp whose light was concentrated by a large shade while +the rest of the apartment was in partial darkness, he perceived the +abbé in a monk’s dress, with a cowl on his head such as was used by +learned men of the Middle Ages. + +“Have I the honor of addressing the Abbé Busoni?” asked the visitor. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the abbé; “and you are the person whom M. de +Boville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect +of police?” + +“Exactly, sir.” + +“One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris?” + +“Yes, sir” replied the stranger with a slight hesitation, and blushing. + +The abbé replaced the large spectacles, which covered not only his eyes +but his temples, and sitting down motioned to his visitor to do the +same. “I am at your service, sir,” said the abbé, with a marked Italian +accent. + +“The mission with which I am charged, sir,” replied the visitor, +speaking with hesitation, “is a confidential one on the part of him who +fulfils it, and him by whom he is employed.” The abbé bowed. “Your +probity,” replied the stranger, “is so well known to the prefect that +he wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars +connected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to +see you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration +will induce you to conceal the truth.” + +“Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my +scruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of +confession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not +between me and human justice.” + +“Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your +conscience.” + +At this moment the abbé pressed down his side of the shade and so +raised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger’s face, +while his own remained obscured. + +“Excuse me, abbé,” said the envoy of the prefect of the police, “but +the light tries my eyes very much.” The abbé lowered the shade. + +“Now, sir, I am listening—go on.” + +“I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte +Cristo?” + +“You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume?” + +“Zaccone?—is not his name Monte Cristo?” + +“Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not +a family name.” + +“Well, be it so—let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte +Cristo and M. Zaccone are the same——” + +“Absolutely the same.” + +“Let us speak of M. Zaccone.” + +“Agreed.” + +“I asked you if you knew him?” + +“Extremely well.” + +“Who is he?” + +“The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta.” + +“I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not +content itself with vague reports.” + +“However,” replied the abbé, with an affable smile, “when that report +is in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police +as well as all the rest.” + +“Are you sure of what you assert?” + +“What do you mean by that question?” + +“Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if +you are certain of it?” + +“I knew his father, M. Zaccone.” + +“Ah, indeed?” + +“And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards.” + +“But whence does he derive the title of count?” + +“You are aware that may be bought.” + +“In Italy?” + +“Everywhere.” + +“And his immense riches, whence does he procure them?” + +“They may not be so very great.” + +“How much do you suppose he possesses?” + +“From one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres per annum.” + +“That is reasonable,” said the visitor; “I have heard he had three or +four millions.” + +“Two hundred thousand per annum would make four millions of capital.” + +“But I was told he had four millions per annum.” + +“That is not probable.” + +“Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo?” + +“Certainly, everyone who has come from Palermo, Naples, or Rome to +France by sea must know it, since he has passed close to it and must +have seen it.” + +“I am told it is a delightful place?” + +“It is a rock.” + +“And why has the count bought a rock?” + +“For the sake of being a count. In Italy one must have territorial +possessions to be a count.” + +“You have, doubtless, heard the adventures of M. Zaccone’s youth?” + +“The father’s?” + +“No, the son’s.” + +“I know nothing certain; at that period of his life, I lost sight of my +young comrade.” + +“Was he in the wars?” + +“I think he entered the service.” + +“In what branch?” + +“In the navy.” + +“Are you not his confessor?” + +“No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran.” + +“A Lutheran?” + +“I say, I believe such is the case, I do not affirm it; besides, +liberty of conscience is established in France.” + +“Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring into his creed, but his +actions; in the name of the prefect of police, I ask you what you know +of him. + +“He passes for a very charitable man. Our holy father, the pope, has +made him a knight of Jesus Christ for the services he rendered to the +Christians in the East; he has five or six rings as testimonials from +Eastern monarchs of his services.” + +“Does he wear them?” + +“No, but he is proud of them; he is better pleased with rewards given +to the benefactors of man than to his destroyers.” + +“He is a Quaker then?” + +“Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the exception of the peculiar dress.” + +“Has he any friends?” + +“Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend.” + +“But has he any enemies?” + +“One only.” + +“What is his name?” + +“Lord Wilmore.” + +“Where is he?” + +“He is in Paris just now.” + +“Can he give me any particulars?” + +“Important ones; he was in India with Zaccone.” + +“Do you know his abode?” + +“It’s somewhere in the Chaussée d’Antin; but I know neither the street +nor the number.” + +30289m + + + +“Are you at variance with the Englishman?” + +“I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we are consequently not friends.” + +“Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo had ever been in France before +he made this visit to Paris?” + +“To that question I can answer positively; no, sir, he had not, because +he applied to me six months ago for the particulars he required, and as +I did not know when I might again come to Paris, I recommended M. +Cavalcanti to him.” + +“Andrea?” + +“No, Bartolomeo, his father.” + +“Now, sir, I have but one question more to ask, and I charge you, in +the name of honor, of humanity, and of religion, to answer me +candidly.” + +“What is it, sir?” + +“Do you know with what design M. de Monte Cristo purchased a house at +Auteuil?” + +“Certainly, for he told me.” + +“What is it, sir?” + +“To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar to that founded by the Count +of Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about that institution?” + +“I have heard of it.” + +“It is a magnificent charity.” Having said this, the abbé bowed to +imply he wished to pursue his studies. + +The visitor either understood the abbé’s meaning, or had no more +questions to ask; he arose, and the abbé accompanied him to the door. + +“You are a great almsgiver,” said the visitor, “and although you are +said to be rich, I will venture to offer you something for your poor +people; will you accept my offering?” + +“I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in one thing, and that is that the +relief I give should be entirely from my own resources.” + +“However——” + +“My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, but you have only to search for +yourself and you will find, alas, but too many objects upon whom to +exercise your benevolence.” + +The abbé once more bowed as he opened the door, the stranger bowed and +took his leave, and the carriage conveyed him straight to the house of +M. de Villefort. An hour afterwards the carriage was again ordered, and +this time it went to the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges, and stopped at No. +5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore, +requesting an interview, which the latter had fixed for ten o’clock. As +the envoy of the prefect of police arrived ten minutes before ten, he +was told that Lord Wilmore, who was precision and punctuality +personified, was not yet come in, but that he would be sure to return +as the clock struck. + +The visitor was introduced into the drawing-room, which was like all +other furnished drawing-rooms. A mantle-piece, with two modern Sèvres +vases, a timepiece representing Cupid with his bent bow, a mirror with +an engraving on each side—one representing Homer carrying his guide, +the other, Belisarius begging—a grayish paper; red and black +tapestry—such was the appearance of Lord Wilmore’s drawing-room. + +It was illuminated by lamps with ground-glass shades which gave only a +feeble light, as if out of consideration for the envoy’s weak sight. +After ten minutes’ expectation the clock struck ten; at the fifth +stroke the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared. He was rather above +the middle height, with thin reddish whiskers, light complexion and +light hair, turning rather gray. He was dressed with all the English +peculiarity, namely, in a blue coat, with gilt buttons and high collar, +in the fashion of 1811, a white kerseymere waistcoat, and nankeen +pantaloons, three inches too short, but which were prevented by straps +from slipping up to the knee. His first remark on entering was: + +“You know, sir, I do not speak French?” + +“I know you do not like to converse in our language,” replied the +envoy. + +“But you may use it,” replied Lord Wilmore; “I understand it.” + +“And I,” replied the visitor, changing his idiom, “know enough of +English to keep up the conversation. Do not put yourself to the +slightest inconvenience.” + +“Aw?” said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives +of Great Britain. + +The envoy presented his letter of introduction, which the latter read +with English coolness, and having finished: + +“I understand,” said he, “perfectly.” + +30293m + + + +Then began the questions, which were similar to those which had been +addressed to the Abbé Busoni. But as Lord Wilmore, in the character of +the count’s enemy, was less restrained in his answers, they were more +numerous; he described the youth of Monte Cristo, who he said, at ten +years of age, entered the service of one of the petty sovereigns of +India who make war on the English. It was there Wilmore had first met +him and fought against him; and in that war Zaccone had been taken +prisoner, sent to England, and consigned to the hulks, whence he had +escaped by swimming. Then began his travels, his duels, his caprices; +then the insurrection in Greece broke out, and he had served in the +Grecian ranks. While in that service he had discovered a silver mine in +the mountains of Thessaly, but he had been careful to conceal it from +everyone. After the battle of Navarino, when the Greek government was +consolidated, he asked of King Otho a mining grant for that district, +which was given him. Hence that immense fortune, which, in Lord +Wilmore’s opinion, possibly amounted to one or two millions per +annum,—a precarious fortune, which might be momentarily lost by the +failure of the mine. + +“But,” asked the visitor, “do you know why he came to France?” + +“He is speculating in railways,” said Lord Wilmore, “and as he is an +expert chemist and physicist, he has invented a new system of +telegraphy, which he is seeking to bring to perfection.” + +“How much does he spend yearly?” asked the prefect. + +“Not more than five or six hundred thousand francs,” said Lord Wilmore; +“he is a miser.” Hatred evidently inspired the Englishman, who, knowing +no other reproach to bring on the count, accused him of avarice. + +“Do you know his house at Auteuil?” + +“Certainly.” + +“What do you know respecting it?” + +“Do you wish to know why he bought it?” + +“Yes.” + +“The count is a speculator, who will certainly ruin himself in +experiments. He supposes there is in the neighborhood of the house he +has bought a mineral spring equal to those at Bagnères, Luchon, and +Cauterets. He is going to turn his house into a _Badhaus_, as the +Germans term it. He has already dug up all the garden two or three +times to find the famous spring, and, being unsuccessful, he will soon +purchase all the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike him, and hope his +railway, his electric telegraph, or his search for baths, will ruin +him, I am watching for his discomfiture, which must soon take place.” + +“What was the cause of your quarrel?” + +“When he was in England he seduced the wife of one of my friends.” + +“Why do you not seek revenge?” + +“I have already fought three duels with him,” said the Englishman, “the +first with the pistol, the second with the sword, and the third with +the sabre.” + +“And what was the result of those duels?” + +“The first time, he broke my arm; the second, he wounded me in the +breast; and the third time, made this large wound.” The Englishman +turned down his shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose redness proved +it to be a recent one. “So that, you see, there is a deadly feud +between us.” + +“But,” said the envoy, “you do not go about it in the right way to kill +him, if I understand you correctly.” + +“Aw?” said the Englishman, “I practice shooting every day, and every +other day Grisier comes to my house.” + +This was all the visitor wished to ascertain, or, rather, all the +Englishman appeared to know. The agent arose, and having bowed to Lord +Wilmore, who returned his salutation with the stiff politeness of the +English, he retired. Lord Wilmore, having heard the door close after +him, returned to his bedroom, where with one hand he pulled off his +light hair, his red whiskers, his false jaw, and his wound, to resume +the black hair, dark complexion, and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte +Cristo. + +It was M. de Villefort, and not the prefect, who returned to the house +of M. de Villefort. The procureur felt more at ease, although he had +learned nothing really satisfactory, and, for the first time since the +dinner-party at Auteuil, he slept soundly. + + + + Chapter 70. The Ball + +It was in the warmest days of July, when in due course of time the +Saturday arrived upon which the ball was to take place at M. de +Morcerf’s. It was ten o’clock at night; the branches of the great trees +in the garden of the count’s house stood out boldly against the azure +canopy of heaven, which was studded with golden stars, but where the +last fleeting clouds of a vanishing storm yet lingered. + +From the apartments on the ground floor might be heard the sound of +music, with the whirl of the waltz and galop, while brilliant streams +of light shone through the openings of the Venetian blinds. At this +moment the garden was only occupied by about ten servants, who had just +received orders from their mistress to prepare the supper, the serenity +of the weather continuing to increase. Until now, it had been undecided +whether the supper should take place in the dining-room, or under a +long tent erected on the lawn, but the beautiful blue sky, studded with +stars, had settled the question in favor of the lawn. + +The gardens were illuminated with colored lanterns, according to the +Italian custom, and, as is usual in countries where the luxuries of the +table—the rarest of all luxuries in their complete form—are well +understood, the supper-table was loaded with wax-lights and flowers. + +30297m + + + +At the time the Countess of Morcerf returned to the rooms, after giving +her orders, many guests were arriving, more attracted by the charming +hospitality of the countess than by the distinguished position of the +count; for, owing to the good taste of Mercédès, one was sure of +finding some devices at her entertainment worthy of describing, or even +copying in case of need. + +Madame Danglars, in whom the events we have related had caused deep +anxiety, had hesitated about going to Madame de Morcerf’s, when during +the morning her carriage happened to meet that of Villefort. The latter +made a sign, and when the carriages had drawn close together, said: + +“You are going to Madame de Morcerf’s, are you not?” + +“No,” replied Madame Danglars, “I am too ill.” + +“You are wrong,” replied Villefort, significantly; “it is important +that you should be seen there.” + +“Do you think so?” asked the baroness. + +“I do.” + +“In that case I will go.” + +And the two carriages passed on towards their different destinations. +Madame Danglars therefore came, not only beautiful in person, but +radiant with splendor; she entered by one door at the time when +Mercédès appeared at the door. The countess took Albert to meet Madame +Danglars. He approached, paid her some well merited compliments on her +toilet, and offered his arm to conduct her to a seat. Albert looked +around him. + +“You are looking for my daughter?” said the baroness, smiling. + +“I confess it,” replied Albert. “Could you have been so cruel as not to +bring her?” + +“Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has taken +her arm; see, they are following us, both in white dresses, one with a +bouquet of camellias, the other with one of myosotis. But tell me——” + +“Well, what do you wish to know?” + +“Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be here tonight?” + +“Seventeen!” replied Albert. + +“What do you mean?” + +“I only mean that the count seems the rage,” replied the viscount, +smiling, “and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the +same question. The count is in fashion; I congratulate him upon it.” + +“And have you replied to everyone as you have to me?” + +“Ah, to be sure, I have not answered you; be satisfied, we shall have +this ‘lion’; we are among the privileged ones.” + +“Were you at the Opera yesterday?” + +“No.” + +“He was there.” + +“Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric person commit any new originality?” + +“Can he be seen without doing so? Elssler was dancing in _Le Diable +boiteux_; the Greek princess was in ecstasies. After the cachucha he +placed a magnificent ring on the stem of a bouquet, and threw it to the +charming danseuse, who, in the third act, to do honor to the gift, +reappeared with it on her finger. And the Greek princess,—will she be +here?” + +“No, you will be deprived of that pleasure; her position in the count’s +establishment is not sufficiently understood.” + +“Wait; leave me here, and go and speak to Madame de Villefort, who is +trying to attract your attention.” + +Albert bowed to Madame Danglars, and advanced towards Madame de +Villefort, whose lips opened as he approached. + +“I wager anything,” said Albert, interrupting her, “that I know what +you were about to say.” + +“Well, what is it?” + +“If I guess rightly, will you confess it?” + +“Yes.” + +“On your honor?” + +“On my honor.” + +“You were going to ask me if the Count of Monte Cristo had arrived, or +was expected.” + +“Not at all. It is not of him that I am now thinking. I was going to +ask you if you had received any news of Monsieur Franz.” + +“Yes,—yesterday.” + +“What did he tell you?” + +“That he was leaving at the same time as his letter.” + +“Well, now then, the count?” + +“The count will come, of that you may be satisfied.” + +“You know that he has another name besides Monte Cristo?” + +“No, I did not know it.” + +“Monte Cristo is the name of an island, and he has a family name.” + +“I never heard it.” + +“Well, then, I am better informed than you; his name is Zaccone.” + +“It is possible.” + +“He is a Maltese.” + +“That is also possible. + +“The son of a shipowner.” + +“Really, you should relate all this aloud, you would have the greatest +success.” + +“He served in India, discovered a mine in Thessaly, and comes to Paris +to establish a mineral water-cure at Auteuil.” + +“Well, I’m sure,” said Morcerf, “this is indeed news! Am I allowed to +repeat it?” + +“Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at a time, and do not say I told +you.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because it is a secret just discovered.” + +“By whom?” + +“The police.” + +“Then the news originated——” + +“At the prefect’s last night. Paris, you can understand, is astonished +at the sight of such unusual splendor, and the police have made +inquiries.” + +“Well, well! Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a +vagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich.” + +“Indeed, that doubtless would have happened if his credentials had not +been so favorable.” + +“Poor count! And is he aware of the danger he has been in?” + +“I think not.” + +“Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will +not fail to do so.” + +Just then, a handsome young man, with bright eyes, black hair, and +glossy moustache, respectfully bowed to Madame de Villefort. Albert +extended his hand. + +“Madame,” said Albert, “allow me to present to you M. Maximilian +Morrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our +bravest officers.” + +“I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, +at the house of the Count of Monte Cristo,” replied Madame de +Villefort, turning away with marked coldness of manner. + +This answer, and especially the tone in which it was uttered, chilled +the heart of poor Morrel. But a recompense was in store for him; +turning around, he saw near the door a beautiful fair face, whose large +blue eyes were, without any marked expression, fixed upon him, while +the bouquet of myosotis was gently raised to her lips. + +The salutation was so well understood that Morrel, with the same +expression in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his mouth; and these +two living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their marble +aspect, separated from each other by the whole length of the room, +forgot themselves for a moment, or rather forgot the world in their +mutual contemplation. They might have remained much longer lost in one +another, without anyone noticing their abstraction. The Count of Monte +Cristo had just entered. + +We have already said that there was something in the count which +attracted universal attention wherever he appeared. It was not the +coat, unexceptional in its cut, though simple and unornamented; it was +not the plain white waistcoat; it was not the trousers, that displayed +the foot so perfectly formed—it was none of these things that attracted +the attention,—it was his pale complexion, his waving black hair, his +calm and serene expression, his dark and melancholy eye, his mouth, +chiselled with such marvellous delicacy, which so easily expressed such +high disdain,—these were what fixed the attention of all upon him. + +Many men might have been handsomer, but certainly there could be none +whose appearance was more _significant_, if the expression may be used. +Everything about the count seemed to have its meaning, for the constant +habit of thought which he had acquired had given an ease and vigor to +the expression of his face, and even to the most trifling gesture, +scarcely to be understood. Yet the Parisian world is so strange, that +even all this might not have won attention had there not been connected +with it a mysterious story gilded by an immense fortune. + +30301m + + + +Meanwhile he advanced through the assemblage of guests under a battery +of curious glances towards Madame de Morcerf, who, standing before a +mantle-piece ornamented with flowers, had seen his entrance in a +looking-glass placed opposite the door, and was prepared to receive +him. She turned towards him with a serene smile just at the moment he +was bowing to her. No doubt she fancied the count would speak to her, +while on his side the count thought she was about to address him; but +both remained silent, and after a mere bow, Monte Cristo directed his +steps to Albert, who received him cordially. + +“Have you seen my mother?” asked Albert. + +“I have just had the pleasure,” replied the count; “but I have not seen +your father.” + +“See, he is down there, talking politics with that little group of +great geniuses.” + +“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo; “and so those gentlemen down there are men +of great talent. I should not have guessed it. And for what kind of +talent are they celebrated? You know there are different sorts.” + +“That tall, harsh-looking man is very learned, he discovered, in the +neighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard with a vertebra more than +lizards usually have, and he immediately laid his discovery before the +Institute. The thing was discussed for a long time, but finally decided +in his favor. I can assure you the vertebra made a great noise in the +learned world, and the gentleman, who was only a knight of the Legion +of Honor, was made an officer.” + +“Come,” said Monte Cristo, “this cross seems to me to be wisely +awarded. I suppose, had he found another additional vertebra, they +would have made him a commander.” + +“Very likely,” said Albert. + +“And who can that person be who has taken it into his head to wrap +himself up in a blue coat embroidered with green?” + +“Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it is the Republic’s, which deputed +David12 to devise a uniform for the Academicians.” + +“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo; “so this gentleman is an Academician?” + +“Within the last week he has been made one of the learned assembly.” + +“And what is his especial talent?” + +“His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he +makes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with +whalebone.” + +“And he is made a member of the Academy of Sciences for this?” + +“No; of the French Academy.” + +“But what has the French Academy to do with all this?” + +“I was going to tell you. It seems——” + +“That his experiments have very considerably advanced the cause of +science, doubtless?” + +“No; that his style of writing is very good.” + +“This must be very flattering to the feelings of the rabbits into whose +heads he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose bones he has dyed red, and +to the dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched out?” + +Albert laughed. + +“And the other one?” demanded the count. + +“That one?” + +“Yes, the third.” + +“The one in the dark blue coat?” + +“Yes.” + +“He is a colleague of the count, and one of the most active opponents +to the idea of providing the Chamber of Peers with a uniform. He was +very successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal +papers, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now +getting him into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an +ambassador.” + +30303m + + + +“And what are his claims to the peerage?” + +“He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five +articles in the _Siècle_, and voted five or six years on the +ministerial side.” + +“Bravo, viscount,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “you are a delightful +_cicerone_. And now you will do me a favor, will you not?” + +“What is it?” + +“Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish +it, you will warn me.” Just then the count felt his arm pressed. He +turned round; it was Danglars. + +“Ah! is it you, baron?” said he. + +“Why do you call me baron?” said Danglars; “you know that I care +nothing for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title, +do you not?” + +“Certainly,” replied Albert, “seeing that without my title I should be +nothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the +millionaire.” + +“Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July,” replied +Danglars. + +“Unfortunately,” said Monte Cristo, “one’s title to a millionaire does +not last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or academician; +for example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have +just become bankrupts.” + +“Indeed?” said Danglars, becoming pale. + +“Yes; I received the news this evening by a courier. I had about a +million in their hands, but, warned in time, I withdrew it a month +ago.” + +“Ah, _mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Danglars, “they have drawn on me for +200,000 francs!” + +“Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per +cent.” + +“Yes, but it is too late,” said Danglars, “I have honored their bills.” + +“Then,” said Monte Cristo, “here are 200,000 francs gone after——” + +“Hush, do not mention these things,” said Danglars; then, approaching +Monte Cristo, he added, “especially before young M. Cavalcanti;” after +which he smiled, and turned towards the young man in question. + +Albert had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse +with young Cavalcanti; Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. Meanwhile +the heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms +with waiters loaded with ices. Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration from +his forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he +took no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte +Cristo; she saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of +refusal. + +“Albert,” she asked, “did you notice that?” + +“What, mother?” + +“That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the +roof of M. de Morcerf.” + +“Yes; but then he breakfasted with me—indeed, he made his first +appearance in the world on that occasion.” + +“But your house is not M. de Morcerf’s,” murmured Mercédès; “and since +he has been here I have watched him.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, he has taken nothing yet.” + +“The count is very temperate.” + +Mercédès smiled sadly. + +“Approach him,” said she, “and when the next waiter passes, insist upon +his taking something.” + +“But why, mother?” + +“Just to please me, Albert,” said Mercédès. Albert kissed his mother’s +hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the +preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he +obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale. + +“Well,” said she, “you see he refuses?” + +“Yes; but why need this annoy you?” + +“You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have +seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he +cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might +prefer something else.” + +“Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does +not feel inclined this evening.” + +“And besides,” said the countess, “accustomed as he is to burning +climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do.” + +“I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost +suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well +as the windows.” + +“In a word,” said Mercédès, “it was a way of assuring me that his +abstinence was intended.” + +And she left the room. + +A minute afterwards the blinds were thrown open, and through the +jessamine and clematis that overhung the window one could see the +garden ornamented with lanterns, and the supper laid under the tent. +Dancers, players, talkers, all uttered an exclamation of joy—everyone +inhaled with delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time +Mercédès reappeared, paler than before, but with that imperturbable +expression of countenance which she sometimes wore. She went straight +to the group of which her husband formed the centre. + +“Do not detain those gentlemen here, count,” she said; “they would +prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden rather than suffocate +here, since they are not playing.” + +“Ah,” said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung _Partant pour +la Syrie_,—“we will not go alone to the garden.” + +“Then,” said Mercédès, “I will lead the way.” + +Turning towards Monte Cristo, she added, “count, will you oblige me +with your arm?” + +The count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his +eyes on Mercédès. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the +countess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that +one look. He offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather +just touched it with her little hand, and they together descended the +steps, lined with rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another +outlet, a group of about twenty persons rushed into the garden with +loud exclamations of delight. + + + + Chapter 71. Bread and Salt + +Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It +led through a grove of lindens to a conservatory. + +“It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?” she asked. + +“Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors +and the blinds.” As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of +Mercédès tremble. “But you,” he said, “with that light dress, and +without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel +cold?” + +“Do you know where I am leading you?” said the countess, without +replying to the question. + +“No, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but you see I make no resistance.” + +“We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the +grove.” + +The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she +continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They +reached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen +at the beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the +place of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess +left the arm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes. + +“See, count,” she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one +could almost detect the tears on her eyelids—“see, our French grapes +are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but +you will make allowance for our northern sun.” The count bowed, but +stepped back. + +“Do you refuse?” said Mercédès, in a tremulous voice. + +“Pray excuse me, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “but I never eat +Muscatel grapes.” + +Mercédès let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging +against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. +Mercédès drew near, and plucked the fruit. + +“Take this peach, then,” she said. The count again refused. “What, +again?” she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed to +stifle a sob; “really, you pain me.” + +A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the +ground. + +“Count,” added Mercédès with a supplicating glance, “there is a +beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have +together eaten bread and salt under the same roof.” + +“I know it, madame,” replied the count; “but we are in France, and not +in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom +of dividing bread and salt with one another.” + +“But,” said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte +Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, “we are +friends, are we not?” + +The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then +again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of +a man suddenly dazzled. + +“Certainly, we are friends,” he replied; “why should we not be?” + +The answer was so little like the one Mercédès desired, that she turned +away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan. “Thank +you,” she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length of +the garden without uttering a word. + +“Sir,” suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued +ten minutes in silence, “is it true that you have seen so much, +travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?” + +“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered Monte Cristo. + +“But now you are happy?” + +“Doubtless,” replied the count, “since no one hears me complain.” + +“And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?” + +“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the count. + +“Are you not married?” asked the countess. + +“I, married?” exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering; “who could have told +you so?” + +“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the +Opera with a young and lovely woman.” + +“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter +of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to +love in the world.” + +“You live alone, then?” + +“I do.” + +“You have no sister—no son—no father?” + +“I have no one.” + +“How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?” + +“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the +point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she +loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my +memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most +men who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker +than the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have +done in my place; that is all.” + +The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. “Yes,” she +said, “and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can +only love once—and did you ever see her again?” + +30309m + + + +“Never.” + +“Never?” + +“I never returned to the country where she lived.” + +“To Malta?” + +“Yes; Malta.” + +“She is, then, now at Malta?” + +“I think so.” + +“And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?” + +“Her,—yes.” + +“But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?” + +“I hate them? Not at all; why should I?” The countess placed herself +before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the +perfumed grapes. + +“Take some,” she said. + +“Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,” replied Monte Cristo, as if the +subject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapes +into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair. + +“Inflexible man!” she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as if +the reproach had not been addressed to him. + +Albert at this moment ran in. “Oh, mother,” he exclaimed, “such a +misfortune has happened!” + +“What? What has happened?” asked the countess, as though awakening from +a sleep to the realities of life; “did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I +should expect misfortunes.” + +“M. de Villefort is here.” + +“Well?” + +“He comes to fetch his wife and daughter.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the +news of M. de Saint-Méran’s death, which took place on the first stage +after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good +spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but +Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth, +notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her +like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless.” + +“And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?” +said the count. + +“He was her grandfather on the mother’s side. He was coming here to +hasten her marriage with Franz.” + +“Ah, indeed!” + +“So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather to +Mademoiselle Danglars?” + +“Albert, Albert,” said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof, +“what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him +that he has spoken amiss.” + +And she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with +an air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that she +turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that of +her son, and joined them together. + +“We are friends; are we not?” she asked. + +“Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all +times I am your most respectful servant.” The countess left with an +indescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps the +count saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes. + +“Do not my mother and you agree?” asked Albert, astonished. + +“On the contrary,” replied the count, “did you not hear her declare +that we were friends?” + +They re-entered the drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de +Villefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel +departed almost at the same time. + + + + Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran + +A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de Villefort. +After the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all the entreaties +of Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him to accompany them, +the procureur had shut himself up in his study, according to his +custom, with a heap of papers calculated to alarm anyone else, but +which generally scarcely satisfied his inordinate desires. + +But this time the papers were a mere matter of form. Villefort had +secluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and with the door +locked and orders given that he should not be disturbed excepting for +important business, he sat down in his armchair and began to ponder +over the events, the remembrance of which had during the last eight +days filled his mind with so many gloomy thoughts and bitter +recollections. + +Then, instead of plunging into the mass of documents piled before him, +he opened the drawer of his desk, touched a spring, and drew out a +parcel of cherished memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged, +in characters only known to himself, the names of all those who, either +in his political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in his +mysterious love affairs, had become his enemies. + +Their number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and yet +these names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to smile +with the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller who from +the summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy eminences, the +almost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms, through which he has +so perilously climbed. When he had run over all these names in his +memory, again read and studied them, commenting meanwhile upon his +lists, he shook his head. + +“No,” he murmured, “none of my enemies would have waited so patiently +and laboriously for so long a space of time, that they might now come +and crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet says: + +‘Foul deeds will rise, + +Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes;’ + + +but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The story has +been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn has repeated +it. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to enlighten himself—— + +“But why should he wish to enlighten himself upon the subject?” asked +Villefort, after a moment’s reflection, “what interest can this M. de +Monte Cristo or M. Zaccone,—son of a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of +a mine in Thessaly, now visiting Paris for the first time,—what +interest, I say, can he take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and +useless fact like this? However, among all the incoherent details given +to me by the Abbé Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that +enemy, one thing appears certain and clear in my opinion—that in no +period, in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any +contact between him and me.” + +But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not believe. He +dreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply to or deny its +truth;—he cared little for that _mene, mene, tekel upharsin_, which +appeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the wall;—but what he was +really anxious for was to discover whose hand had traced them. While he +was endeavoring to calm his fears,—and instead of dwelling upon the +political future that had so often been the subject of his ambitious +dreams, was imagining a future limited to the enjoyments of home, in +fear of awakening the enemy that had so long slept,—the noise of a +carriage sounded in the yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person +ascending the stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as +servants always give vent to when they wish to appear interested in +their master’s grief. + +He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an old lady +entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and her bonnet in +her hand. The white hair was thrown back from her yellow forehead, and +her eyes, already sunken by the furrows of age, now almost disappeared +beneath the eyelids swollen with grief. + +“Oh, sir,” she said; “oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it; +oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!” + +And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst into a +paroxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not daring to +approach nearer, were looking at Noirtier’s old servant, who had heard +the noise from his master’s room, and run there also, remaining behind +the others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law, for it +was she. + +“Why, what can have happened?” he exclaimed, “what has thus disturbed +you? Is M. de Saint-Méran with you?” + +“M. de Saint-Méran is dead,” answered the old marchioness, without +preface and without expression; she appeared to be stupefied. Villefort +drew back, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed: + +“Dead!—so suddenly?” + +“A week ago,” continued Madame de Saint-Méran, “we went out together in +the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Méran had been unwell for some +days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired him +with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At six +leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he is +accustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared to +me unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that +his face was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed more +violently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longer +see, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a +person suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back +violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M. +de Saint-Méran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and I +arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse.” + +Villefort stood with his mouth half open, quite stupefied. + +“Of course you sent for a doctor?” + +“Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.” + +“Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had +died.” + +“Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic +stroke.” + +“And what did you do then?” + +“M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his death +happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought +to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am +preceding him by a few days.” + +“Oh! my poor mother!” said Villefort, “to have such duties to perform +at your age after such a blow!” + +“God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would +certainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is +true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot +cry; at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that +when one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is +Valentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see +Valentine.” + +30315m + + + +Villefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at a +ball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, and +that she should be fetched. “This instant, sir—this instant, I beseech +you!” said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de +Saint-Méran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment. + +“Rest yourself, mother,” he said. + +The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the man who +so forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who still lived +for her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of mother, and +bursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an armchair, where +she buried her venerable head. Villefort left her to the care of the +women, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to his master; for nothing +frightens old people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over +them for a moment in order to strike some other old person. Then, while +Madame de Saint-Méran remained on her knees, praying fervently, +Villefort sent for a cab, and went himself to fetch his wife and +daughter from Madame de Morcerf’s. He was so pale when he appeared at +the door of the ball-room, that Valentine ran to him, saying: + +“Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!” + +“Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,” said M. de Villefort. + +“And grandpapa?” inquired the young girl, trembling with apprehension. +M. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to his daughter. It +was just in time, for Valentine’s head swam, and she staggered; Madame +de Villefort instantly hastened to her assistance, and aided her +husband in dragging her to the carriage, saying: + +“What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is +indeed strange!” + +And the wretched family departed, leaving a cloud of sadness hanging +over the rest of the evening. At the foot of the stairs, Valentine +found Barrois awaiting her. + +“M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight, he said, in an undertone. + +“Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,” she replied, +feeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she could be of +the most service just then was Madame de Saint-Méran. + +Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrung +sobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sad +interview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband’s arm, +maintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poor +widow. She soon whispered to her husband: + +“I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, for +the sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.” Madame de +Saint-Méran heard her. + +“Yes, yes,” she said softly to Valentine, “let her leave; but do you +stay.” + +Madame de Villefort left, and Valentine remained alone beside the bed, +for the procureur, overcome with astonishment at the unexpected death, +had followed his wife. Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first +time to old Noirtier, who having heard the noise in the house, had, as +we have said, sent his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return, +his quick intelligent eye interrogated the messenger. + +“Alas, sir,” exclaimed Barrois, “a great misfortune has happened. +Madame de Saint-Méran has arrived, and her husband is dead!” + +M. de Saint-Méran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms of +friendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably affects +another. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest, apparently +overwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in token of +inquiry. + +Barrois asked, “Mademoiselle Valentine?” + +Noirtier nodded his head. + +“She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to you +in full dress.” Noirtier again closed his left eye. + +“Do you wish to see her?” Noirtier again made an affirmative sign. + +“Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf’s; +I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what you +wish for?” + +“Yes,” replied the invalid. + +Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and +informed her of her grandfather’s wish. Consequently, Valentine came up +to Noirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-Méran, who in the midst of her +grief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a feverish sleep. +Within reach of her hand they placed a small table upon which stood a +bottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a glass. Then, as we have +said, the young girl left the bedside to see M. Noirtier. + +Valentine kissed the old man, who looked at her with such tenderness +that her eyes again filled with tears, whose sources he thought must be +exhausted. The old gentleman continued to dwell upon her with the same +expression. + +“Yes, yes,” said Valentine, “you mean that I have yet a kind +grandfather left, do you not.” The old man intimated that such was his +meaning. “Ah, yes, happily I have,” replied Valentine. “Without that, +what would become of me?” + +It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bed +himself, observed that after such sad events everyone stood in need of +rest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed was to see +his child, but wished her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made +her appear quite ill. + +The next morning she found her grandmother in bed; the fever had not +abated, on the contrary her eyes glistened and she appeared to be +suffering from violent nervous irritability. + +“Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?” exclaimed Valentine, perceiving +all these signs of agitation. + +“No, my child, no,” said Madame de Saint-Méran; “but I was impatiently +waiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father.” + +“My father?” inquired Valentine, uneasily. + +“Yes, I wish to speak to him.” + +Valentine durst not oppose her grandmother’s wish, the cause of which +she did not know, and an instant afterwards Villefort entered. + +“Sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, without using any circumlocution, +and as if fearing she had no time to lose, “you wrote to me concerning +the marriage of this child?” + +“Yes, madame,” replied Villefort, “it is not only projected but +arranged.” + +“Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d’Épinay?” + +“Yes, madame.” + +“Is he not the son of General d’Épinay who was on our side, and who was +assassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island of +Elba?” + +“The same.” + +“Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a +Jacobin?” + +“Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,” said +Villefort; “M. d’Épinay was quite a child when his father died, he +knows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with +pleasure, at least with indifference.” + +“Is it a suitable match?” + +“In every respect.” + +“And the young man?” + +“Is regarded with universal esteem.” + +“You approve of him?” + +“He is one of the most well-bred young men I know.” + +During the whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent. + +“Well, sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, after a few minutes’ +reflection, “I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to +live.” + +“You, madame?” “You, dear mamma?” exclaimed M. de Villefort and +Valentine at the same time. + +“I know what I am saying,” continued the marchioness; “I must hurry +you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother +to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my +poor Renée, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir.” + +“Ah, madame,” said Villefort, “you forget that I was obliged to give a +mother to my child.” + +“A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the +purpose,—our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead in +peace.” + +All this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was +something in the conversation that seemed like the beginning of +delirium. + +“It shall be as you wish, madame,” said Villefort; “more especially +since your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d’Épinay +arrives in Paris——” + +30319m + + + +“My dear grandmother,” interrupted Valentine, “consider decorum—the +recent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices?” + +“My child,” exclaimed the old lady sharply, “let us hear none of the +conventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for the +future. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainly +I have not been less happy on that account.” + +“Still that idea of death, madame,” said Villefort. + +“Still?—Always! I tell you I am going to die—do you understand? Well, +before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make +my child happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey +me;—in fact, I will know him—I will!” continued the old lady, with a +fearful expression, “that I may rise from the depths of my grave to +find him, if he should not fulfil his duty!” + +“Madame,” said Villefort, “you must lay aside these exalted ideas, +which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in +their graves, rise no more.” + +“And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had a +fearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over +my body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and +what will appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes +shut, in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that corner +where there is a door leading into Madame Villefort’s dressing-room—I +saw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure.” + +Valentine screamed. + +“It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,” said Villefort. + +30321m + + + +“Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white +figure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only one +of my senses, I heard my glass removed—the same which is there now on +the table.” + +“Oh, dear mother, it was a dream.” + +“So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell; +but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with a +light.” + +“But she saw no one?” + +“Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was the +soul of my husband!—Well, if my husband’s soul can come to me, why +should not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is even +more direct, it seems to me.” + +“Oh, madame,” said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of himself, “do +not yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy, +loved, and honored, and we will make you forget——” + +“Never, never, never,” said the marchioness. “When does M. d’Épinay +return?” + +“We expect him every moment.” + +“It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious. +And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all +our property returns to Valentine.” + +“Ah, grandmamma,” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning +brow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not +send for a notary, but for a doctor!” + +“A doctor?” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I am +thirsty—that is all.” + +30323m + + + +“What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?” + +“The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it to +me, Valentine.” Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it +to her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same +glass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre. + +The marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turned +on her pillow, repeating, + +“The notary, the notary!” + +M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at the +bedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to require +the doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A bright spot +burned in either cheek, her respiration was short and difficult, and +her pulse beat with feverish excitement. She was thinking of the +despair of Maximilian, when he should be informed that Madame de +Saint-Méran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as his +enemy. + +More than once she thought of revealing all to her grandmother, and she +would not have hesitated a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been named +Albert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel was of +plebeian extraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de +Saint-Méran despised all who were not noble. Her secret had each time +been repressed when she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction +that it would be useless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her +father and mother, all would be lost. + +Two hours passed thus; Madame de Saint-Méran was in a feverish sleep, +and the notary had arrived. Though his coming was announced in a very +low tone, Madame de Saint-Méran arose from her pillow. + +“The notary!” she exclaimed, “let him come in.” + +The notary, who was at the door, immediately entered. “Go, Valentine,” +said Madame de Saint-Méran, “and leave me with this gentleman.” + +“But, grandmamma——” + +“Leave me—go!” + +The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left with her handkerchief +to her eyes; at the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her +that the doctor was waiting in the dining-room. Valentine instantly ran +down. The doctor was a friend of the family, and at the same time one +of the cleverest men of the day, and very fond of Valentine, whose +birth he had witnessed. He had himself a daughter about her age, but +whose life was one continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her +mother having been consumptive. + +“Oh,” said Valentine, “we have been waiting for you with such +impatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and +Antoinette?” + +Madeleine was the daughter of M. d’Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece. +M. d’Avrigny smiled sadly. + +“Antoinette is very well,” he said, “and Madeleine tolerably so. But +you sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de +Villefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our +patients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to +recommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.” + +Valentine colored. M. d’Avrigny carried the science of divination +almost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who +always work upon the body through the mind. + +30325m + + + +“No,” she replied, “it is for my poor grandmother. You know the +calamity that has happened to us, do you not?” + +“I know nothing.” said M. d’Avrigny. + +“Alas,” said Valentine, restraining her tears, “my grandfather is +dead.” + +“M. de Saint-Méran?” + +“Yes.” + +“Suddenly?” + +“From an apoplectic stroke.” + +“An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor. + +“Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never +left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M. +d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!” + +“Where is she?” + +“In her room with the notary.” + +“And M. Noirtier?” + +“Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of +moving or speaking.” + +“And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?” + +“Yes,” said Valentine, “he was very fond of me.” + +“Who does not love you?” Valentine smiled sadly. “What are your +grandmother’s symptoms?” + +“An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; she +fancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above her +body, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium; +she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and even +heard the noise it made on touching her glass.” + +“It is singular,” said the doctor; “I was not aware that Madame de +Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.” + +“It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,” said +Valentine; “and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her +mad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself +appeared deeply impressed.” + +“We will go and see,” said the doctor; “what you tell me seems very +strange.” The notary here descended, and Valentine was informed that +her grandmother was alone. + +“Go upstairs,” she said to the doctor. + +“And you?” + +“Oh, I dare not—she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I am +myself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn +in the garden to recover myself.” + +The doctor pressed Valentine’s hand, and while he visited her +grandmother, she descended the steps. We need not say which portion of +the garden was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time in +the parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in +her waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the +bench; then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual, Valentine +strolled for a short time among her flowers, but without gathering +them. The mourning in her heart forbade her assuming this simple +ornament, though she had not yet had time to put on the outward +semblance of woe. + +30327m + + + +She then turned towards the avenue. As she advanced she fancied she +heard a voice speaking her name. She stopped astonished, then the voice +reached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be that of +Maximilian. + + + + Chapter 73. The Promise + +It was indeed Maximilian Morrel, who had passed a wretched existence +since the previous day. With the instinct peculiar to lovers he had +anticipated after the return of Madame de Saint-Méran and the death of +the marquis, that something would occur at M. de Villefort’s in +connection with his attachment for Valentine. His presentiments were +realized, as we shall see, and his uneasy forebodings had goaded him +pale and trembling to the gate under the chestnut-trees. + +Valentine was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow and anxiety, and as +it was not his accustomed hour for visiting her, she had gone to the +spot simply by accident or perhaps through sympathy. Morrel called her, +and she ran to the gate. + +“You here at this hour?” said she. + +“Yes, my poor girl,” replied Morrel; “I come to bring and to hear bad +tidings.” + +“This is, indeed, a house of mourning,” said Valentine; “speak, +Maximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full.” + +“Dear Valentine,” said Morrel, endeavoring to conceal his own emotion, +“listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very serious. When +are you to be married?” + +“I will tell you all,” said Valentine; “from you I have nothing to +conceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear +grandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only declared +herself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that they only await +the arrival of M. d’Épinay, and the following day the contract will be +signed.” + +A deep sigh escaped the young man, who gazed long and mournfully at her +he loved. + +“Alas,” replied he, “it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from +your own lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be +executed; it must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But, +since you say nothing remains but for M. d’Épinay to arrive that the +contract may be signed, and the following day you will be his, tomorrow +you will be engaged to M. d’Épinay, for he came this morning to Paris.” +Valentine uttered a cry. + +“I was at the house of Monte Cristo an hour since,” said Morrel; “we +were speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced, and I of +your grief, when a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Never, till +then, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but now I cannot +help believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that carriage I +shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as +much as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan. The door at last +opened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and I began to hope my fears +were vain, when, after him, another young man advanced, and the count +exclaimed: ‘Ah, here is the Baron Franz d’Épinay!’ I summoned all my +strength and courage to my support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled, +but certainly I smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having +heard one word that had passed.” + +“Poor Maximilian!” murmured Valentine. + +“Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And remember +my life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?” Valentine +held down her head; she was overwhelmed. + +“Listen,” said Morrel; “it is not the first time you have contemplated +our present position, which is a serious and urgent one; I do not think +it is a moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that for those who +like to suffer at their leisure and indulge their grief in secret. +There are such in the world, and God will doubtless reward them in +heaven for their resignation on earth, but those who mean to contend +must not lose one precious moment, but must return immediately the blow +which fortune strikes. Do you intend to struggle against our +ill-fortune? Tell me, Valentine for it is that I came to know.” + +Valentine trembled, and looked at him with amazement. The idea of +resisting her father, her grandmother, and all the family, had never +occurred to her. + +“What do you say, Maximilian?” asked Valentine. “What do you mean by a +struggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. What? I resist my father’s +order, and my dying grandmother’s wish? Impossible!” + +Morrel started. + +“You are too noble not to understand me, and you understand me so well +that you already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my +strength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as you +say. But to grieve my father—to disturb my grandmother’s last +moments—never!” + +“You are right,” said Morrel, calmly. + +“In what a tone you speak!” cried Valentine. + +“I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle.” + +“Mademoiselle,” cried Valentine; “mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man! he +sees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me!” + +“You mistake—I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose M. +Villefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and tomorrow you +will sign the contract which will bind you to your husband.” + +“But, _mon Dieu!_ tell me, how can I do otherwise?” + +“Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in such a +case; my selfishness will blind me,” replied Morrel, whose low voice +and clenched hands announced his growing desperation. + +“What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me willing to +accede?” + +“It is not for me to say.” + +“You are wrong; you must advise me what to do.” + +“Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine?” + +“Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow it; you +know my devotion to you.” + +“Valentine,” said Morrel pushing aside a loose plank, “give me your +hand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are confused, and +during the last hour the most extravagant thoughts have passed through +my brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice——” + +“What do you advise?” said Valentine, raising her eyes to heaven and +sighing. + +“I am free,” replied Maximilian, “and rich enough to support you. I +swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have +approached your forehead.” + +“You make me tremble!” said the young girl. + +“Follow me,” said Morrel; “I will take you to my sister, who is worthy +also to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England, for America, +or, if you prefer it, retire to the country and only return to Paris +when our friends have reconciled your family.” + +Valentine shook her head. + +“I feared it, Maximilian,” said she; “it is the counsel of a madman, +and I should be more mad than you, did I not stop you at once with the +word ‘Impossible, Morrel, impossible!’” + +“You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even +attempting to contend with it?” said Morrel sorrowfully. + +“Yes,—if I die!” + +“Well, Valentine,” resumed Maximilian, “I can only say again that you +are right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me that passion +blinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm reasoning. It is +then understood that tomorrow you will be irrevocably promised to M. +Franz d’Épinay, not only by that theatrical formality invented to +heighten the effect of a comedy called the signature of the contract, +but your own will?” + +“Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “again you +plunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do, tell me, if your +sister listened to such a proposition?” + +“Mademoiselle,” replied Morrel with a bitter smile, “I am selfish—you +have already said so—and as a selfish man I think not of what others +would do in my situation, but of what I intend doing myself. I think +only that I have known you not a whole year. From the day I first saw +you, all my hopes of happiness have been in securing your affection. +One day you acknowledged that you loved me, and since that day my hope +of future happiness has rested on obtaining you, for to gain you would +be life to me. Now, I think no more; I say only that fortune has turned +against me—I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is +an every-day occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he +possesses but also what he has not.” + +Morrel pronounced these words with perfect calmness; Valentine looked +at him a moment with her large, scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to +let Morrel discover the grief which struggled in her heart. + +“But, in a word, what are you going to do?” asked she. + +“I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you, mademoiselle, +solemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so calm, so happy, +and so fully occupied, that there may be no place for me even in your +memory.” + +“Oh!” murmured Valentine. + +“Adieu, Valentine, adieu!” said Morrel, bowing. + +“Where are you going?” cried the young girl, extending her hand through +the opening, and seizing Maximilian by his coat, for she understood +from her own agitated feelings that her lover’s calmness could not be +real; “where are you going?” + +“I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your family: and +to set an example which every honest and devoted man, situated as I am, +may follow.” + +“Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilian.” +The young man smiled sorrowfully. + +“Speak, speak!” said Valentine; “I entreat you.” + +“Has your resolution changed, Valentine?” + +“It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!” cried the young +girl. + +“Then adieu, Valentine!” + +Valentine shook the gate with a strength of which she could not have +been supposed to be possessed, as Morrel was going away, and passing +both her hands through the opening, she clasped and wrung them. “I must +know what you mean to do!” said she. “Where are you going?” + +“Oh, fear not,” said Maximilian, stopping at a short distance, “I do +not intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous fate +reserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to provoke +him, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What has M. Franz +to do with it? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has +already forgotten he has seen me. He did not even know I existed when +it was arranged by your two families that you should be united. I have +no enmity against M. Franz, and promise you the punishment shall not +fall on him.” + +“On whom, then!—on me?” + +“On you? Valentine! Oh, Heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the woman one +loves is holy.” + +“On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself?” + +“I am the only guilty person, am I not?” said Maximilian. + +“Maximilian!” said Valentine, “Maximilian, come back, I entreat you!” + +He drew near with his sweet smile, and but for his paleness one might +have thought him in his usual happy mood. + +“Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine,” said he in his melodious and +grave tone; “those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we +need blush before the world, such may read each other’s hearts. I never +was romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither Manfred nor +Anthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my life has +entwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are right in doing +so,—I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you, I lose my life. The +moment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is +happily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is, a man +whom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no one then longer +needs my useless life. This is what I shall do; I will wait until the +very moment you are married, for I will not lose the shadow of one of +those unexpected chances which are sometimes reserved for us, since M. +Franz may, after all, die before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even +on the altar as you approach it,—nothing appears impossible to one +condemned to die, and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape +from death is concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and +when my misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a +confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of +police, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of some +wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I will put +an end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest +man who ever lived in France.” + +30333m + + + +Valentine trembled convulsively; she loosened her hold of the gate, her +arms fell by her side, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. The +young man stood before her, sorrowful and resolute. + +“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said she, “you will live, will you not?” + +“No, on my honor,” said Maximilian; “but that will not affect you. You +have done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest.” + +Valentine fell on her knees, and pressed her almost bursting heart. +“Maximilian,” said she, “Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my +true husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live in suffering; +perhaps we may one day be united.” + +“Adieu, Valentine,” repeated Morrel. + +“My God,” said Valentine, raising both her hands to heaven with a +sublime expression, “I have done my utmost to remain a submissive +daughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded neither +my prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done,” cried she, wiping +away her tears, and resuming her firmness, “I am resolved not to die of +remorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours. +Say when shall it be? Speak, command, I will obey.” + +Morrel, who had already gone some few steps away, again returned, and +pale with joy extended both hands towards Valentine through the +opening. + +“Valentine,” said he, “dear Valentine, you must not speak thus—rather +let me die. Why should I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual? +Is it from mere humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die.” + +“Truly,” murmured Valentine, “who on this earth cares for me, if he +does not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my hopes +rest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him, always on +him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave +the paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am,” +cried Valentine, sobbing, “I will give up all, even my dear old +grandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten.” + +“No,” said Maximilian, “you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has +evinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you leave, +tell him all; his consent would be your justification in God’s sight. +As soon as we are married, he shall come and live with us, instead of +one child, he shall have two. You have told me how you talk to him and +how he answers you; I shall very soon learn that language by signs, +Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, that instead of despair, it is +happiness that awaits us.” + +“Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost make +me believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my father +will curse me—he is inflexible—he will never pardon me. Now listen to +me, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by accident—in short, if +by any means I can delay this marriage, will you wait?” + +“Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that this +horrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are dragged +before a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse.” + +“I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world, namely, +by my mother.” + +“We will wait, then,” said Morrel. + +���Yes, we will wait,” replied Valentine, who revived at these words; +“there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such as we +are.” + +“I rely on you, Valentine,” said Morrel; “all you do will be well done; +only if they disregard your prayers, if your father and Madame de +Saint-Méran insist that M. d’Épinay should be called tomorrow to sign +the contract——” + +“Then you have my promise, Maximilian.” + +“Instead of signing——” + +“I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until then, +let us not tempt Providence, let us not see each other. It is a +miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If we +were surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should have no +further resource.” + +“You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain?” + +“From the notary, M. Deschamps.” + +“I know him.” + +“And for myself—I will write to you, depend on me. I dread this +marriage, Maximilian, as much as you.” + +“Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When once I +know the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily get over this +fence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at the gate, in +which you will accompany me to my sister’s; there living, retired or +mingling in society, as you wish, we shall be enabled to use our power +to resist oppression, and not suffer ourselves to be put to death like +sheep, which only defend themselves by sighs.” + +“Yes,” said Valentine, “I will now acknowledge you are right, +Maximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?” said the +young girl sorrowfully. + +“My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my +satisfaction.” + +Valentine had approached, or rather, had placed her lips so near the +fence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel, which were pressed +against the other side of the cold and inexorable barrier. + +“Adieu, then, till we meet again,” said Valentine, tearing herself +away. “I shall hear from you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!” + +The sound of a kiss was heard, and Valentine fled through the avenue. +Morrel listened to catch the last sound of her dress brushing the +branches, and of her footstep on the gravel, then raised his eyes with +an ineffable smile of thankfulness to heaven for being permitted to be +thus loved, and then also disappeared. + +The young man returned home and waited all the evening and all the next +day without getting any message. It was only on the following day, at +about ten o’clock in the morning, as he was starting to call on M. +Deschamps, the notary, that he received from the postman a small +billet, which he knew to be from Valentine, although he had not before +seen her writing. It was to this effect: + +“Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday, for +two hours, I was at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, and for two +hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as man, and the +signature of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o’clock. I +have but one promise and but one heart to give; that promise is pledged +to you, that heart is also yours. This evening, then, at a quarter to +nine at the gate. + +“Your betrothed, + +“Valentine de Villefort.” + +“P.S.—My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her fever +amounted to delirium; today her delirium is almost madness. You will be +very kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me forget my sorrow in +leaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret from grandpapa Noirtier, +that the contract is to be signed this evening.” + +Morrel went also to the notary, who confirmed the news that the +contract was to be signed that evening. Then he went to call on Monte +Cristo and heard still more. Franz had been to announce the ceremony, +and Madame de Villefort had also written to beg the count to excuse her +not inviting him; the death of M. de Saint-Méran and the dangerous +illness of his widow would cast a gloom over the meeting which she +would regret should be shared by the count whom she wished every +happiness. + +The day before Franz had been presented to Madame de Saint-Méran, who +had left her bed to receive him, but had been obliged to return to it +immediately after. + +It is easy to suppose that Morrel’s agitation would not escape the +count’s penetrating eye. Monte Cristo was more affectionate than +ever,—indeed, his manner was so kind that several times Morrel was on +the point of telling him all. But he recalled the promise he had made +to Valentine, and kept his secret. + +The young man read Valentine’s letter twenty times in the course of the +day. It was her first, and on what an occasion! Each time he read it he +renewed his vow to make her happy. How great is the power of a woman +who has made so courageous a resolution! What devotion does she deserve +from him for whom she has sacrificed everything! How ought she really +to be supremely loved! She becomes at once a queen and a wife, and it +is impossible to thank and love her sufficiently. + +Morrel longed intensely for the moment when he should hear Valentine +say, “Here I am, Maximilian; come and help me.” He had arranged +everything for her escape; two ladders were hidden in the clover-field; +a cabriolet was ordered for Maximilian alone, without a servant, +without lights; at the turning of the first street they would light the +lamps, as it would be foolish to attract the notice of the police by +too many precautions. Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of the +moment when, from the top of that wall, he should protect the descent +of his dear Valentine, pressing in his arms for the first time her of +whom he had yet only kissed the delicate hand. + +When the afternoon arrived and he felt that the hour was drawing near, +he wished for solitude, his agitation was extreme; a simple question +from a friend would have irritated him. He shut himself in his room, +and tried to read, but his eye glanced over the page without +understanding a word, and he threw away the book, and for the second +time sat down to sketch his plan, the ladders and the fence. + +At length the hour drew near. Never did a man deeply in love allow the +clocks to go on peacefully. Morrel tormented his so effectually that +they struck eight at half-past six. He then said, “It is time to start; +the signature was indeed fixed to take place at nine o’clock, but +perhaps Valentine will not wait for that.” Consequently, Morrel, having +left the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by his timepiece, entered the +clover-field while the clock of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule was striking +eight. The horse and cabriolet were concealed behind a small ruin, +where Morrel had often waited. + +The night gradually drew on, and the foliage in the garden assumed a +deeper hue. Then Morrel came out from his hiding-place with a beating +heart, and looked through the small opening in the gate; there was yet +no one to be seen. + +The clock struck half-past eight, and still another half-hour was +passed in waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro, and gazed more and +more frequently through the opening. The garden became darker still, +but in the darkness he looked in vain for the white dress, and in the +silence he vainly listened for the sound of footsteps. The house, which +was discernible through the trees, remained in darkness, and gave no +indication that so important an event as the signature of a +marriage-contract was going on. Morrel looked at his watch, which +wanted a quarter to ten; but soon the same clock he had already heard +strike two or three times rectified the error by striking half-past +nine. + +This was already half an hour past the time Valentine had fixed. It was +a terrible moment for the young man. The slightest rustling of the +foliage, the least whistling of the wind, attracted his attention, and +drew the perspiration to his brow; then he tremblingly fixed his +ladder, and, not to lose a moment, placed his foot on the first step. +Amidst all these alternations of hope and fear, the clock struck ten. +“It is impossible,” said Maximilian, “that the signing of a contract +should occupy so long a time without unexpected interruptions. I have +weighed all the chances, calculated the time required for all the +forms; something must have happened.” + +And then he walked rapidly to and fro, and pressed his burning forehead +against the fence. Had Valentine fainted? or had she been discovered +and stopped in her flight? These were the only obstacles which appeared +possible to the young man. + +The idea that her strength had failed her in attempting to escape, and +that she had fainted in one of the paths, was the one that most +impressed itself upon his mind. “In that case,” said he, “I should lose +her, and by my own fault.” He dwelt on this idea for a moment, then it +appeared reality. He even thought he could perceive something on the +ground at a distance; he ventured to call, and it seemed to him that +the wind wafted back an almost inarticulate sigh. + +At last the half-hour struck. It was impossible to wait longer, his +temples throbbed violently, his eyes were growing dim; he passed one +leg over the wall, and in a moment leaped down on the other side. He +was on Villefort’s premises—had arrived there by scaling the wall. What +might be the consequences? However, he had not ventured thus far to +draw back. He followed a short distance close under the wall, then +crossed a path, hid entered a clump of trees. In a moment he had passed +through them, and could see the house distinctly. + +30341m + + + +Then Morrel saw that he had been right in believing that the house was +not illuminated. Instead of lights at every window, as is customary on +days of ceremony, he saw only a gray mass, which was veiled also by a +cloud, which at that moment obscured the moon’s feeble light. A light +moved rapidly from time to time past three windows of the second floor. +These three windows were in Madame de Saint-Méran’s room. Another +remained motionless behind some red curtains which were in Madame de +Villefort’s bedroom. Morrel guessed all this. So many times, in order +to follow Valentine in thought at every hour in the day, had he made +her describe the whole house, that without having seen it he knew it +all. + +This darkness and silence alarmed Morrel still more than Valentine’s +absence had done. Almost mad with grief, and determined to venture +everything in order to see Valentine once more, and be certain of the +misfortune he feared, Morrel gained the edge of the clump of trees, and +was going to pass as quickly as possible through the flower-garden, +when the sound of a voice, still at some distance, but which was borne +upon the wind, reached him. At this sound, as he was already partially +exposed to view, he stepped back and concealed himself completely, +remaining perfectly motionless. + +He had formed his resolution. If it was Valentine alone, he would speak +as she passed; if she was accompanied, and he could not speak, still he +should see her, and know that she was safe; if they were strangers, he +would listen to their conversation, and might understand something of +this hitherto incomprehensible mystery. + +The moon had just then escaped from behind the cloud which had +concealed it, and Morrel saw Villefort come out upon the steps, +followed by a gentleman in black. They descended, and advanced towards +the clump of trees, and Morrel soon recognized the other gentleman as +Doctor d’Avrigny. + +30339m + + + +The young man, seeing them approach, drew back mechanically, until he +found himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in the centre of the clump; +there he was compelled to remain. Soon the two gentlemen stopped also. + +“Ah, my dear doctor,” said the procureur, “Heaven declares itself +against my house! What a dreadful death—what a blow! Seek not to +console me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow—the wound is +too deep and too fresh! Dead, dead!” + +The cold sweat sprang to the young man’s brow, and his teeth chattered. +Who could be dead in that house, which Villefort himself had called +accursed? + +“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with a tone which +redoubled the terror of the young man, “I have not led you here to +console you; on the contrary——” + +“What can you mean?” asked the procureur, alarmed. + +“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you, +there is another, perhaps, still greater.” + +“Can it be possible?” murmured Villefort, clasping his hands. “What are +you going to tell me?” + +“Are we quite alone, my friend?” + +“Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?” + +“Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,” said the +doctor. “Let us sit down.” + +Villefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before +him, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported +his head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its +beatings should be heard. “Dead, dead!” repeated he within himself; and +he felt as if he were also dying. + +“Speak, doctor—I am listening,” said Villefort; “strike—I am prepared +for everything!” + +“Madame de Saint-Méran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she +enjoyed excellent health.” Morrel began again to breathe freely, which +he had not done during the last ten minutes. + +“Grief has consumed her,” said Villefort—“yes, grief, doctor! After +living forty years with the marquis——” + +“It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor; “grief may kill, +although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in +ten minutes.” Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head, +which had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with +amazement. + +“Were you present during the last struggle?” asked M. d’Avrigny. + +“I was,” replied the procureur; “you begged me not to leave.” + +“Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de +Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?” + +“I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at +intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When +you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath +some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous +attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and +her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then +I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had +thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could +not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit +came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than +the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth +contracted and turned purple.” + +“And at the third she expired.” + +“At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you +confirmed my opinion.” + +“Yes, before others,” replied the doctor; “but now we are alone——” + +“What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!” + +“That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are +the same.” + +M. de Villefort started from his seat, then in a moment fell down +again, silent and motionless. Morrel knew not if he were dreaming or +awake. + +“Listen,” said the doctor; “I know the full importance of the statement +I have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made +it.” + +“Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?” asked Villefort. + +“As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in +the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so +great, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I +should hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a +magistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say, ‘During the +three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the +convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly +convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could +also specify the poison.’” + +“Can it be possible?” + +“The symptoms are marked, do you see?—sleep broken by nervous spasms, +excitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de +Saint-Méran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine, +which by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her.” + +Villefort seized the doctor’s hand. + +“Oh, it is impossible,” said he, “I must be dreaming! It is frightful +to hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my +dear doctor, that you may be deceived.” + +“Doubtless I may, but——” + +“But?” + +30345m + + + +“But I do not think so.” + +“Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me +lately that I am on the verge of madness.” + +“Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?” + +“No.” + +“Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?” + +“Not to my knowledge.” + +“Would her death affect anyone’s interest?” + +“It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone. +Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to +punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.” + +“Indeed, my dear friend,” said M. d’Avrigny, “I would not accuse +anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand,—of a mistake,—but +whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience +and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.” + +“Of whom?—how?—of what?” + +“May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given +Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?” + +“For my father?” + +“Yes.” + +“But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de +Saint-Méran?” + +“Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain +diseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every +other remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved +to try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him +brucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six +grains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the +paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed +to it, would be sufficient to kill another person.” + +“My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier’s +apartment and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never entered +my mother-in-law’s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the +most conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost +reliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this +axiom, _errare humanum est_.” + +“Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with +myself?” + +“Why do you ask me that?—what do you wish?” + +“Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult +together, and examine the body.” + +“And you will find traces of poison?” + +“No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of +the body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall +say, ‘Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence, +watch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies.’” + +“What do you propose to me, d’Avrigny?” said Villefort in despair; “so +soon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become +necessary; and an inquest in my house—impossible! Still,” continued the +procureur, looking at the doctor with uneasiness, “if you wish it—if +you demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me +already so grieved—how can I introduce into my house so much scandal, +after so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I, +doctor—you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy—one has not +been king’s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a +tolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be +talked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice, +and cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were +you a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and +you know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said +nothing, have you?” + +“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, “my first duty is to +humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if science could +have done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us +bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am +willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject +should be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always—watch +carefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have +found the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you, ‘You are a +magistrate, do as you will!’” + +“I thank you, doctor,” said Villefort with indescribable joy; “I never +had a better friend than you.” And, as if he feared Doctor d’Avrigny +would recall his promise, he hurried him towards the house. + +When they were gone, Morrel ventured out from under the trees, and the +moon shone upon his face, which was so pale it might have been taken +for that of a ghost. + +“I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible +manner,” said he; “but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much +sorrow?” + +As he thought thus, he looked alternately at the window with red +curtains and the three windows with white curtains. The light had +almost disappeared from the former; doubtless Madame de Villefort had +just put out her lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected its dull light +on the window. At the extremity of the building, on the contrary, he +saw one of the three windows open. A wax-light placed on the +mantle-piece threw some of its pale rays without, and a shadow was seen +for one moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered; he thought he heard a +sob. + +It cannot be wondered at that his mind, generally so courageous, but +now disturbed by the two strongest human passions, love and fear, was +weakened even to the indulgence of superstitious thoughts. Although it +was impossible that Valentine should see him, hidden as he was, he +thought he heard the shadow at the window call him; his disturbed mind +told him so. This double error became an irresistible reality, and by +one of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his +hiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the +risk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by some +exclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the +flower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white +lake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in +front of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the +door, which opened without offering any resistance. + +Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were +watching a silvery cloud gliding over the azure, its form that of a +shadow mounting towards heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it +as the soul of her grandmother. + +Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase, +which, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had +regained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort +even would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such +encounter. He would at once approach Valentine’s father and acknowledge +all, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two +fond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad. + +Happily he did not meet anyone. Now, especially, did he find the +description Valentine had given of the interior of the house useful to +him; he arrived safely at the top of the staircase, and while he was +feeling his way, a sob indicated the direction he was to take. He +turned back, a door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to +hear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the door open and entered. +At the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered it, lay +the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so +unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees, and with her head +buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and +sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had +turned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents +that would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid, +incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of grief almost +stopped her utterance. + +The moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn +paler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not +resist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily +impressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before +him, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a +name, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of +the chair—a head like that of a Magdalen by Correggio—was raised and +turned towards him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least +surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to +minor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only +apology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet, +and began to sob again. + +Neither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to +break the silence which death seemed to impose; at length Valentine +ventured. + +“My friend,” said she, “how came you here? Alas, I would say you are +welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house.” + +“Valentine,” said Morrel with a trembling voice, “I had waited since +half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the +wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the +fatal event——” + +“What voices?” asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the +conversation of the doctor and M. de Villefort, and he thought he could +see through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the +purple lips. + +“Your servants,” said he, “who were repeating the whole of the +sorrowful story; from them I learned it all.” + +“But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love.” + +“Forgive me,” replied Morrel; “I will go away.” + +“No,” said Valentine, “you might meet someone; stay.” + +“But if anyone should come here——” + +The young girl shook her head. “No one will come,” said she; “do not +fear, there is our safeguard,” pointing to the bed. + +“But what has become of M. d’Épinay?” replied Morrel. + +30349m + + + +“M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was +dying.” + +“Alas,” said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this +death would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely. + +“But what redoubles my sorrow,” continued the young girl, as if this +feeling was to receive its immediate punishment, “is that the poor old +lady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as +soon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against +me.” + +“Hark!” said Morrel. They both listened; steps were distinctly heard in +the corridor and on the stairs. + +“It is my father, who has just left his study.” + +“To accompany the doctor to the door,” added Morrel. + +“How do you know it is the doctor?” asked Valentine, astonished. + +“I imagined it must be,” said Morrel. + +Valentine looked at the young man; they heard the street door close, +then M. de Villefort locked the garden door, and returned upstairs. He +stopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether to turn to +his own apartment or into Madame de Saint-Méran’s; Morrel concealed +himself behind a door; Valentine remained motionless, grief seeming to +deprive her of all fear. M. de Villefort passed on to his own room. + +“Now,” said Valentine, “you can neither go out by the front door nor by +the garden.” + +Morrel looked at her with astonishment. + +“There is but one way left you that is safe,” said she; “it is through +my grandfather’s room.” She rose. “Come,” she added. + +“Where?” asked Maximilian. + +“To my grandfather’s room.” + +“I in M. Noirtier’s apartment?” + +“Yes.” + +“Can you mean it, Valentine?” + +“I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need +his help,—come.” + +“Be careful, Valentine,” said Morrel, hesitating to comply with the +young girl’s wishes; “I now see my error—I acted like a madman in +coming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable?” + +“Yes,” said Valentine; “and I have but one scruple,—that of leaving my +dear grandmother’s remains, which I had undertaken to watch.” + +“Valentine,” said Morrel, “death is in itself sacred.” + +“Yes,” said Valentine; “besides, it will not be for long.” + +She then crossed the corridor, and led the way down a narrow staircase +to M. Noirtier’s room; Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the door they +found the old servant. + +“Barrois,” said Valentine, “shut the door, and let no one come in.” + +She passed first. + +Noirtier, seated in his chair, and listening to every sound, was +watching the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye brightened. There was +something grave and solemn in the approach of the young girl which +struck the old man, and immediately his bright eye began to +interrogate. + +“Dear grandfather.” said she hurriedly, “you know poor grandmamma died +an hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you.” + +His expressive eyes evinced the greatest tenderness. + +“To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes?” + +The paralytic motioned “Yes.” + +Valentine took Maximilian’s hand. + +“Look attentively, then, at this gentleman.” + +The old man fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight astonishment on +Morrel. + +“It is M. Maximilian Morrel,” said she; “the son of that good merchant +of Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect.” + +“Yes,” said the old man. + +“He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render +glorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of +the Legion of Honor.” + +The old man signified that he recollected him. + +“Well, grandpapa,” said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to +Maximilian, “I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to +marry another, I would destroy myself.” + +The eyes of the paralytic expressed a multitude of tumultuous thoughts. + +“You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa?” asked +Valentine. + +“Yes.” + +“And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my +father?” + +Noirtier cast an intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to say, “perhaps I +may.” + +Maximilian understood him. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your +deceased grandmother’s room, will you allow me the honor of a few +minutes’ conversation with M. Noirtier?” + +“That is it,” said the old man’s eye. Then he looked anxiously at +Valentine. + +“Do you fear he will not understand?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, we have so often spoken of you, that he knows exactly how I talk +to you.” Then turning to Maximilian, with an adorable smile; although +shaded by sorrow,—“He knows everything I know,” said she. + +Valentine arose, placed a chair for Morrel, requested Barrois not to +admit anyone, and having tenderly embraced her grandfather, and +sorrowfully taken leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove to Noirtier +that he was in Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets, +Morrel took the dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and placed them all +on a table where there was a light. + +“But first,” said Morrel, “allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how +much I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting +her.” + +Noirtier made a sign that he would listen. + +It was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere +useless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of +the lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong. His remarkably +noble and austere expression struck Morrel, who began his story with +trembling. He related the manner in which he had become acquainted with +Valentine, and how he had loved her, and that Valentine, in her +solitude and her misfortune, had accepted the offer of his devotion. He +told him his birth, his position, his fortune, and more than once, when +he consulted the look of the paralytic, that look answered, “That is +good, proceed.” + +“And now,” said Morrel, when he had finished the first part of his +recital, “now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you +of my intentions?” + +“Yes,” signified the old man. + +“This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in +which I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister’s house, to marry +her, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort’s pardon.” + +“No,” said Noirtier. + +“We must not do so?” + +“No.” + +“You do not sanction our project?” + +“No.” + +“There is another way,” said Morrel. The old man’s interrogative eye +said, “Which?” + +“I will go,” continued Maximilian, “I will seek M. Franz d’Épinay—I am +happy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort’s +absence—and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to +challenge me.” Noirtier’s look continued to interrogate. + +“You wish to know what I will do?” + +“Yes.” + +“I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me +to Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by +renouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure +my friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through +interest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would +be forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no +other, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall +kill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry +Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him.” + +Noirtier watched, with indescribable pleasure, this noble and sincere +countenance, on which every sentiment his tongue uttered was depicted, +adding by the expression of his fine features all that coloring adds to +a sound and faithful drawing. + +Still, when Morrel had finished, he shut his eyes several times, which +was his manner of saying “No.” + +“No?” said Morrel; “you disapprove of this second project, as you did +of the first?” + +“I do,” signified the old man. + +“But what then must be done?” asked Morrel. “Madame de Saint-Méran’s +last request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let +things take their course?” Noirtier did not move. “I understand,” said +Morrel; “I am to wait.” + +“Yes.” + +“But delay may ruin our plan, sir,” replied the young man. “Alone, +Valentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here +almost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity +to occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have +proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do +you authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to intrust herself to my honor?” + +“No.” + +“Do you prefer I should seek M. d’Épinay?” + +“No.” + +“Whence then will come the help we need—from chance?” resumed Morrel. + +“No.” + +“From you?” + +“Yes.” + +“You thoroughly understand me, sir? Pardon my eagerness, for my life +depends on your answer. Will our help come from you?” + +“Yes.” + +“You are sure of it?” + +“Yes.” There was so much firmness in the look which gave this answer, +no one could, at any rate, doubt his will, if they did his power. + +“Oh, thank you a thousand times! But how, unless a miracle should +restore your speech, your gesture, your movement, how can you, chained +to that armchair, dumb and motionless, oppose this marriage?” A smile +lit up the old man’s face, a strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed +face. + +“Then I must wait?” asked the young man. + +“Yes.” + +“But the contract?” The same smile returned. “Will you assure me it +shall not be signed?” + +“Yes,” said Noirtier. + +“The contract shall not be signed!” cried Morrel. “Oh, pardon me, sir; +I can scarcely realize so great a happiness. Will they not sign it?” + +“No,” said the paralytic. Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel still +hesitated. This promise of an impotent old man was so strange that, +instead of being the result of the power of his will, it might emanate +from enfeebled organs. Is it not natural that the madman, ignorant of +his folly, should attempt things beyond his power? The weak man talks +of burdens he can raise, the timid of giants he can confront, the poor +of treasures he spends, the most humble peasant, in the height of his +pride, calls himself Jupiter. Whether Noirtier understood the young +man’s indecision, or whether he had not full confidence in his +docility, he looked uneasily at him. + +“What do you wish, sir?” asked Morrel; “that I should renew my promise +of remaining tranquil?” Noirtier’s eye remained fixed and firm, as if +to imply that a promise did not suffice; then it passed from his face +to his hands. + +“Shall I swear to you, sir?” asked Maximilian. + +“Yes,” said the paralytic with the same solemnity. Morrel understood +that the old man attached great importance to an oath. He extended his +hand. + +“I swear to you, on my honor,” said he, “to await your decision +respecting the course I am to pursue with M. d’Épinay.” + +“That is right,” said the old man. + +“Now,” said Morrel, “do you wish me to retire?” + +“Yes.” + +“Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?” + +“Yes.” + +Morrel made a sign that he was ready to obey. “But,” said he, “first +allow me to embrace you as your daughter did just now.” Noirtier’s +expression could not be understood. The young man pressed his lips on +the same spot, on the old man’s forehead, where Valentine’s had been. +Then he bowed a second time and retired. + +He found outside the door the old servant, to whom Valentine had given +directions. Morrel was conducted along a dark passage, which led to a +little door opening on the garden, soon found the spot where he had +entered, with the assistance of the shrubs gained the top of the wall, +and by his ladder was in an instant in the clover-field where his +cabriolet was still waiting for him. He got in it, and thoroughly +wearied by so many emotions, arrived about midnight in the Rue Meslay, +threw himself on his bed and slept soundly. + + + +VOLUME FOUR + +40010m + + + +40012m + + + +40020m + + + + + Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault + +Two days after, a considerable crowd was assembled, towards ten o’clock +in the morning, around the door of M. de Villefort’s house, and a long +file of mourning-coaches and private carriages extended along the +Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Rue de la Pépinière. Among them was one +of a very singular form, which appeared to have come from a distance. +It was a kind of covered wagon, painted black, and was one of the first +to arrive. Inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that, by a strange +coincidence, this carriage contained the corpse of the Marquis de +Saint-Méran, and that those who had come thinking to attend one funeral +would follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de Saint-Méran, +one of the most zealous and faithful dignitaries of Louis XVIII. and +King Charles X., had preserved a great number of friends, and these, +added to the personages whom the usages of society gave Villefort a +claim on, formed a considerable body. + +Due information was given to the authorities, and permission obtained +that the two funerals should take place at the same time. A second +hearse, decked with the same funereal pomp, was brought to M. de +Villefort’s door, and the coffin removed into it from the post-wagon. +The two bodies were to be interred in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise, +where M. de Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the +reception of his family. The remains of poor Renée were already +deposited there, and now, after ten years of separation, her father and +mother were to be reunited with her. + +The Parisians, always curious, always affected by funereal display, +looked on with religious silence while the splendid procession +accompanied to their last abode two of the number of the old +aristocracy—the greatest protectors of commerce and sincere devotees to +their principles. + +In one of the mourning-coaches Beauchamp, Debray, and Château-Renaud +were talking of the very sudden death of the marchioness. + +“I saw Madame de Saint-Méran only last year at Marseilles, when I was +coming back from Algiers,” said Château-Renaud; “she looked like a +woman destined to live to be a hundred years old, from her apparent +sound health and great activity of mind and body. How old was she?” + +“Franz assured me,” replied Albert, “that she was sixty-six years old. +But she has not died of old age, but of grief; it appears that since +the death of the marquis, which affected her very deeply, she has not +completely recovered her reason.” + +“But of what disease, then, did she die?” asked Debray. + +“It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or apoplexy, which +is the same thing, is it not?” + +“Nearly.” + +“It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy,” said Beauchamp. +“Madame de Saint-Méran, whom I once saw, was short, of slender form, +and of a much more nervous than sanguine temperament; grief could +hardly produce apoplexy in such a constitution as that of Madame de +Saint-Méran.” + +“At any rate,” said Albert, “whatever disease or doctor may have killed +her, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle Valentine,—or, still +rather, our friend Franz, inherits a magnificent fortune, amounting, I +believe, to 80,000 livres per annum.” + +“And this fortune will be doubled at the death of the old Jacobin, +Noirtier.” + +“That is a tenacious old grandfather,” said Beauchamp. “_Tenacem +propositi virum_. I think he must have made an agreement with death to +outlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed. He resembles +the old Conventionalist of ’93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814, ‘You +bend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid growth. +Take the Republic for a tutor; let us return with renewed strength to +the battle-field, and I promise you 500,000 soldiers, another Marengo, +and a second Austerlitz. Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they +slumber sometimes, but only revive the stronger before they sleep +entirely.’” + +“Ideas and men appeared the same to him,” said Albert. “One thing only +puzzles me, namely, how Franz d’Épinay will like a grandfather who +cannot be separated from his wife. But where is Franz?” + +“In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers him already +as one of the family.” + +40024m + + + +Such was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these two sudden +deaths, so quickly following each other, astonished everyone, but no +one suspected the terrible secret which M. d’Avrigny had communicated, +in his nocturnal walk to M. de Villefort. They arrived in about an hour +at the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony with +the funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked towards the family +vault, Château-Renaud recognized Morrel, who had come alone in a +cabriolet, and walked silently along the path bordered with yew-trees. + +“You here?” said Château-Renaud, passing his arms through the young +captain’s; “are you a friend of Villefort’s? How is it that I have +never met you at his house?” + +“I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort’s,” answered Morrel, “but I +was of Madame de Saint-Méran.” Albert came up to them at this moment +with Franz. + +“The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction.” said +Albert; “but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present +to you M. Franz d’Épinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom +I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an +excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you +will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit, +or amiability.” + +Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to +accost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but +his oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory; +he struggled to conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz. + +“Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?” said Debray +to Franz. + +“Extremely,” replied he; “she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely +knew her.” + +These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had +seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer +required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took +the arm of Château-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the +attendants had already placed the two coffins. + +“This is a magnificent habitation,” said Beauchamp, looking towards the +mausoleum; “a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my +dear d’Épinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I, +as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down +there under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body. +In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron: +‘_Eo rus_, and all will be over.’ But come, Franz, take courage, your +wife is an heiress.” + +“Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at +everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But +when you have the honor of associating with ordinary men, and the +pleasure of leaving politics for a moment, try to find your +affectionate heart, which you leave with your stick when you go to the +Chamber.” + +“But tell me,” said Beauchamp, “what is life? Is it not a halt in +Death’s anteroom?” + +40026m + + + +“I am prejudiced against Beauchamp,” said Albert, drawing Franz away, +and leaving the former to finish his philosophical dissertation with +Debray. + +The Villefort vault formed a square of white stones, about twenty feet +high; an interior partition separated the two families, and each +apartment had its entrance door. Here were not, as in other tombs, +ignoble drawers, one above another, where thrift bestows its dead and +labels them like specimens in a museum; all that was visible within the +bronze gates was a gloomy-looking room, separated by a wall from the +vault itself. The two doors before mentioned were in the middle of this +wall, and enclosed the Villefort and Saint-Méran coffins. There grief +might freely expend itself without being disturbed by the trifling +loungers who came from a picnic party to visit Père-Lachaise, or by +lovers who make it their rendezvous. + +The two coffins were placed on trestles previously prepared for their +reception in the right-hand crypt belonging to the Saint-Méran family. +Villefort, Franz, and a few near relatives alone entered the sanctuary. + +As the religious ceremonies had all been performed at the door, and +there was no address given, the party all separated; Château-Renaud, +Albert, and Morrel, went one way, and Debray and Beauchamp the other. +Franz remained with M. de Villefort; at the gate of the cemetery Morrel +made an excuse to wait; he saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into the +same mourning-coach, and thought this meeting forboded evil. He then +returned to Paris, and although in the same carriage with +Château-Renaud and Albert, he did not hear one word of their +conversation. + +As Franz was about to take leave of M. de Villefort, “When shall I see +you again?” said the latter. + +“At what time you please, sir,” replied Franz. + +“As soon as possible.” + +“I am at your command, sir; shall we return together?” + +“If not unpleasant to you.” + +“On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure.” + +Thus, the future father and son-in-law stepped into the same carriage, +and Morrel, seeing them pass, became uneasy. Villefort and Franz +returned to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The procureur, without going to +see either his wife or his daughter, went at once to his study, and, +offering the young man a chair: + +“M. d’Épinay,” said he, “allow me to remind you at this moment,—which +is perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first sight may appear, for +obedience to the wishes of the departed is the first offering which +should be made at their tomb,—allow me then to remind you of the wish +expressed by Madame de Saint-Méran on her death-bed, that Valentine’s +wedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the deceased are +in perfect order, and her will bequeaths to Valentine the entire +property of the Saint-Méran family; the notary showed me the documents +yesterday, which will enable us to draw up the contract immediately. +You may call on the notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg +Saint-Honoré, and you have my authority to inspect those deeds.” + +“Sir,” replied M. d’Épinay, “it is not, perhaps, the moment for +Mademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to think of a husband; +indeed, I fear——” + +40028m + + + +“Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of fulfilling her +grandmother’s last injunctions; there will be no obstacle from that +quarter, I assure you.” + +“In that case,” replied Franz, “as I shall raise none, you may make +arrangements when you please; I have pledged my word, and shall feel +pleasure and happiness in adhering to it.” + +“Then,” said Villefort, “nothing further is required. The contract was +to have been signed three days since; we shall find it all ready, and +can sign it today.” + +“But the mourning?” said Franz, hesitating. + +“Don’t be uneasy on that score,” replied Villefort; “no ceremony will +be neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de Villefort may retire during +the prescribed three months to her estate of Saint-Méran; I say hers, +for she inherits it today. There, after a few days, if you like, the +civil marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony. Madame de +Saint-Méran wished her daughter should be married there. When that is +over, you, sir, can return to Paris, while your wife passes the time of +her mourning with her mother-in-law.” + +“As you please, sir,” said Franz. + +“Then,” replied M. de Villefort, “have the kindness to wait half an +hour; Valentine shall come down into the drawing-room. I will send for +M. Deschamps; we will read and sign the contract before we separate, +and this evening Madame de Villefort shall accompany Valentine to her +estate, where we will rejoin them in a week.” + +“Sir,” said Franz, “I have one request to make.” + +“What is it?” + +“I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de Château-Renaud to be present at +this signature; you know they are my witnesses.” + +“Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for them +yourself, or shall you send?” + +“I prefer going, sir.” + +“I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and Valentine will +be ready.” + +Franz bowed and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when M. de +Villefort sent to tell Valentine to be ready in the drawing-room in +half an hour, as he expected the notary and M. d’Épinay and his +witnesses. The news caused a great sensation throughout the house; +Madame de Villefort would not believe it, and Valentine was +thunderstruck. She looked around for help, and would have gone down to +her grandfather’s room, but on the stairs she met M. de Villefort, who +took her arm and led her into the drawing-room. In the anteroom, +Valentine met Barrois, and looked despairingly at the old servant. A +moment later, Madame de Villefort entered the drawing-room with her +little Edward. It was evident that she had shared the grief of the +family, for she was pale and looked fatigued. She sat down, took Edward +on her knees, and from time to time pressed this child, on whom her +affections appeared centred, almost convulsively to her bosom. + +Two carriages were soon heard to enter the courtyard. One was the +notary’s; the other, that of Franz and his friends. In a moment the +whole party was assembled. Valentine was so pale one might trace the +blue veins from her temples, round her eyes and down her cheeks. Franz +was deeply affected. Château-Renaud and Albert looked at each other +with amazement; the ceremony which was just concluded had not appeared +more sorrowful than did that which was about to begin. Madame de +Villefort had placed herself in the shadow behind a velvet curtain, and +as she constantly bent over her child, it was difficult to read the +expression of her face. M. de Villefort was, as usual, unmoved. + +The notary, after having, according to the customary method, arranged +the papers on the table, taken his place in an armchair, and raised his +spectacles, turned towards Franz: + +“Are you M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d’Épinay?” asked he, although he +knew it perfectly. + +“Yes, sir,” replied Franz. The notary bowed. + +“I have, then, to inform you, sir, at the request of M. de Villefort, +that your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has changed +the feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild, and that he +disinherits her entirely of the fortune he would have left her. Let me +hasten to add,” continued he, “that the testator, having only the right +to alienate a part of his fortune, and having alienated it all, the +will will not bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void.” + +“Yes.” said Villefort; “but I warn M. d’Épinay, that during my +life-time my father’s will shall never be questioned, my position +forbidding any doubt to be entertained.” + +40032m + + + +“Sir,” said Franz, “I regret much that such a question has been raised +in the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I have never inquired the +amount of her fortune, which, however limited it may be, exceeds mine. +My family has sought consideration in this alliance with M. de +Villefort; all I seek is happiness.” + +Valentine imperceptibly thanked him, while two silent tears rolled down +her cheeks. + +“Besides, sir,” said Villefort, addressing himself to his future +son-in-law, “excepting the loss of a portion of your hopes, this +unexpected will need not personally wound you; M. Noirtier’s weakness +of mind sufficiently explains it. It is not because Mademoiselle +Valentine is going to marry you that he is angry, but because she will +marry, a union with any other would have caused him the same sorrow. +Old age is selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a +faithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when she becomes +the Baroness d’Épinay. My father’s melancholy state prevents our +speaking to him on any subjects, which the weakness of his mind would +incapacitate him from understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that +at the present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is going +to be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name of his intended +grandson.” M. de Villefort had scarcely said this, when the door +opened, and Barrois appeared. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, in a tone strangely firm for a servant speaking +to his masters under such solemn circumstances,—“gentlemen, M. Noirtier +de Villefort wishes to speak immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron +d’Épinay.” He, as well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in +the person, gave all his titles to the bridegroom elect. + +Villefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from her knees, +Valentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert and Château-Renaud +exchanged a second look, more full of amazement than the first. The +notary looked at Villefort. + +“It is impossible,” said the procureur. “M. d’Épinay cannot leave the +drawing-room at present.” + +“It is at this moment,” replied Barrois with the same firmness, “that +M. Noirtier, my master, wishes to speak on important subjects to M. +Franz d’Épinay.” + +“Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then,” said Edward, with his +habitual quickness. However, his remark did not make Madame de +Villefort even smile, so much was every mind engaged, and so solemn was +the situation. + +“Tell M. Nortier,” resumed Villefort, “that what he demands is +impossible.” + +“Then, M. Nortier gives notice to these gentlemen,” replied Barrois, +“that he will give orders to be carried to the drawing-room.” + +Astonishment was at its height. Something like a smile was perceptible +on Madame de Villefort’s countenance. Valentine instinctively raised +her eyes, as if to thank heaven. + +“Pray go, Valentine,” said; M. de Villefort, “and see what this new +fancy of your grandfather’s is.” Valentine rose quickly, and was +hastening joyfully towards the door, when M. de Villefort altered his +intention. + +“Stop,” said he; “I will go with you.” + +“Excuse me, sir,” said Franz, “since M. Noirtier sent for me, I am +ready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be happy to pay my +respects to him, not having yet had the honor of doing so.” + +“Pray, sir,” said Villefort with marked uneasiness, “do not disturb +yourself.” + +40032m + + + +“Forgive me, sir,” said Franz in a resolute tone. “I would not lose +this opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how wrong it would be of him +to encourage feelings of dislike to me, which I am determined to +conquer, whatever they may be, by my devotion.” + +And without listening to Villefort he arose, and followed Valentine, +who was running downstairs with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who +finds a rock to cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Château-Renaud +and Morcerf exchanged a third look of still increasing wonder. + + + + Chapter 75. A Signed Statement + +Noirtier was prepared to receive them, dressed in black, and installed +in his armchair. When the three persons he expected had entered, he +looked at the door, which his valet immediately closed. + +“Listen,” whispered Villefort to Valentine, who could not conceal her +joy; “if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate anything which would delay +your marriage, I forbid you to understand him.” + +Valentine blushed, but did not answer. Villefort, approached Noirtier. + +“Here is M. Franz d’Épinay,” said he; “you requested to see him. We +have all wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you +how ill-formed are your objections to Valentine’s marriage.” + +Noirtier answered only by a look which made Villefort’s blood run cold. +He motioned to Valentine to approach. In a moment, thanks to her habit +of conversing with her grandfather, she understood that he asked for a +key. Then his eye was fixed on the drawer of a small chest between the +windows. She opened the drawer, and found a key; and, understanding +that was what he wanted, again watched his eyes, which turned toward an +old secretaire which had been neglected for many years and was supposed +to contain nothing but useless documents. + +“Shall I open the secretaire?” asked Valentine. + +“Yes,” said the old man. + +“And the drawers?” + +“Yes.” + +“Those at the side?” + +“No.” + +“The middle one?” + +“Yes.” + +Valentine opened it and drew out a bundle of papers. “Is that what you +wish for?” asked she. + +“No.” + +She took successively all the other papers out till the drawer was +empty. “But there are no more,” said she. Noirtier’s eye was fixed on +the dictionary. + +“Yes, I understand, grandfather,” said the young girl. + +40036m + + + +She pointed to each letter of the alphabet. At the letter S the old man +stopped her. She opened, and found the word “secret.” + +“Ah! is there a secret spring?” said Valentine. + +“Yes,” said Noirtier. + +“And who knows it?” Noirtier looked at the door where the servant had +gone out. + +“Barrois?” said she. + +“Yes.” + +“Shall I call him?” + +“Yes.” + +Valentine went to the door, and called Barrois. Villefort’s impatience +during this scene made the perspiration roll from his forehead, and +Franz was stupefied. The old servant came. + +“Barrois,” said Valentine, “my grandfather has told me to open that +drawer in the secretaire, but there is a secret spring in it, which you +know—will you open it?” + +Barrois looked at the old man. “Obey,” said Noirtier’s intelligent eye. +Barrois touched a spring, the false bottom came out, and they saw a +bundle of papers tied with a black string. + +“Is that what you wish for?” said Barrois. + +“Yes.” + +“Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort?” + +“No.” + +“To Mademoiselle Valentine?” + +“No.” + +“To M. Franz d’Épinay?” + +“Yes.” + +Franz, astonished, advanced a step. “To me, sir?” said he. + +“Yes.” + +Franz took them from Barrois and casting a glance at the cover, read: + +“‘To be given, after my death, to General Durand, who shall bequeath +the packet to his son, with an injunction to preserve it as containing +an important document.’ + +“Well, sir,” asked Franz, “what do you wish me to do with this paper?” + +“To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless,” said the procureur. + +“No,” replied Noirtier eagerly. + +“Do you wish him to read it?” said Valentine. + +“Yes,” replied the old man. + +“You understand, baron, my grandfather wishes you to read this paper,” +said Valentine. + +“Then let us sit down,” said Villefort impatiently, “for it will take +some time.” + +“Sit down,” said the old man. Villefort took a chair, but Valentine +remained standing by her father’s side, and Franz before him, holding +the mysterious paper in his hand. “Read,” said the old man. Franz +untied it, and in the midst of the most profound silence read: + +40038m + + + +“‘_Extract of the report of a meeting of the Bonapartist Club in the +Rue Saint-Jacques, held February 5th, 1815_.’” + +Franz stopped. “February 5th, 1815!” said he; “it is the day my father +was murdered.” Valentine and Villefort were dumb; the eye of the old +man alone seemed to say clearly, “Go on.” + +“But it was on leaving this club,” said he, “my father disappeared.” + +Noirtier’s eye continued to say, “Read.” He resumed:— + +“‘The undersigned Louis-Jacques Beaurepaire, lieutenant-colonel of +artillery, Étienne Duchampy, general of brigade, and Claude Lecharpal, +keeper of woods and forests, declare, that on the 4th of February, a +letter arrived from the Island of Elba, recommending to the kindness +and the confidence of the Bonapartist Club, General Flavien de Quesnel, +who having served the emperor from 1804 to 1814 was supposed to be +devoted to the interests of the Napoleon dynasty, notwithstanding the +title of baron which Louis XVIII. had just granted to him with his +estate of Épinay. + +400340m + + + +“‘A note was in consequence addressed to General de Quesnel, begging +him to be present at the meeting next day, the 5th. The note indicated +neither the street nor the number of the house where the meeting was to +be held; it bore no signature, but it announced to the general that +someone would call for him if he would be ready at nine o’clock. The +meetings were always held from that time till midnight. At nine o’clock +the president of the club presented himself; the general was ready, the +president informed him that one of the conditions of his introduction +was that he should be eternally ignorant of the place of meeting, and +that he would allow his eyes to be bandaged, swearing that he would not +endeavor to take off the bandage. General de Quesnel accepted the +condition, and promised on his honor not to seek to discover the road +they took. The general’s carriage was ready, but the president told him +it was impossible for him to use it, since it was useless to blindfold +the master if the coachman knew through what streets he went. “What +must be done then?” asked the general.—“I have my carriage here,” said +the president. + +“‘“Have you, then, so much confidence in your servant that you can +intrust him with a secret you will not allow me to know?” + +“‘“Our coachman is a member of the club,” said the president; “we shall +be driven by a State-Councillor.” + +“‘“Then we run another risk,” said the general, laughing, “that of +being upset.” We insert this joke to prove that the general was not in +the least compelled to attend the meeting, but that he came willingly. +When they were seated in the carriage the president reminded the +general of his promise to allow his eyes to be bandaged, to which he +made no opposition. On the road the president thought he saw the +general make an attempt to remove the handkerchief, and reminded him of +his oath. “Sure enough,” said the general. The carriage stopped at an +alley leading out of the Rue Saint-Jacques. The general alighted, +leaning on the arm of the president, of whose dignity he was not aware, +considering him simply as a member of the club; they went through the +alley, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered the assembly-room. + +“‘The deliberations had already begun. The members, apprised of the +sort of presentation which was to be made that evening, were all in +attendance. When in the middle of the room the general was invited to +remove his bandage, he did so immediately, and was surprised to see so +many well-known faces in a society of whose existence he had till then +been ignorant. They questioned him as to his sentiments, but he +contented himself with answering, that the letters from the Island of +Elba ought to have informed them——’” + +Franz interrupted himself by saying, “My father was a royalist; they +need not have asked his sentiments, which were well known.” + +“And hence,” said Villefort, “arose my affection for your father, my +dear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a ready bond of union.” + +“Read again,” said the old man. + +Franz continued: + +“‘The president then sought to make him speak more explicitly, but M. +de Quesnel replied that he wished first to know what they wanted with +him. He was then informed of the contents of the letter from the Island +of Elba, in which he was recommended to the club as a man who would be +likely to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke of +the return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and further +details, on the arrival of the _Pharaon_ belonging to the shipbuilder +Morrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was entirely devoted to the +emperor. During all this time, the general, on whom they thought to +have relied as on a brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent +and repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained silent, with +knitted brows. + +“‘“Well,” asked the president, “what do you say to this letter, +general?” + +“‘“I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for Louis XVIII. to +break my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor.” This answer was too clear to +permit of any mistake as to his sentiments. “General,” said the +president, “we acknowledge no King Louis XVIII., or an ex-emperor, but +his majesty the emperor and king, driven from France, which is his +kingdom, by violence and treason.” + +“‘“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the general; “you may not acknowledge +Louis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a baron and a field-marshal, +and I shall never forget that for these two titles I am indebted to his +happy return to France.” + +“‘“Sir,” said the president, rising with gravity, “be careful what you +say; your words clearly show us that they are deceived concerning you +in the Island of Elba, and have deceived us! The communication has been +made to you in consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which +does you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion attach +you to the government we wish to overturn. We will not constrain you to +help us; we enroll no one against his conscience, but we will compel +you to act generously, even if you are not disposed to do so.” + +“‘“You would call acting generously, knowing your conspiracy and not +informing against you, that is what I should call becoming your +accomplice. You see I am more candid than you.”’” + +“Ah, my father!” said Franz, interrupting himself. “I understand now +why they murdered him.” Valentine could not help casting one glance +towards the young man, whose filial enthusiasm it was delightful to +behold. Villefort walked to and fro behind them. Noirtier watched the +expression of each one, and preserved his dignified and commanding +attitude. Franz returned to the manuscript, and continued: + +“‘“Sir,” said the president, “you have been invited to join this +assembly—you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come +blindfolded—you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request +you well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or +we should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police. +It would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you +in the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may ruin +those who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if you +declare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his +majesty the emperor.” + +“‘“I am a royalist,” replied the general; “I have taken the oath of +allegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it.” These words were +followed by a general murmur, and it was evident that several of the +members were discussing the propriety of making the general repent of +his rashness. + +“‘The president again arose, and having imposed silence, said,—“Sir, +you are too serious and too sensible a man not to understand the +consequences of our present situation, and your candor has already +dictated to us the conditions which remain for us to offer you.” The +general, putting his hand on his sword, exclaimed,—“If you talk of +honor, do not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by +violence.” + +“‘“And you, sir,” continued the president, with a calmness still more +terrible than the general’s anger, “I advise you not to touch your +sword.” The general looked around him with slight uneasiness; however +he did not yield, but calling up all his fortitude, said,—“I will not +swear.” + +“‘“Then you must die,” replied the president calmly. M. d’Épinay became +very pale; he looked round him a second time, several members of the +club were whispering, and getting their arms from under their cloaks. +“General,” said the president, “do not alarm yourself; you are among +men of honor who will use every means to convince you before resorting +to the last extremity, but as you have said, you are among +conspirators, you are in possession of our secret, and you must restore +it to us.” A significant silence followed these words, and as the +general did not reply,—“Close the doors,” said the president to the +door-keeper. + +40042m + + + +“‘The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the general +advanced, and making a violent effort to control his feelings,—“I have +a son,” said he, “and I ought to think of him, finding myself among +assassins.” + +“‘“General,” said the chief of the assembly, “one man may insult +fifty—it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his +privilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.” The general, +again daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then +advancing to the president’s desk,—“What is the form, said he. + +“‘“It is this:—‘I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have +seen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten +o’clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever +violate this oath.’” The general appeared to be affected by a nervous +tremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then, +overcoming his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath, +but in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the +members, who insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which +he did. + +“‘“Now am I at liberty to retire?” said the general. The president +rose, appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the +carriage with the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three +members was the coachman who had driven them there. The other members +silently dispersed. “Where do you wish to be taken?” asked the +president.—“Anywhere out of your presence,” replied M. d’Épinay. +“Beware, sir,” replied the president, “you are no longer in the +assembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them +unless you wish to be held responsible.” But instead of listening, M. +d’Épinay went on,—“You are still as brave in your carriage as in your +assembly because you are still four against one.” The president stopped +the coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps +lead down to the river. “Why do you stop here?” asked d’Épinay. + +“‘“Because, sir,” said the president, “you have insulted a man, and +that man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable +reparation.” + +“‘“Another method of assassination?” said the general, shrugging his +shoulders. + +“‘“Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the +men of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for +a shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword +by your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these +gentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage.” The +general tore the handkerchief from his eyes. “At last,” said he, “I +shall know with whom I have to do.” They opened the door and the four +men alighted.’” + +Franz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his +brow; there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in +trembling pallor these details of his father’s death, which had +hitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer. +Noirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of +contempt and pride. + +Franz continued: + +“‘It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury +had been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered +with ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the +side of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses +followed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river +was covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked +black and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge +near, and by its light they examined the weapons. The president’s +sword, which was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane, +was five inches shorter than the general’s, and had no guard. The +general proposed to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it +was he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it he had +supposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to +insist, but the president bade them be silent. The lantern was placed +on the ground, the two adversaries took their stations, and the duel +began. The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning; +as for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so +great. + +40044m + + + +“‘General d’Épinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army, +but he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and +fell. The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he +had not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The +circumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on +his adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken. +He received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on +finding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge. +At the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and +the witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to +raise him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was +moistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived. +“Ah,” said he, “they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me.” +The president, without answering, approached the witness who held the +lantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received +in his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat, +displayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even +uttered a sigh. General d’Épinay died five minutes after.’” + +Franz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly +audible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to +dispel a cloud; but after a moment’s silence, he continued: + +“‘The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his +cane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely +arrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water—it was the +general’s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river +after ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal +duel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of +this we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts, +lest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this +terrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of +infringement of the laws of honor. + +“‘Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal.’” + +When Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a son; +when Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when +Villefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to +lessen the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man,— + +“Sir,” said d’Épinay to Noirtier, “since you are well acquainted with +all these details, which are attested by honorable signatures,—since +you appear to take some interest in me, although you have only +manifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final +satisfaction—tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may +at least know who killed my father.” + +Villefort mechanically felt for the handle of the door; Valentine, who +understood sooner than anyone her grandfather’s answer, and who had +often seen two scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps. + +“Mademoiselle,” said Franz, turning towards Valentine, “unite your +efforts with mine to find out the name of the man who made me an orphan +at two years of age.” Valentine remained dumb and motionless. + +“Hold, sir,” said Villefort, “do not prolong this dreadful scene. The +names have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know +who this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper +names are not in the dictionary.” + +“Oh, misery,” cried Franz: “the only hope which sustained me and +enabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name +of him who killed my father! Sir, sir,” cried he, turning to Noirtier, +“do what you can—make me understand in some way!” + +“Yes,” replied Noirtier. + +“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” cried Franz, “your grandfather says +he can indicate the person. Help me,—lend me your assistance!” + +Noirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous +trembling, and repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until +he came to M. At that letter the old man signified “Yes.” + +“M,” repeated Franz. The young man’s finger, glided over the words, but +at each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her +head between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF. + +40046m + + + +“Yes!” + +“You!” cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; “you, M. Noirtier—you +killed my father?” + +“Yes!” replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz +fell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for +the idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in +the heart of this terrible old man. + + + + + Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger + +Meanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in +the army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table +of the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous +courtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his +journey as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had +maintained his assumed character of father. + +M. Andrea at his departure inherited all the papers which proved that +he had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and +the Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that +Parisian society which gives such ready access to foreigners, and +treats them, not as they really are, but as they wish to be considered. +Besides, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its +language tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester, +and to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with a foreigner +than with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a fortnight, attained a +very fair position. He was called count, he was said to possess 50,000 +livres per annum; and his father’s immense riches, buried in the +quarries of Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before +whom the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he had +seen the quarries in question, which gave great weight to assertions +hitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed the garb of reality. + +Such was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before +our readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening to pay M. Danglars a +visit. M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the +baroness, and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a +nervous shudder, since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which +followed it, that Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo’s name announced. +If he did not come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on +the contrary, he appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes, +his amiability, his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon +dispelled every impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the +baroness that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should +entertain evil designs against her; besides, the most corrupt minds +only suspect evil when it would answer some interested end—useless +injury is repugnant to every mind. + +40048m + + + +When Monte Cristo entered the boudoir, to which we have already once +introduced our readers, and where the baroness was examining some +drawings, which her daughter passed to her after having looked at them +with M. Cavalcanti, his presence soon produced its usual effect, and it +was with smiles that the baroness received the count, although she had +been a little disconcerted at the announcement of his name. The latter +took in the whole scene at a glance. + +The baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eugénie sat near her, +and Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed in black, like one of +Goethe’s heroes, with varnished shoes and white silk open-worked +stockings, passed a white and tolerably nice-looking hand through his +light hair, and so displayed a sparkling diamond, that in spite of +Monte Cristo’s advice the vain young man had been unable to resist +putting on his little finger. This movement was accompanied by killing +glances at Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs launched in the same +direction. + +Mademoiselle Danglars was still the same—cold, beautiful, and +satirical. Not one of these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her; +they might have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some +philosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of Sappho. Eugénie +bowed coldly to the count, and availed herself of the first moment when +the conversation became earnest to escape to her study, whence very +soon two cheerful and noisy voices being heard in connection with +occasional notes of the piano assured Monte Cristo that Mademoiselle +Danglars preferred to his society and to that of M. Cavalcanti the +company of Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, her singing teacher. + +It was then, especially while conversing with Madame Danglars, and +apparently absorbed by the charm of the conversation, that the count +noticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti’s solicitude, his manner of listening to +the music at the door he dared not pass, and of manifesting his +admiration. + +The banker soon returned. His first look was certainly directed towards +Monte Cristo, but the second was for Andrea. As for his wife, he bowed +to her, as some husbands do to their wives, but in a way that bachelors +will never comprehend, until a very extensive code is published on +conjugal life. + +“Have not the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?” said +Danglars to Andrea. + +“Alas, no, sir,” replied Andrea with a sigh, still more remarkable than +the former ones. Danglars immediately advanced towards the door and +opened it. + +40050m + + + +The two young ladies were seen seated on the same chair, at the piano, +accompanying themselves, each with one hand, a fancy to which they had +accustomed themselves, and performed admirably. Mademoiselle d’Armilly, +whom they then perceived through the open doorway, formed with Eugénie +one of the _tableaux vivants_ of which the Germans are so fond. She was +somewhat beautiful, and exquisitely formed—a little fairy-like figure, +with large curls falling on her neck, which was rather too long, as +Perugino sometimes makes his Virgins, and her eyes dull from fatigue. +She was said to have a weak chest, and like Antonia in the _Cremona +Violin_, she would die one day while singing. + +Monte Cristo cast one rapid and curious glance round this sanctum; it +was the first time he had ever seen Mademoiselle d’Armilly, of whom he +had heard much. + +“Well,” said the banker to his daughter, “are we then all to be +excluded?” + +He then led the young man into the study, and either by chance or +manœuvre the door was partially closed after Andrea, so that from the +place where they sat neither the Count nor the baroness could see +anything; but as the banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame Danglars +appeared to take no notice of it. + +The count soon heard Andrea’s voice, singing a Corsican song, +accompanied by the piano. While the count smiled at hearing this song, +which made him lose sight of Andrea in the recollection of Benedetto, +Madame Danglars was boasting to Monte Cristo of her husband’s strength +of mind, who that very morning had lost three or four hundred thousand +francs by a failure at Milan. The praise was well deserved, for had not +the count heard it from the baroness, or by one of those means by which +he knew everything, the baron’s countenance would not have led him to +suspect it. + +“Hem,” thought Monte Cristo, “he begins to conceal his losses; a month +since he boasted of them.” + +Then aloud,—“Oh, madame, M. Danglars is so skilful, he will soon regain +at the Bourse what he loses elsewhere.” + +“I see that you participate in a prevalent error,” said Madame +Danglars. + +“What is it?” said Monte Cristo. + +“That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he never does.” + +“Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray told me——apropos, what has become +of him? I have seen nothing of him the last three or four days.” + +“Nor I,” said Madame Danglars; “but you began a sentence, sir, and did +not finish.” + +“Which?” + +“M. Debray had told you——” + +“Ah, yes; he told me it was you who sacrificed to the demon of +speculation.” + +“I was once very fond of it, but I do not indulge now.” + +“Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is precarious; and if I were a +woman and fate had made me a banker’s wife, whatever might be my +confidence in my husband’s good fortune, still in speculation you know +there is great risk. Well, I would secure for myself a fortune +independent of him, even if I acquired it by placing my interests in +hands unknown to him.” Madame Danglars blushed, in spite of all her +efforts. + +“Stay,” said Monte Cristo, as though he had not observed her confusion, +“I have heard of a lucky hit that was made yesterday on the Neapolitan +bonds.” + +“I have none—nor have I ever possessed any; but really we have talked +long enough of money, count, we are like two stockbrokers; have you +heard how fate is persecuting the poor Villeforts?” + +“What has happened?” said the count, simulating total ignorance. + +“You know the Marquis of Saint-Méran died a few days after he had set +out on his journey to Paris, and the marchioness a few days after her +arrival?” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I have heard that; but, as Claudius said to +Hamlet, ‘it is a law of nature; their fathers died before them, and +they mourned their loss; they will die before their children, who will, +in their turn, grieve for them.’” + +“But that is not all.” + +“Not all!” + +“No; they were going to marry their daughter——” + +“To M. Franz d’Épinay. Is it broken off?” + +“Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor.” + +“Indeed? And is the reason known?” + +“No.” + +“How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it?” + +“As usual. Like a philosopher.” + +Danglars returned at this moment alone. + +“Well,” said the baroness, “do you leave M. Cavalcanti with your +daughter?” + +“And Mademoiselle d’Armilly,” said the banker; “do you consider her no +one?” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said, “Prince Cavalcanti is a +charming young man, is he not? But is he really a prince?” + +“I will not answer for it,” said Monte Cristo. “His father was +introduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a count; but I do not +think he has much claim to that title.” + +“Why?” said the banker. “If he is a prince, he is wrong not to maintain +his rank; I do not like anyone to deny his origin.” + +“Oh, you are a thorough democrat,” said Monte Cristo, smiling. + +“But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?” said the baroness. +“If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that +room, where he, the betrothed of Eugénie, has never been admitted.” + +“You may well say, perchance,” replied the banker; “for he comes so +seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him.” + +“But should he come and find that young man with your daughter, he +might be displeased.” + +“He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor to be +jealous; he does not like Eugénie sufficiently. Besides, I care not for +his displeasure.” + +“Still, situated as we are——” + +“Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother’s ball he danced +once with Eugénie, and M. Cavalcanti three times, and he took no notice +of it.” + +The valet announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose +hastily, and was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her. + +“Let her alone,” said he. + +She looked at him in amazement. Monte Cristo appeared to be unconscious +of what passed. Albert entered, looking very handsome and in high +spirits. He bowed politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and +affectionately to Monte Cristo. Then turning to the baroness: “May I +ask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?” said he. + +“She is quite well,” replied Danglars quickly; “she is at the piano +with M. Cavalcanti.” + +Albert retained his calm and indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps +annoyed, but he knew Monte Cristo’s eye was on him. “M. Cavalcanti has +a fine tenor voice,” said he, “and Mademoiselle Eugénie a splendid +soprano, and then she plays the piano like Thalberg. The concert must +be a delightful one.” + +“They suit each other remarkably well,” said Danglars. Albert appeared +not to notice this remark, which was, however, so rude that Madame +Danglars blushed. + +“I, too,” said the young man, “am a musician—at least, my masters used +to tell me so; but it is strange that my voice never would suit any +other, and a soprano less than any.” + +Danglars smiled, and seemed to say, “It is of no consequence.” Then, +hoping doubtless to effect his purpose, he said,—“The prince and my +daughter were universally admired yesterday. You were not of the party, +M. de Morcerf?” + +“What prince?” asked Albert. + +“Prince Cavalcanti,” said Danglars, who persisted in giving the young +man that title. + +“Pardon me,” said Albert, “I was not aware that he was a prince. And +Prince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eugénie yesterday? It must +have been charming, indeed. I regret not having heard them. But I was +unable to accept your invitation, having promised to accompany my +mother to a German concert given by the Baroness of Château-Renaud.” + +This was followed by rather an awkward silence. + +“May I also be allowed,” said Morcerf, “to pay my respects to +Mademoiselle Danglars?” + +“Wait a moment,” said the banker, stopping the young man; “do you hear +that delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is +charming, let them finish—one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!” The banker +was enthusiastic in his applause. + +40054m + + + +“Indeed,” said Albert, “it is exquisite; it is impossible to understand +the music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti does. You said +prince, did you not? But he can easily become one, if he is not +already; it is no uncommon thing in Italy. But to return to the +charming musicians—you should give us a treat, Danglars, without +telling them there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is +so delightful to hear music in the distance, when the musicians are +unrestrained by observation.” + +Danglars was quite annoyed by the young man’s indifference. He took +Monte Cristo aside. + +“What do you think of our lover?” said he. + +“He appears cool. But, then your word is given.” + +“Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man who loves +her, but not to one who does not. See him there, cold as marble and +proud like his father. If he were rich, if he had Cavalcanti’s fortune, +that might be pardoned. _Ma foi_, I haven’t consulted my daughter; but +if she has good taste——” + +“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “my fondness may blind me, but I assure you I +consider Morcerf a charming young man who will render your daughter +happy and will sooner or later attain a certain amount of distinction, +and his father’s position is good.” + +“Hem,” said Danglars. + +“Why do you doubt?” + +“The past—that obscurity on the past.” + +“But that does not affect the son.” + +“Very true.” + +“Now, I beg of you, don’t go off your head. It’s a month now that you +have been thinking of this marriage, and you must see that it throws +some responsibility on me, for it was at my house you met this young +Cavalcanti, whom I do not really know at all.” + +“But I do.” + +“Have you made inquiry?” + +“Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak for him? And +he is very rich.” + +“I am not so sure of that.” + +“And yet you said he had money.” + +“Fifty thousand livres—a mere trifle.” + +“He is well educated.” + +“Hem,” said Monte Cristo in his turn. + +“He is a musician.” + +“So are all Italians.” + +“Come, count, you do not do that young man justice.” + +“Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the +Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.” Danglars burst +out laughing. + +“What a Puritan you are!” said he; “that happens every day.” + +“But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on +this union.” + +“Indeed.” + +“Positively.” + +“Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint, +you are so intimate with the family.” + +“I?—where the devil did you find out that?” + +“At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the +proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her +lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the +garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?” + +“Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism +in a megalomaniac like you!” + +“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to +Monte Cristo he said: + +“But will you undertake to speak to the father?” + +“Willingly, if you wish it.” + +“But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my +daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us +either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more +delay.” + +“Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.” + +“I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await +it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.” And Danglars +sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before. + +“Bravi! bravo! brava!” cried Morcerf, parodying the banker, as the +selection came to an end. Danglars began to look suspiciously at +Morcerf, when someone came and whispered a few words to him. + +“I shall soon return,” said the banker to Monte Cristo; “wait for me. I +shall, perhaps, have something to say to you.” And he went out. + +The baroness took advantage of her husband’s absence to push open the +door of her daughter’s study, and M. Andrea, who was sitting before the +piano with Mademoiselle Eugénie, started up like a jack-in-the-box. +Albert bowed with a smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear +in the least disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness. +Cavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who replied +with the most impertinent look possible. Then Albert launched out in +praise of Mademoiselle Danglars’ voice, and on his regret, after what +he had just heard, that he had been unable to be present the previous +evening. + +Cavalcanti, being left alone, turned to Monte Cristo. + +“Come,” said Madame Danglars, “leave music and compliments, and let us +go and take tea.” + +“Come, Louise,” said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend. + +They passed into the next drawing-room, where tea was prepared. Just as +they were beginning, in the English fashion, to leave the spoons in +their cups, the door again opened and Danglars entered, visibly +agitated. Monte Cristo observed it particularly, and by a look asked +the banker for an explanation. + +“I have just received my courier from Greece,” said Danglars. + +“Ah, yes,” said the count; “that was the reason of your running away +from us.” + +“Yes.” + +“How is King Otho getting on?” asked Albert in the most sprightly tone. + +Danglars cast another suspicious look towards him without answering, +and Monte Cristo turned away to conceal the expression of pity which +passed over his features, but which was gone in a moment. + +“We shall go together, shall we not?” said Albert to the count. + +“If you like,” replied the latter. + +Albert could not understand the banker’s look, and turning to Monte +Cristo, who understood it perfectly,—“Did you see,” said he, “how he +looked at me?” + +“Yes,” said the count; “but did you think there was anything particular +in his look?” + +“Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece?” + +“How can I tell you?” + +“Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country.” + +Monte Cristo smiled significantly. + +“Stop,” said Albert, “here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle +Danglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you.” + +“If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,” said +Monte Cristo. + +“No, everyone would do that.” + +“My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent.” + +Albert advanced towards Eugénie, smiling. + +Meanwhile, Danglars, stooping to Monte Cristo’s ear, “Your advice was +excellent,” said he; “there is a whole history connected with the names +Fernand and Yanina.” + +“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure +his presence.” + +“He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you?” + +“Immediately.” + +“Very well.” The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed to the +ladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly indifferent to +Mademoiselle Danglars’ contempt, Monte Cristo reiterating his advice to +Madame Danglars on the prudence a banker’s wife should exercise in +providing for the future. + +M. Cavalcanti remained master of the field. + + + + Chapter 77. Haydée + +Scarcely had the count’s horses cleared the angle of the boulevard, +when Albert, turning towards the count, burst into a loud fit of +laughter—much too loud in fact not to give the idea of its being rather +forced and unnatural. + +“Well,” said he, “I will ask you the same question which Charles IX. +put to Catherine de’ Medici, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew: +‘How have I played my little part?’” + +“To what do you allude?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars’.” + +“What rival?” + +“_Ma foi!_ what rival? Why, your protégé, M. Andrea Cavalcanti!” + +“Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M. +Andrea—at least, not as concerns M. Danglars.” + +“And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man +really needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can +dispense with it.” + +“What, do you think he is paying his addresses?” + +“I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when +addressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He +aspires to the hand of the proud Eugénie.” + +“What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit?” + +“But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed +on all sides.” + +“What!” + +“It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eugénie scarcely answers me, and +Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all.” + +“But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,” said Monte +Cristo. + +“He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart, +tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points +in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be +real and deadly.” + +“Jealousy indicates affection.” + +“True; but I am not jealous.” + +“He is.” + +“Of whom?—of Debray?” + +“No, of you.” + +“Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will +be closed against me.” + +“You are mistaken, my dear viscount.” + +“Prove it to me.” + +“Do you wish me to do so?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the +Comte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron.” + +“By whom are you charged?” + +“By the baron himself.” + +“Oh,” said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was capable. “You +surely will not do that, my dear count?” + +“Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it.” + +“Well,” said Albert, with a sigh, “it seems you are determined to marry +me.” + +“I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all +events,” said Monte Cristo. “But apropos of Debray, how is it that I +have not seen him lately at the baron’s house?” + +“There has been a misunderstanding.” + +“What, with the baroness?” + +“No, with the baron.” + +“Has he perceived anything?” + +“Ah, that is a good joke!” + +“Do you think he suspects?” said Monte Cristo with charming +artlessness. + +“Where have you come from, my dear count?” said Albert. + +“From Congo, if you will.” + +“It must be farther off than even that.” + +“But what do I know of your Parisian husbands?” + +“Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an +individual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the +whole race.” + +“But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and +Debray? They seemed to understand each other so well,” said Monte +Cristo with renewed energy. + +“Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in +which I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of +the family, you can ask him that question.” + +The carriage stopped. + +“Here we are,” said Monte Cristo; “it is only half-past ten o’clock, +come in.” + +“Certainly, I will.” + +“My carriage shall take you back.” + +“No, thank you; I gave orders for my _coupé_ to follow me.” + +“There it is, then,” said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of the +carriage. They both went into the house; the drawing-room was lighted +up—they went in there. “You will make tea for us, Baptistin,” said the +count. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two +seconds reappeared, bringing on a tray, all that his master had +ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground, +like the repasts which we read of in fairy tales. + +“Really, my dear count,” said Morcerf, “what I admire in you is, not so +much your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than +yourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have +possessed as much,—but it is your manner of being served, without any +questions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you +wanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping +everything you can possibly desire in constant readiness.” + +“What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you +shall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time?” + +“_Ma foi_, I should like to smoke.” + +Monte Cristo took the gong and struck it once. In about the space of a +second a private door opened, and Ali appeared, bringing two chibouques +filled with excellent latakia. + +“It is quite wonderful,” said Albert. + +“Oh no, it is as simple as possible,” replied Monte Cristo. “Ali knows +I generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that +I ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when +I summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as +he comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested +through the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall +smoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of +one—and now the mystery is solved.” + +“Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it +is not the less true that you——Ah, but what do I hear?” and Morcerf +inclined his head towards the door, through which sounds seemed to +issue resembling those of a guitar. + +“_Ma foi_, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening; +you have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars’ piano, to be attacked +by Haydée’s guzla.” + +“Haydée—what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear +the name of Haydée anywhere but in Byron’s poems?” + +“Certainly there are. Haydée is a very uncommon name in France, but is +common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example, +Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,—it is a kind of baptismal name, as you +Parisians call it.” + +“Oh, that is charming,” said Albert, “how I should like to hear my +countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence, +Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle +Danglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eugénie, had been named +Mademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect +that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!” + +“Hush,” said the count, “do not joke in so loud a tone; Haydée may hear +you, perhaps.” + +“And you think she would be angry?” + +“No, certainly not,” said the count with a haughty expression. + +“She is very amiable, then, is she not?” said Albert. + +“It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not +dictate to a master.” + +“Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had +who bear this beautiful name?” + +“Undoubtedly.” + +“Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The +slave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a rank of itself in +France, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that +must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year.” + +“A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much +more than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which +those recorded in the _Thousand and One Nights_ would seem but +poverty.” + +“She must be a princess then.” + +“You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too.” + +“I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became +a slave?” + +“How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The +fortune of war, my dear viscount,—the caprice of fortune; that is the +way in which these things are to be accounted for.” + +“And is her name a secret?” + +“As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear +viscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence +I feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it—may I not do +so?” + +“Certainly; on my word of honor.” + +“You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not?” + +“Of Ali Tepelini?13 Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made +his fortune.” + +“True, I had forgotten that.” + +40062m + + + +“Well, what is Haydée to Ali Tepelini?” + +“Merely his daughter.” + +“What? the daughter of Ali Pasha?” + +“Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki.” + +“And your slave?” + +“_Ma foi_, yes.” + +“But how did she become so?” + +“Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as +I was passing through the market at Constantinople.” + +“Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic +influence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you, +existence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am +perhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but——” + +“Say on.” + +“But, since you go out with Haydée, and sometimes even take her to the +Opera——” + +“Well?” + +“I think I may venture to ask you this favor.” + +“You may venture to ask me anything.” + +“Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess.” + +“I will do so; but on two conditions.” + +“I accept them at once.” + +“The first is, that you will never tell anyone that I have granted the +interview.” + +“Very well,” said Albert, extending his hand; “I swear I will not.” + +“The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served +hers.” + +“I give you my oath that I will not.” + +“Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But +I know you to be a man of honor.” + +The count again struck the gong. Ali reappeared. “Tell Haydée,” said +he, “that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that +I desire permission to present one of my friends to her.” + +Ali bowed and left the room. + +“Now, understand me,” said the count, “no direct questions, my dear +Morcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her.” + +“Agreed.” + +Ali reappeared for the third time, and drew back the tapestried hanging +which concealed the door, to signify to his master and Albert that they +were at liberty to pass on. + +“Let us go in,” said Monte Cristo. + +Albert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his moustache, +then, having satisfied himself as to his personal appearance, followed +the count into the room, the latter having previously resumed his hat +and gloves. Ali was stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door +was kept by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho. + +Haydée was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her apartments, +which was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were dilated with surprise +and expectation, for it was the first time that any man, except Monte +Cristo, had been accorded an entrance into her presence. She was +sitting on a sofa placed in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed +under her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself, +as it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks which enveloped +her. Near her was the instrument on which she had just been playing; it +was elegantly fashioned, and worthy of its mistress. On perceiving +Monte Cristo, she arose and welcomed him with a smile peculiar to +herself, expressive at once of the most implicit obedience and also of +the deepest love. Monte Cristo advanced towards her and extended his +hand, which she as usual raised to her lips. + +40064m + + + +Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted +to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such +surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an +inhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea. + +“Whom do you bring?” asked the young girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo; +“is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.” + +“A friend,” said Monte Cristo in the same language. + +“What is his name?” + +“Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the +banditti at Rome.” + +“In what language would you like me to converse with him?” + +Monte Cristo turned to Albert. “Do you know modern Greek,” asked he. + +“Alas! no,” said Albert; “nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never +had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.” + +“Then,” said Haydée, proving by her remark that she had quite +understood Monte Cristo’s question and Albert’s answer, “then I will +speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.” + +Monte Cristo reflected one instant. “You will speak in Italian,” said +he. + +Then, turning towards Albert,—“It is a pity you do not understand +either ancient or modern Greek, both of which Haydée speaks so +fluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian, +which will give you but a very false idea of her powers of +conversation.” + +The count made a sign to Haydée to address his visitor. “Sir,” she said +to Morcerf, “you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master.” +This was said in excellent Tuscan, and with that soft Roman accent +which makes the language of Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then, +turning to Ali, she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he +had left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress she +beckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte Cristo and Morcerf +drew their seats towards a small table, on which were arranged music, +drawings, and vases of flowers. Ali then entered bringing coffee and +chibouques; as to M. Baptistin, this portion of the building was +interdicted to him. Albert refused the pipe which the Nubian offered +him. + +“Oh, take it—take it,” said the count; “Haydée is almost as civilized +as a Parisian; the smell of a Havana is disagreeable to her, but the +tobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know.” + +Ali left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared, with the +addition of sugar, which had been brought for Albert. Monte Cristo and +Haydée took the beverage in the original Arabian manner, that is to +say, without sugar. Haydée took the porcelain cup in her little slender +fingers and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent artlessness +of a child when eating or drinking something which it likes. At this +moment two women entered, bringing salvers filled with ices and +sherbet, which they placed on two small tables appropriated to that +purpose. + +“My dear host, and you, signora,” said Albert, in Italian, “excuse my +apparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it +should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard +the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the +lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to +the East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have +painted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation, +added to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening +of such delight as it would be impossible for me ever to forget.” + +“I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir,” +said Haydée quietly; “and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my +best to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here.” + +“On what subject shall I converse with her?” said Albert, in a low tone +to Monte Cristo. + +“Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of her youthful +reminiscences, or if you like it better you can talk of Rome, Naples, +or Florence.” + +“Oh,” said Albert, “it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if +one converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak +to her of the East.” + +“Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the +most agreeable to her taste.” + +Albert turned towards Haydée. “At what age did you leave Greece, +signora?” asked he. + +“I left it when I was but five years old,” replied Haydée. + +“And have you any recollection of your country?” + +“When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind +can see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes; but the mind +always remembers.” + +“And how far back into the past do your recollections extend?” + +“I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which +means royal,” said the young girl, tossing her head proudly, “took me +by the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed, +we went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the +prisoners, saying, ‘He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’ +Then when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without +saying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was +divided amongst the prisoners.” + +“And how old were you at that time?” + +“I was three years old,” said Haydée. + +“Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when +you were three years old?” said Albert. + +“Everything.” + +“Count,” said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo, “do allow the +signora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my +mentioning my father’s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him +of her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea +how delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful +lips.” + +Monte Cristo turned to Haydée, and with an expression of countenance +which commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he +said in Greek, “Πατρὸς μὲν ἄτην μήζε τὸ ὄνομα προδότου καὶ προδοσίαν +εἰπὲ ἡμῖν,”—that is, “Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the +name of the traitor nor the treason.” Haydée sighed deeply, and a shade +of sadness clouded her beautiful brow. + +“What are you saying to her?” said Morcerf in an undertone. + +“I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not +conceal anything from you.” + +“Then,” said Albert, “this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners +was your first remembrance; what is the next?” + +“Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the +shade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters +of which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the +oldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my +father; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by +playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or +with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from +time to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which +I paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of +voice, either ‘Kill,’ or ‘Pardon.’” + +“It is very strange,” said Albert, “to hear such words proceed from the +mouth of anyone but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly +to be saying to one’s self, ‘This is no fiction, it is all reality,’ in +order to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes, +accustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes?” + +“I think it is a fine country,” said Haydée, “but I see France as it +really is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my +own country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on +my childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which +is luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or +joyous.” + +“So young,” said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count’s command +that he should ask no questions of the slave herself, “is it possible +that you can have known what suffering is except by name?” + +Haydée turned her eyes towards Monte Cristo, who, making at the same +time some imperceptible sign, murmured: + +“Εἰπέ—speak.” + +“Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the memory of our +early childhood, and with the exception of the two scenes I have just +described to you, all my earliest reminiscences are fraught with +deepest sadness.” + +40068m + + + +“Speak, speak, signora,” said Albert, “I am listening with the most +intense delight and interest to all you say.” + +Haydée answered his remark with a melancholy smile. “You wish me, then, +to relate the history of my past sorrows?” said she. + +“I beg you to do so,” replied Albert. + +“Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened +by my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the +cushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers +filled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her +weeping I began to cry too. ‘Hush, child!’ said she. At other times in +spite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child’s caprice +been accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as +much as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation +of such extreme terror in my mother’s voice when she enjoined me to +silence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She +bore me rapidly away. + +“I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were +all my mother’s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels, +purses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest +distraction. + +“Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long guns and +pistols, and dressed in the costume which the Greeks have assumed since +they have again become a nation. You may imagine there was something +startling and ominous,” said Haydée, shaking her head and turning pale +at the mere remembrance of the scene, “in this long file of slaves and +women only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me, +who was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the +staircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the +flickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the +vaulted roof above. + +“‘Quick!’ said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice made +everyone bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over +a field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield +obeisance. As for me, it made me tremble. This voice was that of my +father. He came last, clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his +hand the carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on +the shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all before him, as +a shepherd would his straggling flock. My father,” said Haydée, raising +her head, “was that illustrious man known in Europe under the name of +Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled.” + +Albert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words pronounced +with such a haughty and dignified accent; it appeared to him as if +there was something supernaturally gloomy and terrible in the +expression which gleamed from the brilliant eyes of Haydée at this +moment; she appeared like a Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she +recalled to his mind the remembrance of the fearful death of this man, +to the news of which all Europe had listened with horror. + +“Soon,” said Haydée, “we halted on our march, and found ourselves on +the borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and +at the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing +anxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water’s edge, and +below them was a boat floating on the tide. + +40070m + + + +“From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large +blank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. This kiosk +appeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of +the darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more +than partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well +that the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I +leaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with +the sashes of our Palikares.14 Besides the rowers, the boat contained +only the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had +remained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they +were kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner +intended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our +bark flew before the wind. ‘Why does the boat go so fast?’ asked I of +my mother. + +“‘Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!’ I did not understand. Why +should my father fly?—he, the all-powerful—he, before whom others were +accustomed to fly—he, who had taken for his device, + +‘They hate me; then they fear me!’ + + +“It was, indeed, a flight which my father was trying to effect. I have +been told since that the garrison of the castle of Yanina, fatigued +with long service——” + +Here Haydée cast a significant glance at Monte Cristo, whose eyes had +been riveted on her countenance during the whole course of her +narrative. The young girl then continued, speaking slowly, like a +person who is either inventing or suppressing some feature of the +history which he is relating. + +“You were saying, signora,” said Albert, who was paying the most +implicit attention to the recital, “that the garrison of Yanina, +fatigued with long service——” + +“Had treated with the Seraskier15 Kourchid, who had been sent by the +sultan to gain possession of the person of my father; it was then that +Ali Tepelini—after having sent to the sultan a French officer in whom +he reposed great confidence—resolved to retire to the asylum which he +had long before prepared for himself, and which he called +_kataphygion_, or the refuge.” + +“And this officer,” asked Albert, “do you remember his name, signora?” + +Monte Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the young girl, which was +quite unperceived by Albert. + +“No,” said she, “I do not remember it just at this moment; but if it +should occur to me presently, I will tell you.” + +Albert was on the point of pronouncing his father’s name, when Monte +Cristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach; the young man +recollected his promise, and was silent. + +“It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A ground floor, +ornamented with arabesques, bathing its terraces in the water, and +another floor, looking on the lake, was all which was visible to the +eye. But beneath the ground floor, stretching out into the island, was +a large subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the women +were conducted. In this place were together 60,000 pouches and 200 +barrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in gold, and the +barrels were filled with 30,000 pounds of gunpowder. + +“Near the barrels stood Selim, my father’s favorite, whom I mentioned +to you just now. He stood watch day and night with a lance provided +with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up +everything—kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself—at the +first signal given by my father. I remember well that the slaves, +convinced of the precarious tenure on which they held their lives, +passed whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As for +me, I can never forget the pale complexion and black eyes of the young +soldier, and whenever the angel of death summons me to another world, I +am quite sure I shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we +remained in this state; at that period I did not even know what time +meant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and my mother +to the terrace of the palace; these were hours of recreation for me, as +I never saw anything in the dismal cavern but the gloomy countenances +of the slaves and Selim’s fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to +pierce with his eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon, +examining attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake, +while my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on his +shoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything I saw with that +unsophisticated innocence of childhood which throws a charm round +objects insignificant in themselves, but which in its eyes are invested +with the greatest importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us; +the castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters of the +lake, and the immense masses of black vegetation which, viewed in the +distance, gave the idea of lichens clinging to the rocks, were in +reality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles. + +“One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been crying all the +night, and was very wretched; we found the pasha calm, but paler than +usual. ‘Take courage, Vasiliki,’ said he; ‘today arrives the firman of +the master, and my fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we +shall return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we must +fly this night.’—‘But supposing our enemy should not allow us to do +so?’ said my mother. ‘Oh, make yourself easy on that head,’ said Ali, +smiling; ‘Selim and his flaming lance will settle that matter. They +would be glad to see me dead, but they would not like themselves to die +with me.’ + +“My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she knew did +not come from my father’s heart. She prepared the iced water which he +was in the habit of constantly drinking,—for since his sojourn at the +kiosk he had been parched by the most violent fever,—after which she +anointed his white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque, +which he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly watching the +wreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds and gradually melted +away in the surrounding atmosphere. Presently he made such a sudden +movement that I was paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes +from the object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for +his telescope. My mother gave it him, and as she did so, looked whiter +than the marble against which she leaned. I saw my father’s hand +tremble. ‘A boat!—two!—three!’ murmured my, father;—‘four!’ He then +arose, seizing his arms and priming his pistols. ‘Vasiliki,’ said he to +my mother, trembling perceptibly, ‘the instant approaches which will +decide everything. In the space of half an hour we shall know the +emperor’s answer. Go into the cavern with Haydée.’—‘I will not quit +you,’ said Vasiliki; ‘if you die, my lord, I will die with you.’—‘Go to +Selim!’ cried my father. ‘Adieu, my lord,’ murmured my mother, +determining quietly to await the approach of death. ‘Take away +Vasiliki!’ said my father to his Palikares. + +“As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I ran toward +Ali Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him, and he stooped down +and pressed my forehead with his lips. Oh, how distinctly I remember +that kiss!—it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were +still warm on my forehead. On descending, we saw through the +lattice-work several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct +to our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now they +looked like birds skimming the surface of the waves. During this time, +in the kiosk at my father’s feet, were seated twenty Palikares, +concealed from view by an angle of the wall and watching with eager +eyes the arrival of the boats. They were armed with their long guns +inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers +were lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his watch, and +paced up and down with a countenance expressive of the greatest +anguish. This was the scene which presented itself to my view as I +quitted my father after that last kiss. + +“My mother and I traversed the gloomy passage leading to the cavern. +Selim was still at his post, and smiled sadly on us as we entered. We +fetched our cushions from the other end of the cavern, and sat down by +Selim. In great dangers the devoted ones cling to each other; and, +young as I was, I quite understood that some imminent danger was +hanging over our heads.” + +Albert had often heard—not from his father, for he never spoke on the +subject, but from strangers—the description of the last moments of the +vizier of Yanina; he had read different accounts of his death, but the +story seemed to acquire fresh meaning from the voice and expression of +the young girl, and her sympathetic accent and the melancholy +expression of her countenance at once charmed and horrified him. + +As to Haydée, these terrible reminiscences seemed to have overpowered +her for a moment, for she ceased speaking, her head leaning on her hand +like a beautiful flower bowing beneath the violence of the storm; and +her eyes gazing on vacancy indicated that she was mentally +contemplating the green summit of the Pindus and the blue waters of the +lake of Yanina, which, like a magic mirror, seemed to reflect the +sombre picture which she sketched. Monte Cristo looked at her with an +indescribable expression of interest and pity. + +“Go on, my child,” said the count in the Romaic language. + +40074m + + + +Haydée looked up abruptly, as if the sonorous tones of Monte Cristo’s +voice had awakened her from a dream; and she resumed her narrative. + +“It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and although the day was +brilliant out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the +cavern. One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared +like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim’s flaming lance. +My mother was a Christian, and she prayed. Selim repeated from time to +time the sacred words: ‘God is great!’ However, my mother had still +some hope. As she was coming down, she thought she recognized the +French officer who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my +father placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers of +the French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She advanced some +steps towards the staircase, and listened. ‘They are approaching,’ said +she; ‘perhaps they bring us peace and liberty!’ + +“‘What do you fear, Vasiliki?’ said Selim, in a voice at once so gentle +and yet so proud. ‘If they do not bring us peace, we will give them +war; if they do not bring life, we will give them death.’ And he +renewed the flame of his lance with a gesture which made one think of +Dionysus of old Crete.16 But I, being only a little child, was +terrified by this undaunted courage, which appeared to me both +ferocious and senseless, and I recoiled with horror from the idea of +the frightful death amidst fire and flames which probably awaited us. + +“My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her tremble. +‘Mamma, mamma,’ said I, ‘are we really to be killed?’ And at the sound +of my voice the slaves redoubled their cries and prayers and +lamentations. ‘My child,’ said Vasiliki, ‘may God preserve you from +ever wishing for that death which today you so much dread!’ Then, +whispering to Selim, she asked what were her master’s orders. ‘If he +send me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor’s intentions are +not favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary, +he send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him, +and I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched.’—‘My +friend,’ said my mother, ‘when your master’s orders arrive, if it is +the poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible +death which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with +this same poniard, will you not?’—‘Yes, Vasiliki,’ replied Selim +tranquilly. + +“Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned that they were +cries of joy. The name of the French officer who had been sent to +Constantinople resounded on all sides amongst our Palikares; it was +evident that he brought the answer of the emperor, and that it was +favorable.” + +“And do you not remember the Frenchman’s name?” said Morcerf, quite +ready to aid the memory of the narrator. Monte Cristo made a sign to +him to be silent. + +“I do not recollect it,” said Haydée. + +“The noise increased; steps were heard approaching nearer and nearer; +they were descending the steps leading to the cavern. Selim made ready +his lance. Soon a figure appeared in the gray twilight at the entrance +of the cave, formed by the reflection of the few rays of daylight which +had found their way into this gloomy retreat. ‘Who are you?’ cried +Selim. ‘But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance another +step.’—‘Long live the emperor!’ said the figure. ‘He grants a full +pardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him his life, but restores +to him his fortune and his possessions.’ My mother uttered a cry of +joy, and clasped me to her bosom. ‘Stop,’ said Selim, seeing that she +was about to go out; ‘you see I have not yet received the +ring,’—‘True,’ said my mother. And she fell on her knees, at the same +time holding me up towards heaven, as if she desired, while praying to +God in my behalf, to raise me actually to his presence.” + +And for the second time Haydée stopped, overcome by such violent +emotion that the perspiration stood upon her pale brow, and her stifled +voice seemed hardly able to find utterance, so parched and dry were her +throat and lips. + +40076m + + + +Monte Cristo poured a little iced water into a glass, and presented it +to her, saying with a mildness in which was also a shade of +command,—“Courage.” + +Haydée dried her eyes, and continued: + +“By this time our eyes, habituated to the darkness, had recognized the +messenger of the pasha,—it was a friend. Selim had also recognized him, +but the brave young man only acknowledged one duty, which was to obey. +‘In whose name do you come?’ said he to him. ‘I come in the name of our +master, Ali Tepelini.’—‘If you come from Ali himself,’ said Selim, ‘you +know what you were charged to remit to me?’—‘Yes,’ said the messenger, +‘and I bring you his ring.’ At these words he raised his hand above his +head, to show the token; but it was too far off, and there was not +light enough to enable Selim, where he was standing, to distinguish and +recognize the object presented to his view. ‘I do not see what you have +in your hand,’ said Selim. ‘Approach then,’ said the messenger, ‘or I +will come nearer to you, if you prefer it.’—‘I will agree to neither +one nor the other,’ replied the young soldier; ‘place the object which +I desire to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire +while I examine it.’—‘Be it so,’ said the envoy; and he retired, after +having first deposited the token agreed on in the place pointed out to +him by Selim. + +“Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to be a ring +which was placed there. But was it my father’s ring? that was the +question. Selim, still holding in his hand the lighted match, walked +towards the opening in the cavern, and, aided by the faint light which +streamed in through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token. + +“‘It is well,’ said he, kissing it; ‘it is my master’s ring!’ And +throwing the match on the ground, he trampled on it and extinguished +it. The messenger uttered a cry of joy and clapped his hands. At this +signal four soldiers of the Seraskier Kourchid suddenly appeared, and +Selim fell, pierced by five blows. Each man had stabbed him separately, +and, intoxicated by their crime, though still pale with fear, they +sought all over the cavern to discover if there was any fear of fire, +after which they amused themselves by rolling on the bags of gold. At +this moment my mother seized me in her arms, and hurrying noiselessly +along numerous turnings and windings known only to ourselves, she +arrived at a private staircase of the kiosk, where was a scene of +frightful tumult and confusion. The lower rooms were entirely filled +with Kourchid’s troops; that is to say, with our enemies. Just as my +mother was on the point of pushing open a small door, we heard the +voice of the pasha sounding in a loud and threatening tone. My mother +applied her eye to the crack between the boards; I luckily found a +small opening which afforded me a view of the apartment and what was +passing within. ‘What do you want?’ said my father to some people who +were holding a paper inscribed with characters of gold. ‘What we want,’ +replied one, ‘is to communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you +see this firman?’—‘I do,’ said my father. ‘Well, read it; he demands +your head.’ + +40078m + + + +“My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than +even threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of +a pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men. +The Palikares, who were prostrated at my father’s feet, now sprang up +and fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the same +instant the firing began on the other side, and the balls penetrated +the boards all round us. Oh, how noble did the grand vizier my father +look at that moment, in the midst of the flying bullets, his scimitar +in his hand, and his face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and +how he terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him! ‘Selim, +Selim!’ cried he, ‘guardian of the fire, do your duty!’—‘Selim is +dead,’ replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the +earth, ‘and you are lost, Ali!’ At the same moment an explosion was +heard, and the flooring of the room in which my father was sitting was +suddenly torn up and shivered to atoms—the troops were firing from +underneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies literally +ploughed with wounds. + +“My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes which the +balls had made, and tore up one of the planks entire. But immediately +through this opening twenty more shots were fired, and the flame, +rushing up like fire from the crater of a volcano, soon reached the +tapestry, which it quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful +tumult and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct, +followed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me with +terror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father, and it was he +who had given utterance to these frightful cries. However, he remained +standing, clinging to a window. My mother tried to force the door, that +she might go and die with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All +around him were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies, +while two or three who were only slightly wounded were trying to escape +by springing from the windows. At this crisis the whole flooring +suddenly gave way, my father fell on one knee, and at the same moment +twenty hands were thrust forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and +poniards—twenty blows were instantaneously directed against one man, +and my father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled by +these demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening beneath his +feet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my mother had fainted.” + +Haydée’s arms fell by her side, and she uttered a deep groan, at the +same time looking towards the count as if to ask if he were satisfied +with her obedience to his commands. + +Monte Cristo arose and approached her, took her hand, and said to her +in Romaic: + +“Calm yourself, my dear child, and take courage in remembering that +there is a God who will punish traitors.” + +“It is a frightful story, count,” said Albert, terrified at the +paleness of Haydée’s countenance, “and I reproach myself now for having +been so cruel and thoughtless in my request.” + +“Oh, it is nothing,” said Monte Cristo. Then, patting the young girl on +the head, he continued, “Haydée is very courageous, and she sometimes +even finds consolation in the recital of her misfortunes.” + +“Because, my lord,” said Haydée eagerly, “my miseries recall to me the +remembrance of your goodness.” + +Albert looked at her with curiosity, for she had not yet related what +he most desired to know,—how she had become the slave of the count. +Haydée saw at a glance the same expression pervading the countenances +of her two auditors; she continued: + +“When my mother recovered her senses we were before the seraskier. +‘Kill,’ said she, ‘but spare the honor of the widow of Ali.’—‘It is not +to me to whom you must address yourself,’ said Kourchid. + +“‘To whom, then?’—‘To your new master.’ + +“‘Who and where is he?’—‘He is here.’ + +“And Kourchid pointed out one who had more than any contributed to the +death of my father,” said Haydée, in a tone of chastened anger. + +“Then,” said Albert, “you became the property of this man?” + +40080m + + + +“No,” replied Haydée, “he did not dare to keep us, so we were sold to +some slave-merchants who were going to Constantinople. We traversed +Greece, and arrived half dead at the imperial gates. They were +surrounded by a crowd of people, who opened a way for us to pass, when +suddenly my mother, having looked closely at an object which was +attracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell to the +ground, pointing as she did so to a head which was placed over the +gates, and beneath which were inscribed these words: + +‘_This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina._’ + +“I cried bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but she +was dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was purchased by a rich +Armenian. He caused me to be instructed, gave me masters, and when I +was thirteen years of age he sold me to the Sultan Mahmoud.” + +“Of whom I bought her,” said Monte Cristo, “as I told you, Albert, with +the emerald which formed a match to the one I had made into a box for +the purpose of holding my hashish pills.” + +“Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord!” said Haydée, kissing the +count’s hand, “and I am very fortunate in belonging to such a master!” + +Albert remained quite bewildered with all that he had seen and heard. + +“Come, finish your cup of coffee,” said Monte Cristo; “the history is +ended.” + + + + Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina + +If Valentine could have seen the trembling step and agitated +countenance of Franz when he quitted the chamber of M. Noirtier, even +she would have been constrained to pity him. Villefort had only just +given utterance to a few incoherent sentences, and then retired to his +study, where he received about two hours afterwards the following +letter: + +“After all the disclosures which were made this morning, M. Noirtier de +Villefort must see the utter impossibility of any alliance being formed +between his family and that of M. Franz d’Épinay. M. d’Épinay must say +that he is shocked and astonished that M. de Villefort, who appeared to +be aware of all the circumstances detailed this morning, should not +have anticipated him in this announcement.” + + +No one who had seen the magistrate at this moment, so thoroughly +unnerved by the recent inauspicious combination of circumstances, would +have supposed for an instant that he had anticipated the annoyance; +although it certainly never had occurred to him that his father would +carry candor, or rather rudeness, so far as to relate such a history. +And in justice to Villefort, it must be understood that M. Noirtier, +who never cared for the opinion of his son on any subject, had always +omitted to explain the affair to Villefort, so that he had all his life +entertained the belief that General de Quesnel, or the Baron d’Épinay, +as he was alternately styled, according as the speaker wished to +identify him by his own family name, or by the title which had been +conferred on him, fell the victim of assassination, and not that he was +killed fairly in a duel. This harsh letter, coming as it did from a man +generally so polite and respectful, struck a mortal blow at the pride +of Villefort. + +Hardly had he read the letter, when his wife entered. The sudden +departure of Franz, after being summoned by M. Noirtier, had so much +astonished everyone, that the position of Madame de Villefort, left +alone with the notary and the witnesses, became every moment more +embarrassing. Determined to bear it no longer, she arose and left the +room; saying she would go and make some inquiries into the cause of his +sudden disappearance. + +M. de Villefort’s communications on the subject were very limited and +concise; he told her, in fact, that an explanation had taken place +between M. Noirtier, M. d’Épinay, and himself, and that the marriage of +Valentine and Franz would consequently be broken off. This was an +awkward and unpleasant thing to have to report to those who were +waiting. She therefore contented herself with saying that M. Noirtier +having at the commencement of the discussion been attacked by a sort of +apoplectic fit, the affair would necessarily be deferred for some days +longer. This news, false as it was following so singularly in the train +of the two similar misfortunes which had so recently occurred, +evidently astonished the auditors, and they retired without a word. + +During this time Valentine, at once terrified and happy, after having +embraced and thanked the feeble old man for thus breaking with a single +blow the chain which she had been accustomed to consider as +irrefragable, asked leave to retire to her own room, in order to +recover her composure. Noirtier looked the permission which she +solicited. But instead of going to her own room, Valentine, having once +gained her liberty, entered the gallery, and, opening a small door at +the end of it, found herself at once in the garden. + +In the midst of all the strange events which had crowded one on the +other, an indefinable sentiment of dread had taken possession of +Valentine’s mind. She expected every moment that she should see Morrel +appear, pale and trembling, to forbid the signing of the contract, like +the Laird of Ravenswood in _The Bride of Lammermoor_. + +It was high time for her to make her appearance at the gate, for +Maximilian had long awaited her coming. He had half guessed what was +going on when he saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de Villefort. He +followed M. d’Épinay, saw him enter, afterwards go out, and then +re-enter with Albert and Château-Renaud. He had no longer any doubts as +to the nature of the conference; he therefore quickly went to the gate +in the clover-patch, prepared to hear the result of the proceedings, +and very certain that Valentine would hasten to him the first moment +she should be set at liberty. He was not mistaken; peering through the +crevices of the wooden partition, he soon discovered the young girl, +who cast aside all her usual precautions and walked at once to the +barrier. The first glance which Maximilian directed towards her +entirely reassured him, and the first words she spoke made his heart +bound with delight. + +“We are saved!” said Valentine. + +“Saved?” repeated Morrel, not being able to conceive such intense +happiness; “by whom?” + +“By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray love him for all his goodness to +us!” + +Morrel swore to love him with all his soul; and at that moment he could +safely promise to do so, for he felt as though it were not enough to +love him merely as a friend or even as a father, he worshiped him as a +god. + +“But tell me, Valentine, how has it all been effected? What strange +means has he used to compass this blessed end?” + +Valentine was on the point of relating all that had passed, but she +suddenly remembered that in doing so she must reveal a terrible secret +which concerned others as well as her grandfather, and she said: + +“At some future time I will tell you all about it.” + +“But when will that be?” + +“When I am your wife.” + +The conversation had now turned upon a topic so pleasing to Morrel, +that he was ready to accede to anything that Valentine thought fit to +propose, and he likewise felt that a piece of intelligence such as he +just heard ought to be more than sufficient to content him for one day. +However, he would not leave without the promise of seeing Valentine +again the next night. Valentine promised all that Morrel required of +her, and certainly it was less difficult now for her to believe that +she should marry Maximilian than it was an hour ago to assure herself +that she should not marry Franz. + +During the time occupied by the interview we have just detailed, Madame +de Villefort had gone to visit M. Noirtier. The old man looked at her +with that stern and forbidding expression with which he was accustomed +to receive her. + +“Sir,” said she, “it is superfluous for me to tell you that Valentine’s +marriage is broken off, since it was here that the affair was +concluded.” + +Noirtier’s countenance remained immovable. + +“But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not think you are aware; +that is, that I have always been opposed to this marriage, and that the +contract was entered into entirely without my consent or approbation.” + +Noirtier regarded his daughter-in-law with the look of a man desiring +an explanation. + +“Now that this marriage, which I know you so much disliked, is done +away with, I come to you on an errand which neither M. de Villefort nor +Valentine could consistently undertake.” + +Noirtier’s eyes demanded the nature of her mission. + +“I come to entreat you, sir,” continued Madame de Villefort, “as the +only one who has the right of doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one +who will receive no personal benefit from the transaction,—I come to +entreat you to restore, not your love, for that she has always +possessed, but to restore your fortune to your granddaughter.” + +There was a doubtful expression in Noirtier’s eyes; he was evidently +trying to discover the motive of this proceeding, and he could not +succeed in doing so. + +“May I hope, sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “that your intentions +accord with my request?” + +Noirtier made a sign that they did. + +“In that case, sir,” rejoined Madame de Villefort, “I will leave you +overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt acquiescence to +my wishes.” She then bowed to M. Noirtier and retired. + +The next day M. Noirtier sent for the notary; the first will was torn +up and a second made, in which he left the whole of his fortune to +Valentine, on condition that she should never be separated from him. It +was then generally reported that Mademoiselle de Villefort, the heiress +of the marquis and marchioness of Saint-Méran, had regained the good +graces of her grandfather, and that she would ultimately be in +possession of an income of 300,000 livres. + +While all the proceedings relative to the dissolution of the +marriage-contract were being carried on at the house of M. de +Villefort, Monte Cristo had paid his visit to the Count of Morcerf, +who, in order to lose no time in responding to M. Danglars’ wishes, and +at the same time to pay all due deference to his position in society, +donned his uniform of lieutenant-general, which he ornamented with all +his crosses, and thus attired, ordered his finest horses and drove to +the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. + +Danglars was balancing his monthly accounts, and it was perhaps not the +most favorable moment for finding him in his best humor. At the first +sight of his old friend, Danglars assumed his majestic air, and settled +himself in his easy-chair. + +Morcerf, usually so stiff and formal, accosted the banker in an affable +and smiling manner, and, feeling sure that the overture he was about to +make would be well received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt +any manœuvres in order to gain his end, but went at once straight to +the point. + +40086m + + + +“Well, baron,” said he, “here I am at last; some time has elapsed since +our plans were formed, and they are not yet executed.” + +Morcerf paused at these words, quietly waiting till the cloud should +have dispersed which had gathered on the brow of Danglars, and which he +attributed to his silence; but, on the contrary, to his great surprise, +it grew darker and darker. + +“To what do you allude, monsieur?” said Danglars; as if he were trying +in vain to guess at the possible meaning of the general’s words. + +“Ah,” said Morcerf, “I see you are a stickler for forms, my dear sir, +and you would remind me that the ceremonial rites should not be +omitted. _Ma foi_, I beg your pardon, but as I have but one son, and it +is the first time I have ever thought of marrying him, I am still +serving my apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform.” + +And Morcerf with a forced smile arose, and, making a low bow to M. +Danglars, said: + +“Baron, I have the honor of asking of you the hand of Mademoiselle +Eugénie Danglars for my son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf.” + +But Danglars, instead of receiving this address in the favorable manner +which Morcerf had expected, knit his brow, and without inviting the +count, who was still standing, to take a seat, he said: + +“Monsieur, it will be necessary to reflect before I give you an +answer.” + +“To reflect?” said Morcerf, more and more astonished; “have you not had +enough time for reflection during the eight years which have elapsed +since this marriage was first discussed between us?” + +“Count,” said the banker, “things are constantly occurring in the world +to induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all +events to cause us to remodel them according to the change of +circumstances, which may have placed affairs in a totally different +light to that in which we at first viewed them.” + +“I do not understand you, baron,” said Morcerf. + +“What I mean to say is this, sir,—that during the last fortnight +unforeseen circumstances have occurred——” + +“Excuse me,” said Morcerf, “but is it a play we are acting?” + +“A play?” + +“Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the point, and +endeavor thoroughly to understand each other.” + +“That is quite my desire.” + +“You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have you not?” + +“I see him very often,” said Danglars, drawing himself up; “he is a +particular friend of mine.” + +“Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said that I +appeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning this marriage, did +you not?” + +“I did say so.” + +“Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither the one nor +the other, by entreating you to keep your promise on that score.” + +Danglars did not answer. + +“Have you so soon changed your mind,” added Morcerf, “or have you only +provoked my request that you may have the pleasure of seeing me +humbled?” + +Danglars, seeing that if he continued the conversation in the same tone +in which he had begun it, the whole thing might turn out to his own +disadvantage, turned to Morcerf, and said: + +“Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my reserve, and I assure you +it costs me much to act in such a manner towards you; but, believe me +when I say that imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon +me.” + +“These are all so many empty words, my dear sir,” said Morcerf: “they +might satisfy a new acquaintance, but the Comte de Morcerf does not +rank in that list; and when a man like him comes to another, recalls to +him his plighted word, and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has +at least a right to exact from him a good reason for so doing.” + +Danglars was a coward, but did not wish to appear so; he was piqued at +the tone which Morcerf had just assumed. + +“I am not without a good reason for my conduct,” replied the banker. + +“What do you mean to say?” + +“I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is difficult to +explain.” + +“You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for me to +understand motives before they are explained to me; but one thing at +least is clear, which is, that you decline allying yourself with my +family.” + +“No, sir,” said Danglars; “I merely suspend my decision, that is all.” + +“And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to all your +caprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of again being received +into your good graces?” + +“Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these projects as +if they had never been entertained.” + +The count bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the +ebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper scarcely +allowed him to restrain; understanding, however, that in the present +state of things the laugh would decidedly be against him, he turned +from the door, towards which he had been directing his steps, and again +confronted the banker. A cloud settled on his brow, evincing decided +anxiety and uneasiness, instead of the expression of offended pride +which had lately reigned there. + +“My dear Danglars,” said Morcerf, “we have been acquainted for many +years, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for each +other’s failings. You owe me an explanation, and really it is but fair +that I should know what circumstance has occurred to deprive my son of +your favor.” + +“It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount, that is all I +can say, sir,” replied Danglars, who resumed his insolent manner as +soon as he perceived that Morcerf was a little softened and calmed +down. + +“And towards whom do you bear this personal ill-feeling, then?” said +Morcerf, turning pale with anger. The expression of the count’s face +had not remained unperceived by the banker; he fixed on him a look of +greater assurance than before, and said: + +“You may, perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther +into particulars.” + +A tremor of suppressed rage shook the whole frame of the count, and +making a violent effort over himself, he said: “I have a right to +insist on your giving me an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf who +has displeased you? Is it my fortune which you find insufficient? Is it +because my opinions differ from yours?” + +“Nothing of the kind, sir,” replied Danglars: “if such had been the +case, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as I was aware of all +these things when I made the engagement. No, do not seek any longer to +discover the reason. I really am quite ashamed to have been the cause +of your undergoing such severe self-examination; let us drop the +subject, and adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a +rupture nor an engagement. _Ma foi_, there is no hurry. My daughter is +only seventeen years old, and your son twenty-one. While we wait, time +will be progressing, events will succeed each other; things which in +the evening look dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light +of morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the lapse of a +single day, will reveal the most cruel calumnies.” + +“Calumnies, did you say, sir?” cried Morcerf, turning livid with rage. +“Does anyone dare to slander me?” + +“Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all +explanation.” + +“Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal?” + +“Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful for me to +give as it is for you to receive, for I had reckoned on the honor of +your alliance, and the breaking off of a marriage contract always +injures the lady more than the gentleman.” + +“Enough, sir,” said Morcerf, “we will speak no more on the subject.” + +And clutching his gloves in anger, he left the apartment. Danglars +observed that during the whole conversation Morcerf had never once +dared to ask if it was on his own account that Danglars recalled his +word. + +That evening he had a long conference with several friends; and M. +Cavalcanti, who had remained in the drawing-room with the ladies, was +the last to leave the banker’s house. + +The next morning, as soon as he awoke, Danglars asked for the +newspapers; they were brought to him; he laid aside three or four, and +at last fixed on _l’Impartial_, the paper of which Beauchamp was the +chief editor. He hastily tore off the cover, opened the journal with +nervous precipitation, passed contemptuously over the Paris jottings, +and arriving at the miscellaneous intelligence, stopped with a +malicious smile, at a paragraph headed + +_We hear from Yanina._ + + +“Very good,” observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph; “here +is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken, +would render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me +perfectly unnecessary.” + +At the same moment, that is, at nine o’clock in the morning, Albert de +Morcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to his chin, might have +been seen walking with a quick and agitated step in the direction of +Monte Cristo’s house in the Champs-Élysées. When he presented himself +at the gate the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about +half an hour previously. + +“Did he take Baptistin with him?” + +“No, my lord.” + +“Call him, then; I wish to speak to him.” + +The concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him +in an instant. + +“My good friend,” said Albert, “I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I +was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out +or not.” + +“He is really out, sir,” replied Baptistin. + +“Out, even to me?” + +“I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,” said +Baptistin; “and I should therefore never think of including him in any +general order.” + +“You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great +importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?” + +“No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o’clock.” + +“Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs-Élysées, and at ten +o’clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in, +will you beg him not to go out again without seeing me?” + +“You may depend on my doing so, sir,” said Baptistin. + +Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count’s door, intending +to take a turn on foot. As he was passing the Allée des Veuves, he +thought he saw the count’s horses standing at Gosset’s +shooting-gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman. + +“Is the count shooting in the gallery?” said Morcerf. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had +heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his +way met the waiter. + +“Excuse me, my lord,” said the lad; “but will you have the kindness to +wait a moment?” + +“What for, Philip?” asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there, +did not understand this opposition to his entrance. + +“Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and +never practices in the presence of anyone.” + +“Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?” + +“His servant.” + +“A Nubian?” + +“A negro.” + +“It is he, then.” + +“Do you know this gentleman?” + +“Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.” + +“Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and +inform him of your arrival.” + +And Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second +afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. + +“I ask your pardon, my dear count,” said Albert, “for following you +here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your +servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I +went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they +expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in +order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of +your carriage and horses.” + +“What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend +breakfasting with me.” + +40092m + + + +“No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just +now; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse +company.” + +“What on earth are you talking of?” + +“I am to fight today.” + +“For what?” + +“For the sake of fighting!” + +“Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all +sorts of reasons, you know.” + +“I fight in the cause of honor.” + +“Ah, that is something serious.” + +“So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service.” + +“What is it?” + +“To be my second.” + +“That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us +speak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water.” + +The count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the little vestibule +where the gentlemen were accustomed to wash their hands after shooting. + +“Come in, my lord,” said Philip in a low tone, “and I will show you +something droll.” Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he +saw some playing-cards fixed against the wall. At a distance Albert +thought it was a complete suit, for he counted from the ace to the ten. + +“Ah, ha,” said Albert, “I see you were preparing for a game of cards.” + +“No,” said the count, “I was making a suit.” + +“How?” said Albert. + +“Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned +them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.” + +Albert approached. In fact, the bullets had actually pierced the cards +in the exact places which the painted signs would otherwise have +occupied, the lines and distances being as regularly kept as if they +had been ruled with pencil. In going up to the target Morcerf picked up +two or three swallows that had been rash enough to come within the +range of the count’s pistol. + +“_Diable!_” said Morcerf. + +“What would you have, my dear viscount?” said Monte Cristo, wiping his +hands on the towel which Ali had brought him; “I must occupy my leisure +moments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you.” + +Both men entered Monte Cristo’s carriage, which in the course of a few +minutes deposited them safely at No. 30. Monte Cristo took Albert into +his study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself. “Now let +us talk the matter over quietly,” said the count. + +“You see I am perfectly composed,” said Albert. + +“With whom are you going to fight?” + +“With Beauchamp.” + +“One of your friends!” + +“Of course; it is always with friends that one fights.” + +“I suppose you have some cause of quarrel?” + +“I have.” + +40094m + + + +“What has he done to you?” + +“There appeared in his journal last night—but wait, and read for +yourself.” And Albert handed over the paper to the count, who read as +follows: + +“A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we +had remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of +the town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand, +in whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest +confidence.” + + +“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “what do you see in that to annoy you?” + +“What do I see in it?” + +“Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up +by a French officer?” + +“It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name +is Fernand!” + +“Did your father serve under Ali Pasha?” + +“Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and +hence arises the calumny.” + +“Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason!” + +“I do not desire to do otherwise.” + +“Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer +Fernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who +cares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or +1823?” + +“That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all +this time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events which have +been forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish +the lustre of our high position. I inherit my father’s name, and I do +not choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to +Beauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist +on his retracting the assertion before two witnesses.” + +“Beauchamp will never retract.” + +“Then we must fight.” + +“No you will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps +there were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name.” + +“We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father’s +character. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so +brilliant——” + +“Oh, well, he will add, ‘We are warranted in believing that this +Fernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the +same Christian name.’” + +“I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire +retractation.” + +“And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do +you?” + +“Yes.” + +“You do wrong.” + +“Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I asked of +you?” + +“You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that +subject, if you remember, when we were at Rome.” + +“Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an +occupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to +entertain.” + +“Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric. +If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I +shall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp, +who has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with +Beauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he +will bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I +am expected to kill him for all that.” + +“You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object +to my doing so?” + +“I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a +serious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection.” + +“Did he reflect before he insulted my father?” + +“If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be +satisfied.” + +“Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent.” + +“And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be +angry at what I am going to say——” + +“Well.” + +“Supposing the assertion to be really true?” + +“A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father’s honor.” + +“_Ma foi!_ we live in times when there is much to which we must +submit.” + +“That is precisely the fault of the age.” + +“And do you undertake to reform it?��� + +“Yes, as far as I am personally concerned.” + +“Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow!” + +“Yes, I own it.” + +“Are you quite impervious to good advice?” + +“Not when it comes from a friend.” + +“And do you account me that title?” + +“Certainly I do.” + +“Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek +further information on the subject.” + +“From whom?” + +“From Haydée.” + +“Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair?—what can +she do in it?” + +“She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand +whatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had, +indeed, the misfortune to——” + +“I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit +of such a proposition.” + +“You reject this means of information, then?” + +“I do—most decidedly.” + +“Then let me offer one more word of advice.” + +“Do so, then, but let it be the last.” + +“You do not wish to hear it, perhaps?” + +“On the contrary, I request it.” + +“Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp—visit him +alone.” + +“That would be contrary to all custom.” + +“Your case is not an ordinary one.” + +“And what is your reason for advising me to go alone?” + +“Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp.” + +“Explain yourself.” + +“I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least +to give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will,—the +satisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses +to do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into +your secret.” + +“They will not be strangers, they will be friends.” + +“Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp, +for instance.” + +“So you recommend——” + +“I recommend you to be prudent.” + +“Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp?” + +“I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession +from a man’s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing +to wound it.” + +“I believe you are right.” + +“I am glad of it.” + +“Then I will go alone.” + +“Go; but you would do better still by not going at all.” + +“That is impossible.” + +“Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you +proposed.” + +“But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight, +will you not be my second?” + +“My dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo gravely, “you must have seen +before today that at all times and in all places I have been at your +disposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one +which it is out of my power to render you.” + +“Why?” + +“Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I +request you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my +reasons.” + +“Well, I will have Franz and Château-Renaud; they will be the very men +for it.” + +“Do so, then.” + +“But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or +two in shooting and fencing?” + +“That, too, is impossible.” + +“What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.” + +“You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.” + +“We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count.” + +Morcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the +door, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to +find Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking +apartment, such as journalists’ offices have always been from time +immemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp +repeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that +he had heard aright, and then gave orders for him to be admitted. +Albert entered. + +Beauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap +over and trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed about +the room. + +“This way, this way, my dear Albert!” said he, holding out his hand to +the young man. “Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to +take breakfast with me? Try and find a seat—there is one by that +geranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there +are other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper.” + +“Beauchamp,” said Albert, “it is of your journal that I come to speak.” + +“Indeed? What do you wish to say about it?” + +“I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified.” + +“To what do you refer? But pray sit down.” + +“Thank you,” said Albert, with a cold and formal bow. + +“Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement +which has displeased you?” + +“An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member +of my family.” + +“What is it?” said Beauchamp, much surprised; “surely you must be +mistaken.” + +“The story sent you from Yanina.” + +“Yanina?” + +“Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which +brings me here.” + +“Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give +me yesterday’s paper,” cried Beauchamp. + +“Here, I have brought mine with me,” replied Albert. + +Beauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which Albert pointed +in an undertone. + +“You see it is a serious annoyance,” said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had +finished the perusal of the paragraph. + +“Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?” demanded the +journalist. + +“Yes,” said Albert, blushing. + +“Well, what do you wish me to do for you?” said Beauchamp mildly. + +“My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.” Beauchamp +looked at Albert with a benevolent expression. + +“Come,” said he, “this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a +retractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will +read it again.” + +Albert resumed his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than +at first, the lines denounced by his friend. + +“Well,” said Albert in a determined tone, “you see that your paper has +insulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being +made.” + +“You insist?” + +“Yes, I insist.” + +“Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear +viscount.” + +“Nor do I wish to be there,” replied the young man, rising. “I repeat +that I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday +contradicted. You have known me long enough,” continued Albert, biting +his lips convulsively, for he saw that Beauchamp’s anger was beginning +to rise,—“you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate +with me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this +point.” + +“If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking +would almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a +moment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated +and vexed—tell me how this Fernand is related to you?” + +“He is merely my father,” said Albert—“M. Fernand Mondego, Count of +Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose +honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.” + +“Is it your father?” said Beauchamp; “that is quite another thing. Then +I can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at +it again;” and he read the paragraph for the third time, laying a +stress on each word as he proceeded. “But the paper nowhere identifies +this Fernand with your father.” + +40100m + + + +“No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will +have the article contradicted.” + +At the words _I will_, Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to Albert’s +countenance, and then as gradually lowering them, he remained +thoughtful for a few moments. + +“You will retract this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?” said Albert +with increased though stifled anger. + +“Yes,” replied Beauchamp. + +“Immediately?” said Albert. + +“When I am convinced that the statement is false.” + +“What?” + +“The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate +the matter thoroughly.” + +“But what is there to investigate, sir?” said Albert, enraged beyond +measure at Beauchamp’s last remark. “If you do not believe that it is +my father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it +to be him, state your reasons for doing so.” + +Beauchamp looked at Albert with the smile which was so peculiar to him, +and which in its numerous modifications served to express every varied +emotion of his mind. + +“Sir,” replied he, “if you came to me with the idea of demanding +satisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have +entertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been +patiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this +construction on your visit?” + +“Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous calumny.” + +“Wait a moment—no threats, if you please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte +de Morcerf; I never allow them from my enemies, and therefore shall not +put up with them from my friends. You insist on my contradicting the +article relating to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure +you on my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do?” + +“Yes, I insist on it,” said Albert, whose mind was beginning to get +bewildered with the excitement of his feelings. + +“And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?” said Beauchamp +in a calm tone. + +“Yes,” replied Albert, raising his voice. + +“Well,” said Beauchamp, “here is my answer, my dear sir. The article +was not inserted by me—I was not even aware of it; but you have, by the +step you have taken, called my attention to the paragraph in question, +and it will remain until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed +by someone who has a right to do so.” + +“Sir,” said Albert, rising, “I will do myself the honor of sending my +seconds to you, and you will be kind enough to arrange with them the +place of meeting and the weapons.” + +“Certainly, my dear sir.” + +“And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we will +meet.” + +“No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in my opinion +(and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries, as it is I who have +received the provocation)—in my opinion the time ought not to be yet. I +know you to be well skilled in the management of the sword, while I am +only moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman—there we +are about equal. I know that a duel between us two would be a serious +affair, because you are brave, and I am brave also. I do not therefore +wish either to kill you, or to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I +am going to put a question to you, and one very much to the purpose +too. Do you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do +not make it, although I have repeated more than once, and affirmed on +my honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with which you charge me, +and although I still declare that it is impossible for anyone but you +to recognize the Count of Morcerf under the name of Fernand?” + +“I maintain my original resolution.” + +“Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you. But I +require three weeks’ preparation; at the end of that time I shall come +and say to you, ‘The assertion is false, and I retract it,’ or ‘The +assertion is true,’ when I shall immediately draw the sword from its +sheath, or the pistols from the case, whichever you please.” + +“Three weeks!” cried Albert; “they will pass as slowly as three +centuries when I am all the time suffering dishonor.” + +“Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I should have +said, ‘Patience, my friend;’ but you have constituted yourself my +enemy, therefore I say, ‘What does that signify to me, sir?’” + +“Well, let it be three weeks then,” said Morcerf; “but remember, at the +expiration of that time no delay or subterfuge will justify you in——” + +“M. Albert de Morcerf,” said Beauchamp, rising in his turn, “I cannot +throw you out of window for three weeks—that is to say, for twenty-four +days to come—nor have you any right to split my skull open till that +time has elapsed. Today is the 29th of August; the 21st of September +will, therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till that +time arrives—and it is the advice of a gentleman which I am about to +give you—till then we will refrain from growling and barking like two +dogs chained within sight of each other.” + +When he had concluded his speech, Beauchamp bowed coldly to Albert, +turned his back upon him, and went to the press-room. Albert vented his +anger on a pile of newspapers, which he sent flying all over the office +by switching them violently with his stick; after which ebullition he +departed—not, however, without walking several times to the door of the +press-room, as if he had half a mind to enter. + +40104m + + + +While Albert was lashing the front of his carriage in the same manner +that he had the newspapers which were the innocent agents of his +discomfiture, as he was crossing the barrier he perceived Morrel, who +was walking with a quick step and a bright eye. He was passing the +Chinese Baths, and appeared to have come from the direction of the +Porte Saint-Martin, and to be going towards the Madeleine. + +“Ah,” said Morcerf, “there goes a happy man!” And it so happened Albert +was not mistaken in his opinion. + + + + Chapter 79. The Lemonade + +Morrel was, in fact, very happy. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and +he was in such haste to know the reason of his doing so that he had not +stopped to take a cab, placing infinitely more dependence on his own +two legs than on the four legs of a cab-horse. He had therefore set off +at a furious rate from the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with rapid +strides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. + +Morrel advanced with a firm, manly tread, and poor Barrois followed him +as he best might. Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was sixty years +of age; Morrel was deeply in love, and Barrois was dying with heat and +exertion. These two men, thus opposed in age and interests, resembled +two parts of a triangle, presenting the extremes of separation, yet +nevertheless possessing their point of union. This point of union was +Noirtier, and it was he who had just sent for Morrel, with the request +that the latter would lose no time in coming to him—a command which +Morrel obeyed to the letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On +arriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love +lends wings to our desires; but Barrois, who had long forgotten what it +was to love, was sorely fatigued by the expedition he had been +constrained to use. + +The old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance, closed the +door of the study, and soon the rustling of a dress announced the +arrival of Valentine. She looked marvellously beautiful in her deep +mourning dress, and Morrel experienced such intense delight in gazing +upon her that he felt as if he could almost have dispensed with the +conversation of her grandfather. + +But the easy-chair of the old man was heard rolling along the floor, +and he soon made his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a +look of extreme kindness and benevolence the thanks which Morrel +lavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of Valentine and +himself—an intervention which had saved them from despair. Morrel then +cast on the invalid an interrogative look as to the new favor which he +designed to bestow on him. Valentine was sitting at a little distance +from them, timidly awaiting the moment when she should be obliged to +speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her. + +“Am I to say what you told me?” asked Valentine. Noirtier made a sign +that she was to do so. + +“Monsieur Morrel,” said Valentine to the young man, who was regarding +her with the most intense interest, “my grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a +thousand things to say, which he told me three days ago; and now, he +has sent for you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them, +then; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will be faithful +to the trust, and will not alter a word of his intentions.” + +“Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience,” replied the young +man; “speak, I beg of you.” + +Valentine cast down her eyes; this was a good omen for Morrel, for he +knew that nothing but happiness could have the power of thus overcoming +Valentine. + +“My grandfather intends leaving this house,” said she, “and Barrois is +looking out for suitable apartments for him in another.” + +“But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort,—you, who are necessary to M. +Noirtier’s happiness——” + +“I?” interrupted Valentine; “I shall not leave my grandfather,—that is +an understood thing between us. My apartment will be close to his. Now, +M. de Villefort must either give his consent to this plan or his +refusal; in the first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second, +I shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten months. Then +I shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and”— + +“And what?” demanded Morrel. + +“And with my grandfather’s consent I shall fulfil the promise which I +have made you.” + +Valentine pronounced these last few words in such a low tone, that +nothing but Morrel’s intense interest in what she was saying could have +enabled him to hear them. + +“Have I not explained your wishes, grandpapa?” said Valentine, +addressing Noirtier. + +“Yes,” looked the old man. + +“Once under my grandfather’s roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the +presence of my good and worthy protector, if we still feel that the +union we contemplated will be likely to insure our future comfort and +happiness; in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me +at my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed +by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security; I trust we +shall never find it so in our experience!” + +“Oh,” cried Morrel, almost tempted to throw himself on his knees before +Noirtier and Valentine, and to adore them as two superior beings, “what +have I ever done in my life to merit such unbounded happiness?” + +“Until that time,” continued the young girl in a calm and +self-possessed tone of voice, “we will conform to circumstances, and be +guided by the wishes of our friends, so long as those wishes do not +tend finally to separate us; in a word, and I repeat it, because it +expresses all I wish to convey,—we will wait.” + +“And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word imposes, sir,” +said Morrel, “not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness.” + +“Therefore,” continued Valentine, looking playfully at Maximilian, “no +more inconsiderate actions—no more rash projects; for you surely would +not wish to compromise one who from this day regards herself as +destined, honorably and happily, to bear your name?” + +Morrel looked obedience to her commands. Noirtier regarded the lovers +with a look of ineffable tenderness, while Barrois, who had remained in +the room in the character of a man privileged to know everything that +passed, smiled on the youthful couple as he wiped the perspiration from +his bald forehead. + +“How hot you look, my good Barrois,” said Valentine. + +“Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must do M. +Morrel the justice to say that he ran still faster.” + +Noirtier directed their attention to a waiter, on which was placed a +decanter containing lemonade and a glass. The decanter was nearly full, +with the exception of a little, which had been already drunk by M. +Noirtier. + +“Come, Barrois,” said the young girl, “take some of this lemonade; I +see you are coveting a good draught of it.” + +“The fact is, mademoiselle,” said Barrois, “I am dying with thirst, and +since you are so kind as to offer it me, I cannot say I should at all +object to drinking your health in a glass of it.” + +“Take some, then, and come back immediately.” + +Barrois took away the waiter, and hardly was he outside the door, which +in his haste he forgot to shut, than they saw him throw back his head +and empty to the very dregs the glass which Valentine had filled. +Valentine and Morrel were exchanging their adieux in the presence of +Noirtier when a ring was heard at the door-bell. It was the signal of a +visit. Valentine looked at her watch. + +“It is past noon,” said she, “and today is Saturday; I dare say it is +the doctor, grandpapa.” + +Noirtier looked his conviction that she was right in her supposition. + +“He will come in here, and M. Morrel had better go,—do you not think +so, grandpapa?” + +“Yes,” signed the old man. + +“Barrois,” cried Valentine, “Barrois!” + +“I am coming, mademoiselle,” replied he. + +“Barrois will open the door for you,” said Valentine, addressing +Morrel. “And now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my +grandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised step which +would be likely to compromise our happiness.” + +40108m + + + +“I promised him to wait,” replied Morrel; “and I will wait.” + +At this moment Barrois entered. “Who rang?” asked Valentine. + +“Doctor d’Avrigny,” said Barrois, staggering as if he would fall. + +“What is the matter, Barrois?” said Valentine. The old man did not +answer, but looked at his master with wild staring eyes, while with his +cramped hand he grasped a piece of furniture to enable him to stand +upright. + +“He is going to fall!” cried Morrel. + +The rigors which had attacked Barrois gradually increased, the features +of the face became quite altered, and the convulsive movement of the +muscles appeared to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous +disorder. Noirtier, seeing Barrois in this pitiable condition, showed +by his looks all the various emotions of sorrow and sympathy which can +animate the heart of man. Barrois made some steps towards his master. + +“Ah, sir,” said he, “tell me what is the matter with me. I am +suffering—I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are piercing my brain. +Ah, don’t touch me, pray don’t.” + +By this time his haggard eyes had the appearance of being ready to +start from their sockets; his head fell back, and the lower extremities +of the body began to stiffen. Valentine uttered a cry of horror; Morrel +took her in his arms, as if to defend her from some unknown danger. + +“M. d’Avrigny, M. d’Avrigny,” cried she, in a stifled voice. “Help, +help!” + +Barrois turned round and with a great effort stumbled a few steps, then +fell at the feet of Noirtier, and resting his hand on the knee of the +invalid, exclaimed: + +“My master, my good master!” + +At this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by the noise, appeared on the +threshold. Morrel relaxed his hold of Valentine, and retreating to a +distant corner of the room remained half hidden behind a curtain. Pale +as if he had been gazing on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye on +the agonized sufferer. + +Noirtier, burning with impatience and terror, was in despair at his +utter inability to help his old domestic, whom he regarded more in the +light of a friend than a servant. One might by the fearful swelling of +the veins of his forehead and the contraction of the muscles round the +eye, trace the terrible conflict which was going on between the living +energetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body. + +Barrois, his features convulsed, his eyes suffused with blood, and his +head thrown back, was lying at full length, beating the floor with his +hands, while his legs had become so stiff, that they looked as if they +would break rather than bend. A slight appearance of foam was visible +around the mouth, and he breathed painfully, and with extreme +difficulty. + +Villefort seemed stupefied with astonishment, and remained gazing +intently on the scene before him without uttering a word. He had not +seen Morrel. After a moment of dumb contemplation, during which his +face became pale and his hair seemed to stand on end, he sprang towards +the door, crying out: + +“Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come!” + +“Madame, madame!” cried Valentine, calling her step-mother, and running +upstairs to meet her; “come quick, quick!—and bring your bottle of +smelling-salts with you.” + +“What is the matter?” said Madame de Villefort in a harsh and +constrained tone. + +“Oh! come! come!” + +“But where is the doctor?” exclaimed Villefort; “where is he?” + +Madame de Villefort now deliberately descended the staircase. In one +hand she held her handkerchief, with which she appeared to be wiping +her face, and in the other a bottle of English smelling-salts. Her +first look on entering the room was at Noirtier, whose face, +independent of the emotion which such a scene could not fail of +producing, proclaimed him to be in possession of his usual health; her +second glance was at the dying man. She turned pale, and her eye passed +quickly from the servant and rested on the master. + +“In the name of heaven, madame,” said Villefort, “where is the doctor? +He was with you just now. You see this is a fit of apoplexy, and he +might be saved if he could but be bled!” + +“Has he eaten anything lately?” asked Madame de Villefort, eluding her +husband’s question. + +“Madame,” replied Valentine, “he has not even breakfasted. He has been +running very fast on an errand with which my grandfather charged him, +and when he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade.” + +“Ah,” said Madame de Villefort, “why did he not take wine? Lemonade was +a very bad thing for him.” + +“Grandpapa’s bottle of lemonade was standing just by his side; poor +Barrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to drink anything he could +find.” + +Madame de Villefort started. Noirtier looked at her with a glance of +the most profound scrutiny. + +“He has such a short neck,” said she. + +“Madame,” said Villefort, “I ask where is M. d’Avrigny? In God’s name +answer me!” + +“He is with Edward, who is not quite well,” replied Madame de +Villefort, no longer being able to avoid answering. + +Villefort rushed upstairs to fetch him. + +“Take this,” said Madame de Villefort, giving her smelling-bottle to +Valentine. “They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will retire, +for I cannot endure the sight of blood;” and she followed her husband +upstairs. Morrel now emerged from his hiding-place, where he had +remained quite unperceived, so great had been the general confusion. + +“Go away as quick as you can, Maximilian,” said Valentine, “and stay +till I send for you. Go.” + +Morrel looked towards Noirtier for permission to retire. The old man, +who had preserved all his usual coolness, made a sign to him to do so. +The young man pressed Valentine’s hand to his lips, and then left the +house by a back staircase. + +At the same moment that he quitted the room, Villefort and the doctor +entered by an opposite door. Barrois was now showing signs of returning +consciousness. The 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 everyone +retire.” + +“Must I go too?” asked Valentine timidly. + +“Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,” replied the doctor abruptly. + +Valentine looked at M. d’Avrigny with astonishment, kissed her +grandfather on the forehead, and left the room. The doctor closed the +door after her with a gloomy air. + +“Look, look, doctor,” said Villefort, “he is quite coming round again; +I really do not think, after all, it is anything of consequence.” + +M. d’Avrigny answered by a melancholy smile. + +“How do you feel, Barrois?” asked he. + +“A little better, sir.” + +“Will you drink some of this ether and water?” + +“I will try; but don’t touch me.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the tip of your +finger the fit would return.” + +“Drink.” + +Barrois took the glass, and, raising it to his purple lips, took about +half of the liquid offered him. + +“Where do you suffer?” asked the doctor. + +“Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body.” + +“Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes?” + +“Yes.” + +“Any noise in the ears?” + +“Frightful.” + +40112m + + + +“When did you first feel that?” + +“Just now.” + +“Suddenly?” + +“Yes, like a clap of thunder.” + +“Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?” + +“Nothing.” + +“No drowsiness?” + +“None.” + +“What have you eaten today?” + +“I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s +lemonade—that’s all.” And Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who, +immovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene +without allowing a word or a movement to escape him. + +“Where is this lemonade?” asked the doctor eagerly. + +“Downstairs in the decanter.” + +“Whereabouts downstairs?” + +“In the kitchen.” + +“Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?” inquired Villefort. + +“No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of +ether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade.” + +D’Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down the back staircase, and +almost knocked down Madame de Villefort, in his haste, who was herself +going down to the kitchen. She cried out, but d’Avrigny paid no +attention to her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four +steps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he saw the +decanter about three parts empty still standing on the waiter, where it +had been left. He darted upon it as an eagle would seize upon its prey. +Panting with loss of breath, he returned to the room he had just left. +Madame de Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her +room. + +“Is this the decanter you spoke of?” asked d’Avrigny. + +“Yes, doctor.” + +“Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?” + +“I believe so.” + +“What did it taste like?” + +“It had a bitter taste.” + +The doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand, +put his lips to it, and after having rinsed his mouth as a man does +when he is tasting wine, he spat the liquor into the fireplace. + +“It is no doubt the same,” said he. “Did you drink some too, M. +Noirtier?” + +“Yes.” + +“And did you also discover a bitter taste?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, doctor,” cried Barrois, “the fit is coming on again. Oh, do +something for me.” The doctor flew to his patient. + +“That emetic, Villefort—see if it is coming.” + +Villefort sprang into the passage, exclaiming, “The emetic! the +emetic!—is it come yet?” No one answered. The most profound terror +reigned throughout the house. + +“If I had anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs,” said +d’Avrigny, looking around him, “perhaps I might prevent suffocation. +But there is nothing which would do!—nothing!” + +40114m + + + +“Oh, sir,” cried Barrois, “are you going to let me die without help? +Oh, I am dying! Oh, save me!” + +“A pen, a pen!” said the doctor. There was one lying on the table; he +endeavored to introduce it into the mouth of the patient, who, in the +midst of his convulsions, was making vain attempts to vomit; but the +jaws were so clenched that the pen could not pass them. This second +attack was much more violent than the first, and he had slipped from +the couch to the ground, where he was writhing in agony. The doctor +left him in this paroxysm, knowing that he could do nothing to +alleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier, said abruptly: + +“How do you find yourself?—well?” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel light and +comfortable—eh?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you have had the +dose which I am accustomed to give you every Sunday?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did Barrois make your lemonade?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was it you who asked him to drink some of it?” + +“No.” + +“Was it M. de Villefort?” + +“No.” + +“Madame?” + +“No.” + +“It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?” + +“Yes.” + +A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the +very jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d’Avrigny; he left M. +Noirtier, and returned to the sick man. + +“Barrois,” said the doctor, “can you speak?” Barrois muttered a few +unintelligible words. “Try and make an effort to do so, my good man.” +said d’Avrigny. Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes. + +“Who made the lemonade?” + +“I did.” + +“Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?” + +“No.” + +“You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?” + +“Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away.” + +“Who brought it into this room, then?” + +“Mademoiselle Valentine.” D’Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand. + +“Gracious heaven,” exclaimed he. + +“Doctor, doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming. + +“Will they never bring that emetic?” asked the doctor. + +“Here is a glass with one already prepared,” said Villefort, entering +the room. + +“Who prepared it?” + +“The chemist who came here with me.” + +40116m + + + +“Drink it,” said the doctor to Barrois. + +“Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am +choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like +this long?” + +“No, no, friend,” replied the doctor, “you will soon cease to suffer.” + +“Ah, I understand you,” said the unhappy man. “My God, have mercy upon +me!” and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell back as if he had been +struck by lightning. D’Avrigny put his hand to his heart, and placed a +glass before his lips. + +“Well?” said Villefort. + +“Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets.” + +Villefort went immediately. + +“Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier,” said d’Avrigny; “I am going to take +my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very +frightful to witness.” + +And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining +room; but almost immediately he returned to fetch the lemonade. +Noirtier closed his right eye. + +“You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you.” + +Villefort returned, and d’Avrigny met him in the passage. + +“Well, how is he now?” asked he. + +“Come in here,” said d’Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where +the sick man lay. + +“Is he still in a fit?” said the procureur. + +“He is dead.” + +Villefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed, +with real amazement and sympathy, “Dead?—and so soon too!” + +“Yes, it is very soon,” said the doctor, looking at the corpse before +him; “but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de +Saint-Méran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de +Villefort.” + +“What?” cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and +consternation, “are you still harping on that terrible idea?” + +“Still, sir; and I shall always do so,” replied d’Avrigny, “for it has +never for one instant ceased to retain possession of my mind; and that +you may be quite sure I am not mistaken this time, listen well to what +I am going to say, M. de Villefort.” + +The magistrate trembled convulsively. + +“There is a poison which destroys life almost without leaving any +perceptible traces. I know it well; I have studied it in all its forms +and in the effects which it produces. I recognized the presence of this +poison in the case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de +Saint-Méran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It restores the +blue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of +violets green. We have no litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with +the syrup of violets.” + +The doctor was right; steps were heard in the passage. M. d’Avrigny +opened the door, and took from the hands of the chambermaid a cup which +contained two or three spoonfuls of the syrup, he then carefully closed +the door. + +“Look,” said he to the procureur, whose heart beat so loudly that it +might almost be heard, “here is in this cup some syrup of violets, and +this decanter contains the remainder of the lemonade of which M. +Noirtier and Barrois partook. If the lemonade be pure and inoffensive, +the syrup will retain its color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be +drugged with poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely!” + +The doctor then slowly poured some drops of the lemonade from the +decanter into the cup, and in an instant a light cloudy sediment began +to form at the bottom of the cup; this sediment first took a blue +shade, then from the color of sapphire it passed to that of opal, and +from opal to emerald. Arrived at this last hue, it changed no more. The +result of the experiment left no doubt whatever on the mind. + +“The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned,” said d’Avrigny, “and I +will maintain this assertion before God and man.” + +Villefort said nothing, but he clasped his hands, opened his haggard +eyes, and, overcome with his emotion, sank into a chair. + + + + Chapter 80. The Accusation + +M. d’Avrigny soon restored the magistrate to consciousness, who had +looked like a second corpse in that chamber of death. + +“Oh, death is in my house!” cried Villefort. + +“Say, rather, crime!” replied the doctor. + +“M. d’Avrigny,” cried Villefort, “I cannot tell you all I feel at this +moment,—terror, grief, madness.” + +“Yes,” said M. d’Avrigny, with an imposing calmness, “but I think it is +now time to act. I think it is time to stop this torrent of mortality. +I can no longer bear to be in possession of these secrets without the +hope of seeing the victims and society generally revenged.” + +Villefort cast a gloomy look around him. “In my house,” murmured he, +“in my house!” + +“Come, magistrate,” said M. d’Avrigny, “show yourself a man; as an +interpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by sacrificing your +selfish interests to it.” + +“You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice?” + +“I do.” + +“Do you then suspect anyone?” + +“I suspect no one; death raps at your door—it enters—it goes, not +blindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to room. Well, I follow its +course, I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and +feel my way, for my friendship for your family and my respect for you +are as a twofold bandage over my eyes; well——” + +“Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage.” + +“Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your family, perhaps, +one of the frightful monstrosities of which each century produces only +one. Locusta and Agrippina, living at the same time, were an exception, +and proved the determination of Providence to effect the entire ruin of +the Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunhilda and Fredegund +were the results of the painful struggle of civilization in its +infancy, when man was learning to control mind, were it even by an +emissary from the realms of darkness. All these women had been, or +were, beautiful. The same flower of innocence had flourished, or was +still flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the +culprit in your house.” + +40120m + + + +Villefort shrieked, clasped his hands, and looked at the doctor with a +supplicating air. But the latter went on without pity: + +“‘Seek whom the crime will profit,’ says an axiom of jurisprudence.” + +“Doctor,” cried Villefort, “alas, doctor, how often has man’s justice +been deceived by those fatal words. I know not why, but I feel that +this crime——” + +“You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime?” + +“Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems that it is +intended to affect me personally. I fear an attack myself, after all +these disasters.” + +“Oh, man!” murmured d’Avrigny, “the most selfish of all animals, the +most personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun +shines, and death strikes for him alone,—an ant cursing God from the +top of a blade of grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost +nothing?—M. de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, M. Noirtier——” + +“How? M. Noirtier?” + +“Yes; think you it was the poor servant’s life was coveted? No, no; +like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the +lemonade was intended for—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank +it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead, +it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.” + +“But why did it not kill my father?” + +“I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s +death—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the +dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no +one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I +have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the +assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent +poison.” + +“Oh, have pity—have pity!” murmured Villefort, wringing his hands. + +“Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran——” + +“Oh, doctor!” + +“I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with +what I have seen in the other cases.” Villefort ceased to contend; he +only groaned. “He first kills M. de Saint-Méran,” repeated the doctor, +“then Madame de Saint-Méran,—a double fortune to inherit.” Villefort +wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Listen attentively.” + +“Alas,” stammered Villefort, “I do not lose a single word.” + +“M. Noirtier,” resumed M. d’Avrigny in the same pitiless tone,—“M. +Noirtier had once made a will against you—against your family—in favor +of the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is +expected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and +made a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck +down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see +there has been no time lost.” + +“Oh, mercy, M. d’Avrigny!” + +“No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to +fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the +mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and +God, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician +to bring the culprit to justice.” + +40122m + + + +“Have mercy on my child, sir,” murmured Villefort. + +“You see it is yourself who have first named her—you, her father.” + +“Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly +accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily!” + +“No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed +all the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-Méran; and M. de +Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling +draughts which Madame de Saint-Méran took, and Madame de Saint-Méran is +dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was +sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has +escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit—she is +the poisoner! To you, as the king’s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle +de Villefort, do your duty.” + +“Doctor, I resist no longer—I can no longer defend myself—I believe +you; but, for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!” + +“M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with increased vehemence, “there +are occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If +your daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating +another, I would say ‘Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder +of her life in a convent, weeping and praying.’ If she had committed +two crimes, I would say, ‘Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the +prisoner is not acquainted with,—one that has no known antidote, quick +as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her +that poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your +life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching +your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations. +Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!’ This is what +I would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three +deaths,—has contemplated three murdered persons,—has knelt by three +corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner—to the scaffold! Do you talk +of your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!” + +Villefort fell on his knees. + +“Listen,” said he; “I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather +that which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your +daughter Madeleine were concerned.” The doctor turned pale. “Doctor, +every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer +and to await death.” + +“Beware,” said M. d’Avrigny, “it may come slowly; you will see it +approach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son.” + +Villefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor’s arm. + +40124m + + + +“Listen,” cried he; “pity me—help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If +you drag us both before a tribunal I will still say, ‘No, my daughter +is not guilty;—there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a +crime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like +death—it does not come alone.’ Listen. What does it signify to you if I +am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No, +you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter +before a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea +would kill me—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my +finger-nails! And if you were mistaken, doctor—if it were not my +daughter—if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you, +‘Assassin, you have killed my child!’—hold—if that should happen, +although I am a Christian, M. d’Avrigny, I should kill myself.” + +“Well,” said the doctor, after a moment’s silence, “I will wait.” + +Villefort looked at him as if he had doubted his words. + +“Only,” continued M. d’Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone, “if anyone +falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for +me, for I will come no more. I will consent to share this dreadful +secret with you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and +increase in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your house.” + +“Then you abandon me, doctor?” + +“Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at the foot of +the scaffold. Some further discovery will be made, which will bring +this dreadful tragedy to a close. Adieu.” + +“I entreat you, doctor!” + +“All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house odious and +fatal. Adieu, sir.” + +“One word—one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving me in all the +horror of my situation, after increasing it by what you have revealed +to me. But what will be reported of the sudden death of the poor old +servant?” + +“True,” said M. d’Avrigny; “we will return.” + +The doctor went out first, followed by M. de Villefort. The terrified +servants were on the stairs and in the passage where the doctor would +pass. + +“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, so loud that all might hear, “poor +Barrois has led too sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to +ride on horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of Europe, +the monotonous walk around that armchair has killed him—his blood has +thickened. He was stout, had a short, thick neck; he was attacked with +apoplexy, and I was called in too late. By the way,” added he in a low +tone, “take care to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the +ashes.” + +The doctor, without shaking hands with Villefort, without adding a word +to what he had said, went out, amid the tears and lamentations of the +whole household. The same evening all Villefort’s servants, who had +assembled in the kitchen, and had a long consultation, came to tell +Madame de Villefort that they wished to leave. No entreaty, no +proposition of increased wages, could induce them to remain; to every +argument they replied, “We must go, for death is in this house.” + +They all left, in spite of prayers and entreaties, testifying their +regret at leaving so good a master and mistress, and especially +Mademoiselle Valentine, so good, so kind, and so gentle. + +Villefort looked at Valentine as they said this. She was in tears, and, +strange as it was, in spite of the emotions he felt at the sight of +these tears, he looked also at Madame de Villefort, and it appeared to +him as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over her thin lips, like a +meteor seen passing inauspiciously between two clouds in a stormy sky. + + + + Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker + +The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars’ +house with feelings of shame and anger at the rejection of the +projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with curled hair, moustaches +in perfect order, and white gloves which fitted admirably, had entered +the courtyard of the banker’s house in Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He +had not been more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew +Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after an ingenious +preamble, related to him all his anxieties and cares since his noble +father’s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness which had been +shown him by the banker’s family, in which he had been received as a +son, and where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object on +which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars. + +Danglars listened with the most profound attention; he had expected +this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at last it +came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered on listening to +Morcerf. He would not, however, yield immediately to the young man’s +request, but made a few conscientious objections. + +“Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying?” + +“I think not, sir,” replied M. Cavalcanti; “in Italy the nobility +generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure +happiness while it is within our reach.” + +“Well, sir,” said Danglars, “in case your proposals, which do me honor, +are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary +arrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be +conducted by the respective fathers of the young people.” + +“Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that +I might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together +with the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he +approved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was +married. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my +father’s revenue.” + +“I,” said Danglars, “have always intended giving my daughter 500,000 +francs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole heiress.” + +“All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are +willing. We should command an annuity of 175,000 livres. Supposing, +also, I should persuade the marquis to give me my capital, which is not +likely, but still is possible, we would place these two or three +millions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize ten per +cent.” + +“I never give more than four per cent, and generally only three and a +half; but to my son-in-law I would give five, and we would share the +profits.” + +“Very good, father-in-law,” said Cavalcanti, yielding to his low-born +nature, which would escape sometimes through the aristocratic gloss +with which he sought to conceal it. Correcting himself immediately, he +said, “Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me almost mad,—what will not +reality do?” + +“But,” said Danglars, who, on his part, did not perceive how soon the +conversation, which was at first disinterested, was turning to a +business transaction, “there is, doubtless, a part of your fortune your +father could not refuse you?” + +“Which?” asked the young man. + +“That you inherit from your mother.” + +“Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari.” + +“How much may it amount to?” + +“Indeed, sir,” said Andrea, “I assure you I have never given the +subject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at least two +millions.” + +Danglars felt as much overcome with joy as the miser who finds a lost +treasure, or as the shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid +ground instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him up. + +“Well, sir,” said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully, “may I +hope?” + +“You may not only hope,” said Danglars, “but consider it a settled +thing, if no obstacle arises on your part.” + +“I am, indeed, rejoiced,” said Andrea. + +“But,” said Danglars thoughtfully, “how is it that your patron, M. de +Monte Cristo, did not make his proposal for you?” + +Andrea blushed imperceptibly. + +“I have just left the count, sir,” said he; “he is, doubtless, a +delightful man but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me +highly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that my father +would give me the capital instead of the interest of my property. He +has promised to use his influence to obtain it for me; but he also +declared that he never had taken on himself the responsibility of +making proposals for another, and he never would. I must, however, do +him the justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted the +repugnance he felt to such a step it was on this occasion, because he +thought the projected union would be a happy and suitable one. Besides, +if he will do nothing officially, he will answer any questions you +propose to him. And now,” continued he, with one of his most charming +smiles, “having finished talking to the father-in-law, I must address +myself to the banker.” + +“And what may you have to say to him?” said Danglars, laughing in his +turn. + +“That the day after tomorrow I shall have to draw upon you for about +four thousand francs; but the count, expecting my bachelor’s revenue +could not suffice for the coming month’s outlay, has offered me a draft +for twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you see, which +is all-sufficient.” + +“Bring me a million such as that,” said Danglars, “I shall be well +pleased,” putting the draft in his pocket. “Fix your own hour for +tomorrow, and my cashier shall call on you with a check for eighty +thousand francs.” + +“At ten o’clock then, if you please; I should like it early, as I am +going into the country tomorrow.” + +“Very well, at ten o’clock; you are still at the Hôtel des Princes?” + +“Yes.” + +The following morning, with the banker’s usual punctuality, the eighty +thousand francs were placed in the young man’s hands, as he was on the +point of starting, after having left two hundred francs for Caderousse. +He went out chiefly to avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late +as possible in the evening. + +But scarcely had he stepped out of his carriage when the porter met him +with a parcel in his hand. + +“Sir,” said he, “that man has been here.” + +“What man?” said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting him whom he +but too well recollected. + +“Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity.” + +“Oh,” said Andrea, “my father’s old servant. Well, you gave him the two +hundred francs I had left for him?” + +“Yes, your excellency.” Andrea had expressed a wish to be thus +addressed. “But,” continued the porter, “he would not take them.” + +Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his pallor was not perceptible. +“What? he would not take them?” said he with slight emotion. + +40130m + + + +“No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you were gone +out, and after some dispute he believed me and gave me this letter, +which he had brought with him already sealed.” + +“Give it me,” said Andrea, and he read by the light of his +carriage-lamp: + +“‘You know where I live; I expect you tomorrow morning at nine +o’clock.’” + +Andrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had been +opened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its contents; but it was so +carefully folded, that no one could have read it, and the seal was +perfect. + +“Very well,” said he. “Poor man, he is a worthy creature.” He left the +porter to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire, the +master or the servant. + +“Take out the horses quickly, and come up to me,” said Andrea to his +groom. In two seconds the young man had reached his room and burnt +Caderousse’s letter. The servant entered just as he had finished. + +“You are about my height, Pierre,” said he. + +“I have that honor, your excellency.” + +“You had a new livery yesterday?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this evening, and +do not wish to be known; lend me your livery till tomorrow. I may +sleep, perhaps, at an inn.” + +Pierre obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel, completely +disguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the driver to take him to the +Cheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next morning he left that inn as he had +left the Hôtel des Princes, without being noticed, walked down the +Faubourg Saint-Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue Ménilmontant, and +stopping at the door of the third house on the left looked for someone +of whom to make inquiry in the porter’s absence. + +“For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?” asked the fruiteress on the +opposite side. + +“Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman,” replied Andrea. + +“A retired baker?” asked the fruiteress. + +“Exactly.” + +“He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story.” + +40132m + + + +Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third floor he found a +hare’s paw, which, by the hasty ringing of the bell, it was evident he +pulled with considerable ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse’s face +appeared at the grating in the door. + +“Ah! you are punctual,” said he, as he drew back the door. + +“Confound you and your punctuality!” said Andrea, throwing himself into +a chair in a manner which implied that he would rather have flung it at +the head of his host. + +“Come, come, my little fellow, don’t be angry. See, I have thought +about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but +what you are fond of.” + +Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not +unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and +garlic peculiar to Provençal kitchens of an inferior order, added to +that of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and +cloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and +placed on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In +an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for +two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with +yellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a +cabbage-leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate. + +“What do you think of it, my little fellow?” said Caderousse. “Ay, that +smells good! You know I used to be a good cook; do you recollect how +you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any +of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.” While speaking, +Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions. + +“But,” said Andrea, ill-temperedly, “by my faith, if it was only to +breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken +you!” + +“My boy,” said Caderousse sententiously, “one can talk while eating. +And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old +friend? I am weeping with joy.” + +He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether +joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands +of the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard. + +“Hold your tongue, hypocrite,” said Andrea; “you love me!” + +“Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness,” said +Caderousse, “but it overpowers me.” + +“And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some +trick.” + +“Come,” said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, “if I did +not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead +me? Think for a moment. You have your servant’s clothes on—you +therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own +meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d’hôte of the +Hôtel des Princes, or the Café de Paris. Well, I too could keep a +servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but +why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just +acknowledge that I could, eh?” + +This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult +to understand. + +“Well,” said Andrea, “admitting your love, why do you want me to +breakfast with you?” + +“That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.” + +“What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?” + +“Eh, dear friend,” said Caderousse, “are wills ever made without +codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down, +and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I +have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you +look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. +But what do you expect? This is not the Hôtel des Princes.” + +“Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who +only wish to live like a retired baker.” + +Caderousse sighed. + +“Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized.” + +“I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is +rich—he has an annuity.” + +“Well, you have an annuity.” + +“I have?” + +40134m + + + +“Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs.” + +Caderousse shrugged his shoulders. + +“It is humiliating,” said he, “thus to receive money given +grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am +obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my +friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I +know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the +daughter of Danglars.” + +“What? of Danglars?” + +“Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count +Benedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a +memory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine. +Yes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then,—he was an under-clerk +to the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count +of Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to +cultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms.” + +“Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light.” + +“That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying. +Perhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the +great gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat.” + +Caderousse set the example and attacked the breakfast with good +appetite, praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter +seemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and partook largely +of the fish with the garlic and fat. + +“Ah, mate,” said Caderousse, “you are getting on better terms with your +old landlord!” + +“Faith, yes,” replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over every other +feeling. + +“So you like it, you rogue?” + +“So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard +living.” + +“Do you see,” said Caderousse, “all my happiness is marred by one +thought?” + +“What is that?” + +“That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own +livelihood honestly.” + +“Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.” + +“No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I +am tormented by remorse.” + +“Good Caderousse!” + +“So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.” + +“Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?” + +“True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me.” + +Andrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse’s ideas. + +“It is miserable—do you see?—always to wait till the end of the month.” + +“Oh,” said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion +narrowly, “does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare +better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?” + +“Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you +expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you +take care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had +little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your +poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend +Caderousse.” + +“There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of +the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that +again?” + +“Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty, +and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.” + +“Yes.” + +“I was going to say, if I were in your place——” + +“Well.” + +“I would realize——” + +“How would you realize?” + +“I would ask for six months’ in advance, under pretence of being able +to purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp.” + +“Well, well,” said Andrea, “that isn’t a bad idea.” + +“My dear friend,” said Caderousse, “eat of my bread, and take my +advice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally.” + +“But,” said Andrea, “why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why +do you not realize a six months’, a year’s advance even, and retire to +Brussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a +bankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good.” + +“But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs?” + +“Ah, Caderousse,” said Andrea, “how covetous you are! Two months ago +you were dying with hunger.” + +“The appetite grows by what it feeds on,” said Caderousse, grinning and +showing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a tiger growling. “And,” +added he, biting off with his large white teeth an enormous mouthful of +bread, “I have formed a plan.” + +Caderousse’s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were +but the germ, the plan was reality. + +“Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one.” + +“Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of +M——! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we +are!” + +“I do not say,” replied Andrea, “that you never make a good one; but +let us see your plan.” + +“Well,” pursued Caderousse, “can you without expending one sou, put me +in the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are +not enough,—I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty +thousand francs.” + +“No,” replied Andrea, dryly, “no, I cannot.” + +“I do not think you understand me,” replied Caderousse, calmly; “I said +without your laying out a sou.” + +“Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune—and +yours with mine—and both of us to be dragged down there again?” + +“It would make very little difference to me,” said Caderousse, “if I +were retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine +for my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be +glad never to see them again.” + +Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale. + +“Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!” said he. + +“Don’t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me +some means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your +assistance, and I will contrive it.” + +“Well, I’ll see—I’ll try to contrive some way,” said Andrea. + +“Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs, +my little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper.” + +“Well, you shall have your five hundred francs,” said Andrea; “but it +is very hard for me, my poor Caderousse—you take advantage——” + +“Bah,” said Caderousse, “when you have access to countless stores.” + +One would have said Andrea anticipated his companion’s words, so did +his eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment. + +“True,” he replied, “and my protector is very kind.” + +“That dear protector,” said Caderousse; “and how much does he give you +monthly?” + +“Five thousand francs.” + +“As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards +who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil +can you do with all that?” + +“Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want +capital.” + +“Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.” + +“Well, and I shall get it.” + +“Who will give it to you—your prince?” + +“Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.” + +40138m + + + +“You must wait for what?” asked Caderousse. + +“For his death.” + +“The death of your prince?” + +“Yes.” + +“How so?” + +“Because he has made his will in my favor.” + +“Indeed?” + +“On my honor.” + +“For how much?” + +“For five hundred thousand.” + +“Only that? It’s little enough.” + +“But so it is.” + +“No, it cannot be!” + +“Are you my friend, Caderousse?” + +“Yes, in life or death.” + +“Well, I will tell you a secret.” + +“What is it?” + +“But remember——” + +“Ah! _pardieu!_ mute as a carp.” + +“Well, I think——” + +Andrea stopped and looked around. + +“You think? Do not fear; _pardieu!_ we are alone.” + +“I think I have discovered my father.” + +“Your true father?” + +“Yes.” + +“Not old Cavalcanti?” + +“No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.” + +“And that father is——” + +“Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo.” + +“Bah!” + +“Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me +openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him +fifty thousand francs for it.” + +“Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for +half that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not +think of me, ungrateful man?” + +“Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down +there?” + +“Ah, truly? And you say that by his will——” + +“He leaves me five hundred thousand livres.” + +“Are you sure of it?” + +“He showed it me; but that is not all—there is a codicil, as I said +just now.” + +“Probably.” + +“And in that codicil he acknowledges me.” + +“Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!” said +Caderousse, twirling a plate in the air between his two hands. + +“Now, say if I conceal anything from you?” + +“No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your +princely father, is he rich, very rich?” + +“Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune.” + +“Is it possible?” + +“It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day +a banker’s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about +the size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred +thousand francs in gold.” + +Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man’s words sounded to him +like metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of +louis. + +“And you go into that house?” cried he briskly. + +“When I like.” + +Caderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to perceive he was +revolving some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then suddenly,— + +“How I should like to see all that,” cried he; “how beautiful it must +be!” + +“It is, in fact, magnificent,” said Andrea. + +“And does he not live in the Champs-Élysées?” + +“Yes, No. 30.” + +“Ah,” said Caderousse, “No. 30.” + +“Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a +garden,—you must know it.” + +“Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior. +What beautiful furniture there must be in it!” + +“Have you ever seen the Tuileries?” + +“No.” + +“Well, it surpasses that.” + +“It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte +Cristo lets fall his purse.” + +“It is not worthwhile to wait for that,” said Andrea; “money is as +plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.” + +“But you should take me there one day with you.” + +“How can I? On what plea?” + +“You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see +it; I shall find a way.” + +“No nonsense, Caderousse!” + +“I will offer myself as floor-polisher.” + +“The rooms are all carpeted.” + +“Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.” + +“That is the best plan, believe me.” + +“Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.” + +“How can I?” + +“Nothing is easier. Is it large?” + +“Middling.” + +“How is it arranged?” + +“Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.” + +“They are all here,” said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old +secretaire a sheet of white paper and pen and ink. “Here,” said +Caderousse, “draw me all that on the paper, my boy.” + +Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began. + +“The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this +way, do you see?” Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house. + +40142m + + + +“High walls?” + +“Not more than eight or ten feet.” + +“That is not prudent,” said Caderousse. + +“In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.” + +“And no steel-traps?” + +“No.” + +“The stables?” + +“Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.” And Andrea +continued his plan. + +“Let us see the ground floor,” said Caderousse. + +“On the ground floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room, +staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.” + +“Windows?” + +“Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of +your size should pass through each frame.” + +“Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?” + +“Luxury has everything.” + +“But shutters?” + +“Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an +original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.” + +“And where do the servants sleep?” + +“Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty +coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well, +over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding +with the different apartments.” + +“Ah, _diable!_ bells did you say?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is +the use of them, I should like to know?” + +“There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been +taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.” + +“Yes.” + +“I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur +Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is +left unprotected.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day +you will be robbed.’” + +“What did he answer?” + +“He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’” + +“Andrea, he has some secretaire with a spring.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told +there were such at the last exhibition.” + +“He has simply a mahogany secretaire, in which the key is always kept.” + +“And he is not robbed?” + +“No; his servants are all devoted to him.” + +“There ought to be some money in that secretaire?” + +“There may be. No one knows what there is.” + +“And where is it?” + +“On the first floor.” + +“Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground +floor, my boy.” + +“That is very simple.” Andrea took the pen. “On the first story, do you +see, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the +drawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a +dressing-room. The famous secretaire is in the dressing-room.” + +“Is there a window in the dressing-room?” + +“Two,—one here and one there.” Andrea sketched two windows in the room, +which formed an angle on the plan, and appeared as a small square added +to the rectangle of the bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful. + +“Does he often go to Auteuil?” added he. + +“Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to +spend the day and night there.” + +“Are you sure of it?” + +“He has invited me to dine there.” + +“There’s a life for you,” said Caderousse; “a town house and a country +house.” + +“That is what it is to be rich.” + +“And shall you dine there?” + +“Probably.” + +“When you dine there, do you sleep there?” + +“If I like; I am at home there.” + +Caderousse looked at the young man, as if to get at the truth from the +bottom of his heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took +a Havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking. + +“When do you want your twelve hundred francs?” said he to Caderousse. + +“Now, if you have them.” Andrea took five-and-twenty louis from his +pocket. + +“Yellow boys?” said Caderousse; “no, I thank you.” + +“Oh, you despise them.” + +“On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them.” + +“You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous.” + +“Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay +hands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold. No +nonsense, my good fellow; silver simply, round coins with the head of +some monarch or other on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece.” + +“But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with me? I should +want a porter.” + +“Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I will call +for them.” + +“Today?” + +“No, tomorrow; I shall not have time today.” + +“Well, tomorrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil.” + +“May I depend on it?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of it.” + +“Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not torment me any +more?” + +“Never.” + +Caderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared he should be obliged +to notice the change. He redoubled his gayety and carelessness. + +“How sprightly you are,” said Caderousse; “One would say you were +already in possession of your property.” + +“No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it——” + +“Well?” + +“I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that.” + +“Yes, since you have such a good memory.” + +“What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece me?” + +“I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece of good +advice.” + +“What is it?” + +“To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We shall both +get into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and me by your folly.” + +“How so?” said Andrea. + +“How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a servant, and yet +keep a diamond on your finger worth four or five thousand francs.” + +“You guess well.” + +“I know something of diamonds; I have had some.” + +“You do well to boast of it,” said Andrea, who, without becoming angry, +as Caderousse feared, at this new extortion, quietly resigned the ring. +Caderousse looked so closely at it that Andrea well knew that he was +examining to see if all the edges were perfect. + +“It is a false diamond,” said Caderousse. + +“You are joking now,” replied Andrea. + +“Do not be angry, we can try it.” Caderousse went to the window, +touched the glass with it, and found it would cut. + +“_Confiteor!_” said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his little +finger; “I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well +that it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller’s shop—it is another +branch of industry paralyzed.” + +“Have you finished?” said Andrea,—“do you want anything more?—will you +have my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now you have begun.” + +“No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain you, and +will try to cure myself of my ambition.” + +“But take care the same thing does not happen to you in selling the +diamond you feared with the gold.” + +“I shall not sell it—do not fear.” + +“Not at least till the day after tomorrow,” thought the young man. + +“Happy rogue,” said Caderousse; “you are going to find your servants, +your horses, your carriage, and your betrothed!” + +“Yes,” said Andrea. + +“Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the day you +marry Mademoiselle Danglars.” + +“I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in your head.” + +“What fortune has she?” + +“But I tell you——” + +“A million?” + +Andrea shrugged his shoulders. + +“Let it be a million,” said Caderousse; “you can never have so much as +I wish you.” + +“Thank you,” said the young man. + +“Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!” added Caderousse with his hoarse +laugh. “Stop, let me show you the way.” + +“It is not worthwhile.” + +“Yes, it is.” + +“Why?” + +“Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable +to take, one of Huret & Fichet’s locks, revised and improved by Gaspard +Caderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a +capitalist.” + +“Thank you,” said Andrea; “I will let you know a week beforehand.” + +They parted. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had not only +seen Andrea go down the three stories, but also cross the court. Then +he returned hastily, shut his door carefully, and began to study, like +a clever architect, the plan Andrea had left him. + +“Dear Benedetto,” said he, “I think he will not be sorry to inherit his +fortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred +thousand will not be his worst friend.” + + + + Chapter 82. The Burglary + +The day following that on which the conversation we have related took +place, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by +Ali and several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose +qualities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake +this journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and which +had not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from +Normandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house +was ready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor +in a small creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the +requisite formalities and were ready again to put to sea. + +The count praised Bertuccio’s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a +speedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more +than a month. + +“Now,” said he, “I may require to go in one night from Paris to +Tréport; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will +enable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours.” + +“Your highness had already expressed that wish,” said Bertuccio, “and +the horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at +the most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally +stops.” + +“That’s well,” said Monte Cristo; “I remain here a day or two—arrange +accordingly.” + +As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders, +Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter. + +“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered with +dust; “I did not send for you, I think?” + +Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the +letter. “Important and urgent,” said he. + +The count opened the letter, and read: + +“‘M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his +house in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off some +papers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The +count’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the +police, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this +advice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing +himself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property +himself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the +villain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the +opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who +now sends this warning to the count,—a warning he might not be able to +send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be +made.’” + + +The count’s first idea was that this was an artifice—a gross deception, +to draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a +greater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of +police, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps +because of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it +might be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over +whom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as +Fiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the +count’s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible, +with that energy which marks the great man. + +From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the +count had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which he +had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, and +sometimes against the world, that is, against the devil. + +“They do not want my papers,” said Monte Cristo, “they want to kill me; +they are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of +police to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough, +forsooth, to distribute his authority on this occasion.” + +The count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering +the letter. + +“Return to Paris,” said he; “assemble the servants who remain there. I +want all my household at Auteuil.” + +“But will no one remain in the house, my lord?” asked Baptistin. + +“Yes, the porter.” + +“My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house.” + +“Well?” + +“The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise.” + +“By whom?” + +“By thieves.” + +“You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house—it would +annoy me less than to be disobeyed.” Baptistin bowed. + +40150m + + + +“You understand me?” said the count. “Bring your comrades here, one and +all; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the +ground floor.” + +“And those of the first floor?” + +“You know they are never closed. Go!” + +The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but +Ali should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and +moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out +by the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, +apparently without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself +opposite his house in the Champs-Élysées. All was dark; one solitary, +feeble light was burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces +distant from the house, as Baptistin had said. + +Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glance +which was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examined +the passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, to +see that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he was +convinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-door +with Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants’ staircase, of which +he had the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a +single curtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion +that the house, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant. + +Arrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he +passed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared +as usual—the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in the +secretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom +door, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali +had procured the arms the count required—namely, a short carbine and a +pair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might be +taken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held the +lives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine. + +The count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of +Spanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable +panels, which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within +his reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one +of the small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since the +Crusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with +that in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street. + +Two hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his +wild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement, +could distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees. +The little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be +expected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be +made from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in +Monte Cristo’s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It +would be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the +back staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room. + +The clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind +bore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes. + +40152m + + + +As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise +in the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding, +was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew +what to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting +the four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his +heart beat more rapidly. + +Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril, +they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of +the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality, +between the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made +a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching +from the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager +to ascertain the strength and number of his enemies. + +The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which +the count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that +window—he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes +became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside, +then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was +passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its +hinges, and a man entered. He was alone. + +“That’s a daring rascal,” whispered the count. + +At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali +pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the +street. + +“I see!” said he, “there are two of them; one does the work while the +other stands guard.” He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man +in the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room. + +The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms +stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself +familiar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them +both. + +When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he +was coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the +sound of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a +precaution. The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count +had removed the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue +his purpose with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the +man then drew from his pocket something which the count could not +discern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire, +felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was +missing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for +all emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of +skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a +lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of +their nightly song when they grind against the bolt. + +“Ah, ha,” whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, “he is +only a thief.” + +But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the +instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and +immediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects +distinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance. + +“By heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back, “it is——” + +Ali raised his hatchet. + +“Don’t stir,” whispered Monte Cristo, “and put down your hatchet; we +shall require no arms.” + +40154m + + + +Then he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which +surprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled +the man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder. + +It was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali went +noiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered +hat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his greatcoat, +waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmering +through the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, of +which the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn +by King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head +was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a long +cassock, as did his hair under a priest’s wig; the three-cornered hat +over this effectually transformed the count into an abbé. + +The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was +completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whose +lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale. + +“Try again,” whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring, +which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be—“try again, +you have a few minutes’ work there.” + +And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on a +fence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as it +appeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of the +Champs-Élysées or by the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; his attention was +engrossed with what was passing at the count’s, and his only aim +appeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room. + +Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile +passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered: + +“Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, +whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.” + +Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a +lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with +his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should +shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief +heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly +illuminated. He turned. + +“Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what are +you doing here, at such an hour?” + +40156m + + + +“The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this +strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he +let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The +count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting +off from the thief his only chance of retreat. + +“The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the +count. + +“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And +I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have +a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.” + +This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, +staggered Caderousse. + +“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth +chattering. + +“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé. + +“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, +which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe +me—I take my oath——” + +“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of +false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——” + +Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, +some way of escape. + +“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an +assassin.” + +“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was +La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned +to the galleys.” + +“Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return +there?” + +“No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.” + +“That someone has done society a great kindness.” + +“Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised——” + +“And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo. + +“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily. + +“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de +Grève. So much the worse, so much the worse—_diavolo!_ as they say in +my country.” + +“Reverend sir, I am impelled——” + +“Every criminal says the same thing.” + +“Poverty——” + +“Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a +loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire +in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had +just paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you +killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also +poverty?” + +“Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once, +save me again!” + +“That is but poor encouragement.” + +“Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize +me?” + +“I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, and +will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may +lead to, if you tell me the truth.” + +“Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing +nearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!” + +“You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?” + +“Yes, that is true, reverend sir.” + +“Who was your liberator?” + +“An Englishman.” + +“What was his name?” + +“Lord Wilmore.” + +“I know him; I shall know if you lie.” + +“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.” + +“Was this Englishman protecting you?” + +“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.” + +“What was this young Corsican’s name?” + +“Benedetto.” + +“Is that his Christian name?” + +“He had no other; he was a foundling.” + +“Then this young man escaped with you?” + +“He did.” + +“In what way?” + +“We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know +Saint-Mandrier?” + +“I do.” + +“In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——” + +“Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor +fellows!” said the abbé. + +“Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.” + +“So much the better for the dogs,” said Monte Cristo. + +“While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed +our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.” + +“And what is become of this Benedetto?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“You ought to know.” + +“No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.” And, to give more weight to his +protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbé, who +remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his +interrogation. + +“You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority. + +“Reverend sir!” + +“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of +him as your accomplice.” + +40160m + + + +“Oh, reverend sir!” + +“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!” + +“On what I could get.” + +“You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperative +tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on +the money he has given you.” + +“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great +lord.” + +“How can he be the son of a great lord?” + +“A natural son.” + +“And what is that great lord’s name?” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.” + +“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his +turn. + +“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false +father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and +leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.” + +“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and what +name does the young man bear meanwhile?” + +“Andrea Cavalcanti.” + +“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo +has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle +Danglars?” + +“Exactly.” + +“And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his +crime?” + +“Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse. + +“You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.” + +“Do not do so, reverend sir.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because you would bring us to ruin.” + +“And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an +abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?” + +“Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer. + +“I will expose all.” + +“To whom?” + +“To M. Danglars.” + +“By Heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open +knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose +nothing, reverend sir!” + +To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the +count’s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized +with his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such +strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse +uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued +to wring the bandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell +first on his knees, then flat on the floor. + +The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not what +restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.” + +“Ah, mercy—mercy!” cried Caderousse. + +The count withdrew his foot. + +40162m + + + +“Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose. + +“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking his +arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a +wrist!” + +“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in +the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at +this moment is still serving him.” + +“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain. + +“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.” + +“I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.” + +“You lie! Take this pen, and write!” + +Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbé, sat down and wrote: + +“Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you +intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from +confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called +Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his +parents.” + + +“Sign it!” continued the count. + +“But would you ruin me?” + +“If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first +guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability +you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!” + +Caderousse signed it. + +“The address, ‘To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la +Chaussée d’Antin.’” + +Caderousse wrote the address. The abbé took the note. + +“Now,” said he, “that suffices—begone!” + +“Which way?” + +“The way you came.” + +“You wish me to get out at that window?” + +“You got in very well.” + +“Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.” + +“Idiot! what design can I have?” + +“Why, then, not let me out by the door?” + +“What would be the advantage of waking the porter?” + +“Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?” + +“I wish what God wills.” + +“But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.” + +“Cowardly fool!” + +“What do you intend doing with me?” + +“I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you +have turned out a murderer.” + +“Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me once +more!” + +“I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.” + +“Yes,” said Caderousse. + +“If you arrive safely at home——” + +“What have I to fear, except from you?” + +“If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever +you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a +small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then——” + +“Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering. + +40164m + + + +“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you +too.” + +“As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make me +die of fright!” + +“Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window. + +Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of +the window and stood on the ladder. + +“Now go down,” said the abbé, folding his arms. Understanding he had +nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the +count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the +Champs-Élysées that a man was getting out of the window while another +held a light. + +“What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?” And +he blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt +his foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety. + +Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the +garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the +end of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different +part from where he came in. The count then looking over into the +street, saw the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same +direction, and place himself against the angle of the wall where +Caderousse would come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and +looked over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could be +seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse +sat astride the coping, and drawing up his ladder passed it over the +wall; then he began to descend, or rather to slide down by the two +stanchions, which he did with an ease which proved how accustomed he +was to the exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did +he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down—in vain did +he see an arm raised as he touched the ground. + +Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the +back that he let go the ladder, crying, “Help!” A second blow struck +him almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, “Help, +murder!” Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by +the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest. + +This time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter +a groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds. +The assassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up +by the hair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The +murderer, supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared. + +Then Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on his +elbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort: + +“Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help!” + +This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the +back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and +his master were on the spot with lights. + + + + Chapter 83. The Hand of God + +Caderousse continued to call piteously, “Help, reverend sir, help!” + +“What is the matter?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“Help,” cried Caderousse; “I am murdered!” + +“We are here;—take courage.” + +“Ah, it’s all over! You are come too late—you are come to see me die. +What blows, what blood!” + +He fainted. Ali and his master conveyed the wounded man into a room. +Monte Cristo motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his +dreadful wounds. + +“My God!” he exclaimed, “thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only +that it may fall the more effectually.” Ali looked at his master for +further instructions. “Bring here immediately the king’s attorney, M. +de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As you pass the +lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon.” + +Ali obeyed, leaving the abbé alone with Caderousse, who had not yet +revived. + +When the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count looked at him +with a mournful expression of pity, and his lips moved as if in prayer. +“A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!” said Caderousse. + +“I have sent for one,” replied the abbé. + +“I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my +evidence.” + +“Against whom?” + +“Against my murderer.” + +“Did you recognize him?” + +“Yes; it was Benedetto.” + +“The young Corsican?” + +“Himself.” + +“Your comrade?” + +“Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should +kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would +kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered +me.” + +“I have also sent for the procureur.” + +“He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.” + +“Wait a moment,” said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and returned in +five minutes with a phial. The dying man’s eyes were all the time +riveted on the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive. + +“Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!” Monte Cristo +approached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the +contents of the phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath. “Oh,” said he, +“that is life to me; more, more!” + +“Two drops more would kill you,” replied the abbé. + +“Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch!” + +“Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of +this posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote: + +“I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys +at Toulon, No. 59.” + + +“Quick, quick!” said Caderousse, “or I shall be unable to sign it.” + +Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his +strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying: + +“You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls +himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hôtel des Princes. Oh, I am +dying!” He again fainted. The abbé made him smell the contents of the +phial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not +forsaken him. + +“Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?” + +“Yes, and much more.” + +“What more will you say?” + +“I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the +hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised +the count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I +read the note and sat up to await you.” + +“And he will be guillotined, will he not?” said Caderousse. “Promise me +that, and I will die with that hope.” + +“I will say,” continued the count, “that he followed and watched you +the whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle +of the wall to conceal himself.” + +“Did you see all that?” + +“Remember my words: ‘If you return home safely, I shall believe God has +forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.’” + +“And you did not warn me!” cried Caderousse, raising himself on his +elbows. “You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not +warn me!” + +40168m + + + +“No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and +should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence.” + +“God’s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you +know how many would be punished who now escape.” + +“Patience,” said the abbé, in a tone which made the dying man shudder; +“have patience!” + +Caderousse looked at him with amazement. + +“Besides,” said the abbé, “God is merciful to all, as he has been to +you; he is first a father, then a judge.” + +“Do you then believe in God?” said Caderousse. + +“Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,” said Monte +Cristo, “I must believe on seeing you.” + +Caderousse raised his clenched hands towards heaven. + +“Listen,” said the abbé, extending his hand over the wounded man, as if +to command him to believe; “this is what the God in whom, on your +death-bed, you refuse to believe, has done for you—he gave you health, +strength, regular employment, even friends—a life, in fact, which a man +might enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts, +rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course—you have given +yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have +ruined your best friend.” + +“Help!” cried Caderousse; “I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I +am not mortally wounded—I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my +life.” + +“Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave +you, you would now be dead. Listen, then.” + +“Ah,” murmured Caderousse, “what a strange priest you are; you drive +the dying to despair, instead of consoling them.” + +“Listen,” continued the abbé. “When you had betrayed your friend, God +began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had +already passed half your life in coveting that which you might have +honorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse +of want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my +hands, a fortune—brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed +any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you +no longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and +how?—by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and +brought you to justice.” + +“It was not I who wished to kill the Jew,” said Caderousse; “it was La +Carconte.” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “and God,—I cannot say in justice, for his +justice would have slain you,—but God, in his mercy, spared your life.” + +“_Pardieu!_ to transport me for life, how merciful!” + +“You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared +death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you +said, ‘I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.’ And you said +truly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited +Toulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice +fell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money +and tranquillity were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned +to a felon’s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature, +then you tempted God a third time. ��I have not enough,’ you said, when +you had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third +crime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished +you.” + +Caderousse was fast sinking. “Give me drink,” said he: “I thirst—I +burn!” Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water. “And yet that villain, +Benedetto, will escape!” + +“No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished.” + +“Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a +priest—you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me.” + +“I?” said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man, “when +you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected +my breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might +have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and +blood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.” + +“I do not believe there is a God,” howled Caderousse; “you do not +believe it; you lie—you lie!” + +“Silence,” said the abbé; “you will force the last drop of blood from +your veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you +dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a +tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin’s +dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter +of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.” + +“No,” said Caderousse, “no; I will not repent. There is no God; there +is no Providence—all comes by chance.” + +“There is a Providence; there is a God,” said Monte Cristo, “of whom +you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him, +while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in +whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe +in him.” + +“But who are you, then?” asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the +count. + +“Look well at me!” said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face. + +“Well, the abbé—the Abbé Busoni.” Monte Cristo took off the wig which +disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the +beauty of his pallid features. + +“Oh?” said Caderousse, thunderstruck, “but for that black hair, I +should say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore.” + +“I am neither the Abbé Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,” said Monte Cristo; +“think again,—do you not recollect me?” + +There was a magic effect in the count’s words, which once more revived +the exhausted powers of the miserable man. + +“Yes, indeed,” said he; “I think I have seen you and known you +formerly.” + +“Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.” + +“Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?” + +“Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been +possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of +God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear +by my father’s tomb.” + +“By your father’s tomb!” said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural +power, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had +just taken the oath which all men hold sacred; “who, then, are you?” + +The count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last +struggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a +calm and melancholy look, he whispered, “I am—I am——” + +And his almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count himself +appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his +knees, and stretched out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his +hands, and raising them with a desperate effort, “Oh, my God, my God!” +said he, “pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art +indeed man’s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord, +I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, Oh, my Lord!” + +Caderousse sighed deeply, and fell back with a groan. The blood no +longer flowed from his wounds. He was dead. + +“_One!_” said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse, +disfigured by so awful a death. + +Ten minutes afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one +accompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were received by the +Abbé Busoni, who was praying by the side of the corpse. + + + + Chapter 84. Beauchamp + +The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation +throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a +deposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had +orders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse’s +knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the +waistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry; +the corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told everyone that +this adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he +only knew what was related by the Abbé Busoni, who that evening, by +mere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine +some valuable books in his library. + +Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto’s name was mentioned in +his presence, but there was no reason why anyone should notice his +doing so. + +Villefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing his brief +with the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to +speak in criminal cases. + +But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had +been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber +by his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching +marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It +was expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young +man was received at the banker’s as the betrothed. + +Letters had been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count’s father, +who highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave +Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty +thousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be +intrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man +of the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late +sustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and +confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single +doubt to the baron. + +The baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti; not so Mademoiselle Eugénie +Danglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered +Andrea’s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea +urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might +possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned +ignorance. + +The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated +the advice of Monte Cristo to let things die away of their own accord. +No one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had +recognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble +count in the House of Peers. + +Albert, however, felt no less insulted; the few lines which had +irritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner +in which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection +in his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal +its true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since +the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always +told him he was out on a journey which would detain him some days. +Where he was no one knew. + +One morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced +Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him +into the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himself +quickly, and went down. + +He found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp +stopped. + +“Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks +well, sir,” said Albert. “Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying, +‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’ +or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?” + +“Albert,” said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which stupefied the +young man, “let us first sit down and talk.” + +“Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.” + +“Albert,” said the journalist, “these are questions which it is +difficult to answer.” + +“I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you +not, retract?’” + +“Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which +concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as +Lieutenant-général the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.” + +“What must then be done?” + +40174m + + + +“What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are +nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family; +probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat +with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of +a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of +intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a +heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own +arm must save his life.” + +“Well,” said Morcerf, impatiently, “what does all this mean?” + +“It means that I have just returned from Yanina.” + +“From Yanina?” + +“Yes.” + +“Impossible!” + +“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, +Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a +kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then +raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp. + +“You have been to Yanina?” said he. + +“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that +Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since, +and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble; +but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to +go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours +to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here +I am.” + +“What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most +wish to know?” + +“Because, in truth, Albert——” + +“You hesitate?” + +“Yes,—I fear.” + +“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh, +no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot +be doubted.” + +“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——” + +Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words +died on his lips. + +“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should +gladly make an apology; but, alas!——” + +“But what?” + +“The paragraph was correct, my friend.” + +“What? That French officer——” + +“Yes.” + +“Fernand?” + +“Yes.” + +“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he +was——” + +“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!” + +Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained +him more by a mild look than by his extended hand. + +“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.” + +40176m + + + +Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable +inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the +service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million +crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell +overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name +was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart +overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had +watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached +him. + +“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see +all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation +would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But, +on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand +Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no +other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you +had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.” + +Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands, +as if to prevent the light from reaching him. + +“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in +this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his +children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the +midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to +soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I +have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power +can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you +with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand +of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone +possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain +with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my +friend, do you wish it?” + +Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck. + +“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he. + +“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert. + +Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and +trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to +confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for +cigars, and burned every fragment. + +“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers. + +“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it +vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as +the smoke from those silent ashes.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal +friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted +to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my +life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh, +Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I +could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my +country.” + +“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon +forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief. + +“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?” + +40178m + + + +“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, +in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with +which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, +Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead +from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched +of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his +tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you +suffer!” + +“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my +friend.” + +“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some +unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.” + +“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be +visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within +it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go, +my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall +come.” + +40179m + + + +“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken. + +“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——” + +“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated. + +“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” + +“Why do you ask me now?” + +“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with +the person of whom we were speaking.” + +“How?” said Albert, whose brow reddened; “you think M. Danglars——” + +“I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on +my words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue +weight.” + +“No.” said Albert, “the engagement is broken off.” + +“Well,” said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse +into melancholy, “Let us go out, Albert,” said he; “a ride in the wood +in the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return +to breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine.” + +“Willingly,” said Albert; “but let us walk. I think a little exertion +would do me good.” + +The two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the +Madeleine: + +“Since we are out,” said Beauchamp, “let us call on M. de Monte Cristo; +he is admirably adapted to revive one’s spirits, because he never +interrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best +comforters.” + +“Gladly,” said Albert; “let us call—I love him.” + + + + Chapter 85. The Journey + +Monte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the young men +together. “Ah, ha!” said he, “I hope all is over, explained and +settled.” + +“Yes,” said Beauchamp; “the absurd reports have died away, and should +they be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak +no more of it.” + +“Albert will tell you,” replied the count “that I gave him the same +advice. Look,” added he. “I am finishing the most execrable morning’s +work.” + +“What is it?” said Albert; “arranging your papers, apparently.” + +“My papers, thank God, no,—my papers are all in capital order, because +I have none; but M. Cavalcanti’s.” + +“M. Cavalcanti’s?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is +introducing?” said Morcerf. + +“Let us not misunderstand each other,” replied Monte Cristo; “I +introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.” + +“And who,” said Albert with a forced smile, “is to marry Mademoiselle +Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.” + +“What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” asked +Beauchamp. + +“Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?” said Monte Cristo; +“you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all +Paris.” + +“And you, count, have made this match?” asked Beauchamp. + +“I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a +match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose +it.” + +“Ah, I understand,” said Beauchamp, “on our friend Albert’s account.” + +“On my account?” said the young man; “oh, no, indeed, the count will do +me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated +him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count +pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar _Deo +ignoto_.” + +“Listen,” said Monte Cristo; “I have had little to do with it, for I am +at variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is +only Mademoiselle Eugénie, who appears but little charmed with the +thoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to +persuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for +me.” + +“And do you say this wedding is at hand?” + +“Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he +is said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague +assertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is +fascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a +circumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed +by his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know +which. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten +years; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all +that was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to +demand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate—washing +my hands.” + +“And what does Mademoiselle d’Armilly say to you for robbing her of her +pupil?” + +“Oh, well, I don’t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy. +Madame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the +_impresari_; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle +Theatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter, +Albert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with +Mademoiselle Eugénie?” + +“I am not aware of it,” said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp +turned to look at some paintings. + +“But,” continued Monte Cristo, “you are not in your usual spirits?” + +“I have a dreadful headache,” said Albert. + +“Well, my dear viscount,” said Monte Cristo, “I have an infallible +remedy to propose to you.” + +“What is that?” asked the young man. + +“A change.” + +“Indeed?” said Albert. + +“Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home. +Shall we go together?” + +“You annoyed, count?” said Beauchamp; “and by what?” + +“Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a +brief preparing in your house.” + +“What brief?” + +“The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin—some +brigand escaped from the gallows apparently.” + +“True,” said Beauchamp; “I saw it in the paper. Who is this +Caderousse?” + +“Some Provençal, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at +Marseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently, +the procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police +very much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very +grateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood, +under pretence of their being Caderousse’s murderers, so that in three +months, if this continues, every robber and assassin in France will +have the plan of my house at his fingers’ ends. I am resolved to desert +them and go to some remote corner of the earth, and shall be happy if +you will accompany me, viscount.” + +“Willingly.” + +“Then it is settled?” + +“Yes, but where?” + +“I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound soothes, +where one is sure to be humbled, however proud may be his nature. I +love that humiliation, I, who am master of the universe, as was +Augustus.” + +“But where are you really going?” + +“To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when an infant +in the arms of old Ocean, and on the bosom of the beautiful Amphitrite; +I have sported with the green mantle of the one and the azure robe of +the other; I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see +her.” + +“Let us go, count.” + +“To sea?” + +“Yes.” + +“You accept my proposal?” + +“I do.” + +“Well, viscount, there will be in my courtyard this evening a good +travelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which one may rest as in +a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very well, will you accompany us?” + +“Thank you, I have just returned from sea.” + +“What? you have been to sea?” + +“Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands18.” + +“What of that? come with us,” said Albert. + +“No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is impossible. +Besides, it is important,” added he in a low tone, “that I should +remain in Paris just now to watch the paper.” + +“Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend,” said Albert; “yes, you +are right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to discover the enemy who +made this disclosure.” + +Albert and Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands +expressing what their tongues could not before a stranger. + +“Beauchamp is a worthy fellow,” said Monte Cristo, when the journalist +was gone; “is he not, Albert?” + +“Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are +alone,—although it is immaterial to me,—where are we going?” + +“Into Normandy, if you like.” + +“Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors?” + +“Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with, and a +fishing-boat.” + +“Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and +return to you.” + +“But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?” + +“I may go where I please.” + +“Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy—but to +accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?” + +“You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep interest my +mother takes in you.” + +“‘Woman is fickle.’ said Francis I.; ‘woman is like a wave of the sea,’ +said Shakespeare; both the great king and the great poet ought to have +known woman’s nature well.” + +“Woman’s, yes; my mother is not woman, but _a_ woman.” + +“As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do not +understand all the subtle refinements of your language.” + +“What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give her +confidence, but when she does she never changes.” + +“Ah, yes, indeed,” said Monte Cristo with a sigh; “and do you think she +is in the least interested in me?” + +“I repeat it, you must really be a very strange and superior man, for +my mother is so absorbed by the interest you have excited, that when I +am with her she speaks of no one else.” + +“And does she try to make you dislike me?” + +“On the contrary, she often says, ‘Morcerf, I believe the count has a +noble nature; try to gain his esteem.’” + +“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, sighing. + +“You see, then,” said Albert, “that instead of opposing, she will +encourage me.” + +“Adieu, then, until five o’clock; be punctual, and we shall arrive at +twelve or one.” + +“At Tréport?” + +“Yes; or in the neighborhood.” + +“But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours?” + +“Easily,” said Monte Cristo. + +“You are certainly a prodigy; you will soon not only surpass the +railway, which would not be very difficult in France, but even the +telegraph.” + +“But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less than seven +or eight hours, do not keep me waiting.” + +“Do not fear, I have little to prepare.” + +Monte Cristo smiled as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment +absorbed in deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead +as if to dispel his reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio +entered. + +“Bertuccio,” said he, “I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead +of tomorrow or the next day. You will have sufficient time before five +o’clock; despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first +station. M. de Morcerf will accompany me.” + +Bertuccio obeyed and despatched a courier to Pontoise to say the +travelling-carriage would arrive at six o’clock. From Pontoise another +express was sent to the next stage, and in six hours all the horses +stationed on the road were ready. + +Before his departure, the count went to Haydée’s apartments, told her +his intention, and resigned everything to her care. + +Albert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting from its +rapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous idea. + +“Truly,” said Monte Cristo, “with your post-horses going at the rate of +two leagues an hour, and that absurd law that one traveller shall not +pass another without permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered +traveller may detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to +move; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own postilion and +horses; do I not, Ali?” + +The count put his head out of the window and whistled, and the horses +appeared to fly. The carriage rolled with a thundering noise over the +pavement, and everyone turned to notice the dazzling meteor. Ali, +smiling, repeated the sound, grasped the reins with a firm hand, and +spurred his horses, whose beautiful manes floated in the breeze. This +child of the desert was in his element, and with his black face and +sparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of dust he raised, like the +genius of the simoom and the god of the hurricane. + +“I never knew till now the delight of speed,” said Morcerf, and the +last cloud disappeared from his brow; “but where the devil do you get +such horses? Are they made to order?” + +“Precisely,” said the count; “six years since I bought a horse in +Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use +tonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the +exception of a star upon the forehead.” + +“That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count, with all these +horses?” + +“You see, I travel with them.” + +“But you are not always travelling.” + +“When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he +expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale.” + +“But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase them.” + +“Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will empty his +coffers to purchase them, and refill them by applying the bastinado to +his subjects.” + +“Count, may I suggest one idea to you?” + +“Certainly.” + +“It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest gentleman in +Europe.” + +“You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in his +possession.” + +“Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me many more +marvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe them.” + +“I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does +a steward rob his master?” + +“Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love of +robbing.” + +“You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family, and +ambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he is not sure of +always retaining his situation, and wishes to provide for the future. +Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in the world; he uses my property without +accounting for the use he makes of it; he is sure never to leave my +service.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I should never get a better.” + +“Probabilities are deceptive.” + +“But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has +the power of life and death.” + +“Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?” + +“Yes.” + +There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was +the count’s “yes.” + +The whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two +horses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination +in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful +park. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom +of the last stage of the count’s approach. At half past two in the +morning Morcerf was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and +supper were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of the +carriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front, attended the +count. + +Albert bathed, took his supper, and went to bed. All night he was +lulled by the melancholy noise of the surf. On rising, he went to his +window, which opened on a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the +back a pretty park bounded by a small forest. + +In a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts, +bearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain _or_, +on a sea _azure_, with a cross _gules_ in chief which might be an +allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our +Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross +which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal +remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this +mysterious personage’s past life. + +Around the schooner lay a number of small fishing-boats belonging to +the fishermen of the neighboring village, like humble subjects awaiting +orders from their queen. There, as in every spot where Monte Cristo +stopped, if but for two days, luxury abounded and life went on with the +utmost ease. + +Albert found in his anteroom two guns, with all the accoutrements for +hunting; a lofty room on the ground floor containing all the ingenious +instruments the English—eminent in piscatory pursuits, since they are +patient and sluggish—have invented for fishing. The day passed in +pursuing those exercises in which Monte Cristo excelled. They killed a +dozen pheasants in the park, as many trout in the stream, dined in a +summer-house overlooking the ocean, and took tea in the library. + +Towards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely exhausted with +the exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo, was sleeping in an +armchair near the window, while the count was designing with his +architect the plan of a conservatory in his house, when the sound of a +horse at full speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was +disagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom he had not +brought, that he might not inconvenience Monte Cristo. + +40188m + + + +“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he +hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the +valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a +newspaper and a letter. + +“From whom is this?” said he eagerly. + +“From M. Beauchamp,” replied Florentin. + +“Did he send you?” + +“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey, +procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached +you, I have come in fifteen hours.” + +Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the +first line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank +under him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him. + +“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true +that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and +fourth generation.” + +Meanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back +his head, saying: + +“Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?” + +“It is a poor, lame post-horse.” + +“In what state was the house when you left?” + +“All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp’s, I found madame in +tears; she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my +orders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me, +but after a moment’s reflection, ‘Yes, go, Florentin,’ said she, ‘and +may he come quickly.’” + +“Yes, my mother,” said Albert, “I will return, and woe to the infamous +wretch! But first of all I must get there.” + +He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes +had sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His +voice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles; +his eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a +drunken man. + +“Count,” said he, “I thank you for your hospitality, which I would +gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.” + +“What has happened?” + +“A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don’t question me, +I beg of you, but lend me a horse.” + +“My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself +by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage.” + +“No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will +do me good.” + +Albert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the +door. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical +exhaustion; he was at the window, calling: + +“Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!” + +40190m + + + +These words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the +count. + +“Thank you!” cried he, throwing himself on his horse. + +“Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to +procure a horse?” + +“Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.” + +Albert hesitated a moment. “You may think my departure strange and +foolish,” said the young man; “you do not know how a paragraph in a +newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,” said he, “when I am gone, +that you may not be witness of my anger.” + +While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which +leaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with +the rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of +compassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows: + +“The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to +three weeks since in _l’Impartial_, who not only surrendered the castle +of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly +at that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has +since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family +name. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the +peers.” + +Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed, +appeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its +information from some malicious source, had published two days after +Albert’s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the +unfortunate young man almost crazy. + + + + Chapter 86. The Trial + +At eight o’clock in the morning Albert had arrived at Beauchamp’s door. +The valet de chambre had received orders to usher him in at once. +Beauchamp was in his bath. + +“Here I am,” Albert said. + +“Well, my poor friend,” replied Beauchamp, “I expected you.” + +“I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to have +spoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent for me is another +proof of your affection. So, without losing time, tell me, have you the +slightest idea whence this terrible blow proceeds?” + +“I think I have some clew.” + +“But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot.” + +Beauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who was overwhelmed +with shame and grief, the following facts. Two days previously, the +article had appeared in another paper besides _ l’Impartial_, and, what +was more serious, one that was well known as a government paper. +Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent +immediately for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher’s office. +Although professing diametrically opposite principles from those of the +editor of the other paper, Beauchamp—as it sometimes, we may say often, +happens—was his intimate friend. The editor was reading, with apparent +delight, a leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a +composition of his own. + +“Ah, _pardieu!_” said Beauchamp, “with the paper in your hand, my +friend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit.” + +“Are you interested in the sugar question?” asked the editor of the +ministerial paper. + +“No,” replied Beauchamp, “I have not considered the question; a totally +different subject interests me.” + +“What is it?” + +“The article relative to Morcerf.” + +“Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?” + +“So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a prosecution +for defamation of character.” + +“Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite +proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice +against us; besides, it is rendering a service to one’s country to +denounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor +bestowed on them.” + +Beauchamp was thunderstruck. + +“Who, then, has so correctly informed you?” asked he; “for my paper, +which gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to +stop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in +exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the +opposition.” + +“Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize. This news +was brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from Yanina, bringing a +formidable array of documents; and when we hesitated to publish the +accusatory article, he told us it should be inserted in some other +paper.” + +Beauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit, and left the +office to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he had been unable to send +to Albert the following particulars, as the events had transpired after +the messenger’s departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation +was manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm members of +that dignified assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before the usual +hour, and was conversing on the melancholy event which was to attract +the attention of the public towards one of their most illustrious +colleagues. Some were perusing the article, others making comments and +recalling circumstances which substantiated the charges still more. + +The Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his colleagues. Like all +upstarts, he had had recourse to a great deal of haughtiness to +maintain his position. The true nobility laughed at him, the talented +repelled him, and the honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in +fact, in the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the +finger of God once pointed at him, everyone was prepared to raise the +hue and cry. + +The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did not take in +the paper containing the defamatory article, and had passed the morning +in writing letters and in trying a horse. He arrived at his usual hour, +with a proud look and insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through +the corridors, and entered the house without observing the hesitation +of the door-keepers or the coolness of his colleagues. + +40194m + + + +Business had already been going on for half an hour when he entered. +Everyone held the accusing paper, but, as usual, no one liked to take +upon himself the responsibility of the attack. At length an honorable +peer, Morcerf’s acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune with that +solemnity which announced that the expected moment had arrived. There +was an impressive silence; Morcerf alone knew not why such profound +attention was given to an orator who was not always listened to with so +much complacency. + +The count did not notice the introduction, in which the speaker +announced that his communication would be of that vital importance that +it demanded the undivided attention of the House; but at the mention of +Yanina and Colonel Fernand, he turned so frightfully pale that every +member shuddered and fixed his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have this +peculiarity,—they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, +always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the +heart. + +The article having been read during the painful hush that followed, a +universal shudder pervaded the assembly, and immediately the closest +attention was given to the orator as he resumed his remarks. He stated +his scruples and the difficulties of the case; it was the honor of M. +de Morcerf, and that of the whole House, he proposed to defend, by +provoking a debate on personal questions, which are always such painful +themes of discussion. He concluded by calling for an investigation, +which might dispose of the calumnious report before it had time to +spread, and restore M. de Morcerf to the position he had long held in +public opinion. + +Morcerf was so completely overwhelmed by this great and unexpected +calamity that he could scarcely stammer a few words as he looked around +on the assembly. This timidity, which might proceed from the +astonishment of innocence as well as the shame of guilt, conciliated +some in his favor; for men who are truly generous are always ready to +compassionate when the misfortune of their enemy surpasses the limits +of their hatred. + +The president put it to the vote, and it was decided that the +investigation should take place. The count was asked what time he +required to prepare his defence. Morcerf’s courage had revived when he +found himself alive after this horrible blow. + +“My lords,” answered he, “it is not by time I could repel the attack +made on me by enemies unknown to me, and, doubtless, hidden in +obscurity; it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt, that I must repel +the flash of lightning which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I +could, instead of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to +prove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in worth.” + +These words made a favorable impression on behalf of the accused. + +“I demand, then, that the examination shall take place as soon as +possible, and I will furnish the house with all necessary information.” + +“What day do you fix?” asked the president. + +“Today I am at your service,” replied the count. + +The president rang the bell. “Does the House approve that the +examination should take place today?” + +40196m + + + +“Yes,” was the unanimous answer. + +A committee of twelve members was chosen to examine the proofs brought +forward by Morcerf. The investigation would begin at eight o’clock that +evening in the committee-room, and if postponement were necessary, the +proceedings would be resumed each evening at the same hour. Morcerf +asked leave to retire; he had to collect the documents he had long been +preparing against this storm, which his sagacity had foreseen. + +Beauchamp related to the young man all the facts we have just narrated; +his story, however, had over ours all the advantage of the animation of +living things over the coldness of dead things. + +Albert listened, trembling now with hope, then with anger, and then +again with shame, for from Beauchamp’s confidence he knew his father +was guilty, and he asked himself how, since he was guilty, he could +prove his innocence. Beauchamp hesitated to continue his narrative. + +“What next?” asked Albert. + +“What next? My friend, you impose a painful task on me. Must you know +all?” + +“Absolutely; and rather from your lips than another’s.” + +“Muster up all your courage, then, for never have you required it +more.” + +Albert passed his hand over his forehead, as if to try his strength, as +a man who is preparing to defend his life proves his shield and bends +his sword. He thought himself strong enough, for he mistook fever for +energy. “Go on,” said he. + +“The evening arrived; all Paris was in expectation. Many said your +father had only to show himself to crush the charge against him; many +others said he would not appear; while some asserted that they had seen +him start for Brussels; and others went to the police-office to inquire +if he had taken out a passport. I used all my influence with one of the +committee, a young peer of my acquaintance, to get admission to one of +the galleries. He called for me at seven o’clock, and, before anyone +had arrived, asked one of the door-keepers to place me in a box. I was +concealed by a column, and might witness the whole of the terrible +scene which was about to take place. At eight o’clock all were in their +places, and M. de Morcerf entered at the last stroke. He held some +papers in his hand; his countenance was calm, and his step firm, and he +was dressed with great care in his military uniform, which was buttoned +completely up to the chin. His presence produced a good effect. The +committee was made up of Liberals, several of whom came forward to +shake hands with him.” + +Albert felt his heart bursting at these particulars, but gratitude +mingled with his sorrow: he would gladly have embraced those who had +given his father this proof of esteem at a moment when his honor was so +powerfully attacked. + +“At this moment one of the door-keepers brought in a letter for the +president. ‘You are at liberty to speak, M. de Morcerf,’ said the +president, as he unsealed the letter; and the count began his defence, +I assure you, Albert, in a most eloquent and skilful manner. He +produced documents proving that the Vizier of Yanina had up to the last +moment honored him with his entire confidence, since he had interested +him with a negotiation of life and death with the emperor. He produced +the ring, his mark of authority, with which Ali Pasha generally sealed +his letters, and which the latter had given him, that he might, on his +return at any hour of the day or night, gain access to the presence, +even in the harem. Unfortunately, the negotiation failed, and when he +returned to defend his benefactor, he was dead. ‘But,’ said the count, +‘so great was Ali Pasha’s confidence, that on his death-bed he resigned +his favorite mistress and her daughter to my care.’” + +Albert started on hearing these words; the history of Haydée recurred +to him, and he remembered what she had said of that message and the +ring, and the manner in which she had been sold and made a slave. + +“And what effect did this discourse produce?” anxiously inquired +Albert. + +“I acknowledge it affected me, and, indeed, all the committee also,” +said Beauchamp. + +“Meanwhile, the president carelessly opened the letter which had been +brought to him; but the first lines aroused his attention; he read them +again and again, and fixing his eyes on M. de Morcerf, ‘Count,’ said +he, ‘you have said that the Vizier of Yanina confided his wife and +daughter to your care?’—‘Yes, sir,’ replied Morcerf; ‘but in that, like +all the rest, misfortune pursued me. On my return, Vasiliki and her +daughter Haydée had disappeared.’—‘Did you know them?’—‘My intimacy +with the pasha and his unlimited confidence had gained me an +introduction to them, and I had seen them above twenty times.’ + +“‘Have you any idea what became of them?’—‘Yes, sir; I heard they had +fallen victims to their sorrow, and, perhaps, to their poverty. I was +not rich; my life was in constant danger; I could not seek them, to my +great regret.’ The president frowned imperceptibly. ‘Gentlemen,’ said +he, ‘you have heard the Comte de Morcerf’s defence. Can you, sir, +produce any witnesses to the truth of what you have asserted?’—‘Alas, +no, monsieur,’ replied the count; ‘all those who surrounded the vizier, +or who knew me at his court, are either dead or gone away, I know not +where. I believe that I alone, of all my countrymen, survived that +dreadful war. I have only the letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have +placed before you; the ring, a token of his good-will, which is here; +and, lastly, the most convincing proof I can offer, after an anonymous +attack, and that is the absence of any witness against my veracity and +the purity of my military life.’ + +“A murmur of approbation ran through the assembly; and at this moment, +Albert, had nothing more transpired, your father’s cause had been +gained. It only remained to put it to the vote, when the president +resumed: ‘Gentlemen and you, monsieur,—you will not be displeased, I +presume, to listen to one who calls himself a very important witness, +and who has just presented himself. He is, doubtless, come to prove the +perfect innocence of our colleague. Here is a letter I have just +received on the subject; shall it be read, or shall it be passed over? +and shall we take no notice of this incident?’ M. de Morcerf turned +pale, and clenched his hands on the papers he held. The committee +decided to hear the letter; the count was thoughtful and silent. The +president read: + +“‘Mr. President,—I can furnish the committee of inquiry into the +conduct of the Lieutenant-General the Count of Morcerf in Epirus and in +Macedonia with important particulars.’ + +“The president paused, and the count turned pale. The president looked +at his auditors. ‘Proceed,’ was heard on all sides. The president +resumed: + +“‘I was on the spot at the death of Ali Pasha. I was present during his +last moments. I know what is become of Vasiliki and Haydée. I am at the +command of the committee, and even claim the honor of being heard. I +shall be in the lobby when this note is delivered to you.’ + +“‘And who is this witness, or rather this enemy?’ asked the count, in a +tone in which there was a visible alteration. ‘We shall know, sir,’ +replied the president. ‘Is the committee willing to hear this +witness?’—‘Yes, yes,’ they all said at once. The door-keeper was +called. ‘Is there anyone in the lobby?’ said the president. + +“‘Yes, sir.’—‘Who is it?’—‘A woman, accompanied by a servant.’ Everyone +looked at his neighbor. ‘Bring her in,’ said the president. Five +minutes after the door-keeper again appeared; all eyes were fixed on +the door, and I,” said Beauchamp, “shared the general expectation and +anxiety. Behind the door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in a large +veil, which completely concealed her. It was evident, from her figure +and the perfumes she had about her, that she was young and fastidious +in her tastes, but that was all. The president requested her to throw +aside her veil, and it was then seen that she was dressed in the +Grecian costume, and was remarkably beautiful.” + +“Ah,” said Albert, “it was she.” + +“Who?” + +“Haydée.” + +“Who told you that?” + +“Alas, I guess it. But go on, Beauchamp. You see I am calm and strong. +And yet we must be drawing near the disclosure.” + +“M. de Morcerf,” continued Beauchamp, “looked at this woman with +surprise and terror. Her lips were about to pass his sentence of life +or death. To the committee the adventure was so extraordinary and +curious, that the interest they had felt for the count’s safety became +now quite a secondary matter. The president himself advanced to place a +seat for the young lady; but she declined availing herself of it. As +for the count, he had fallen on his chair; it was evident that his legs +refused to support him. + +“‘Madame,’ said the president, ‘you have engaged to furnish the +committee with some important particulars respecting the affair at +Yanina, and you have stated that you were an eyewitness of the +event.’—��I was, indeed,’ said the stranger, with a tone of sweet +melancholy, and with the sonorous voice peculiar to the East. + +“‘But allow me to say that you must have been very young then.’—‘I was +four years old; but as those events deeply concerned me, not a single +detail has escaped my memory.’—‘In what manner could these events +concern you? and who are you, that they should have made so deep an +impression on you?’—‘On them depended my father’s life,’ replied she. +‘I am Haydée, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of +Vasiliki, his beloved wife.’ + +40202m + + + +“The blush of mingled pride and modesty which suddenly suffused the +cheeks of the young woman, the brilliancy of her eye, and her highly +important communication, produced an indescribable effect on the +assembly. As for the count, he could not have been more overwhelmed if +a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet and opened an immense gulf before +him. + +“‘Madame,’ replied the president, bowing with profound respect, ‘allow +me to ask one question; it shall be the last: Can you prove the +authenticity of what you have now stated?’ + +“‘I can, sir,’ said Haydée, drawing from under her veil a satin satchel +highly perfumed; ‘for here is the register of my birth, signed by my +father and his principal officers, and that of my baptism, my father +having consented to my being brought up in my mother’s faith,—this +latter has been sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia and Epirus; +and lastly (and perhaps the most important), the record of the sale of +my person and that of my mother to the Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by +the French officer, who, in his infamous bargain with the Porte, had +reserved as his part of the booty the wife and daughter of his +benefactor, whom he sold for the sum of four hundred thousand francs.’ +A greenish pallor spread over the count’s cheeks, and his eyes became +bloodshot at these terrible imputations, which were listened to by the +assembly with ominous silence. + +“Haydée, still calm, but with a calmness more dreadful than the anger +of another would have been, handed to the president the record of her +sale, written in Arabic. It had been supposed some of the papers might +be in the Arabian, Romaic, or Turkish language, and the interpreter of +the House was in attendance. One of the noble peers, who was familiar +with the Arabic language, having studied it during the famous Egyptian +campaign, followed with his eye as the translator read aloud: + +“‘I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and purveyor of the harem of his +highness, acknowledge having received for transmission to the sublime +emperor, from the French lord, the Count of Monte Cristo, an emerald +valued at eight hundred thousand francs; as the ransom of a young +Christian slave of eleven years of age, named Haydée, the acknowledged +daughter of the late lord Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of +Vasiliki, his favorite; she having been sold to me seven years +previously, with her mother, who had died on arriving at +Constantinople, by a French colonel in the service of the Vizier Ali +Tepelini, named Fernand Mondego. The above-mentioned purchase was made +on his highness’s account, whose mandate I had, for the sum of four +hundred thousand francs. + +“‘Given at Constantinople, by authority of his highness, in the year +1247 of the Hegira. + +“‘Signed, El-Kobbir.’ + +“‘That this record should have all due authority, it shall bear the +imperial seal, which the vendor is bound to have affixed to it.’ + +“Near the merchant’s signature there was, indeed, the seal of the +sublime emperor. A dreadful silence followed the reading of this +document; the count could only stare, and his gaze, fixed as if +unconsciously on Haydée, seemed one of fire and blood. ‘Madame,’ said +the president, ‘may reference be made to the Count of Monte Cristo, who +is now, I believe, in Paris?’ + +“‘Sir,’ replied Haydée, ‘the Count of Monte Cristo, my foster-father, +has been in Normandy the last three days.’ + +“‘Who, then, has counselled you to take this step, one for which the +court is deeply indebted to you, and which is perfectly natural, +considering your birth and your misfortunes?’—‘Sir,’ replied Haydée, ‘I +have been led to take this step from a feeling of respect and grief. +Although a Christian, may God forgive me, I have always sought to +revenge my illustrious father. Since I set my foot in France, and knew +the traitor lived in Paris, I have watched carefully. I live retired in +the house of my noble protector, but I do it from choice. I love +retirement and silence, because I can live with my thoughts and +recollections of past days. But the Count of Monte Cristo surrounds me +with every paternal care, and I am ignorant of nothing which passes in +the world. I learn all in the silence of my apartments,—for instance, I +see all the newspapers, every periodical, as well as every new piece of +music; and by thus watching the course of the life of others, I learned +what had transpired this morning in the House of Peers, and what was to +take place this evening; then I wrote.’ + +40204m + + + +“‘Then,’ remarked the president, ‘the Count of Monte Cristo knows +nothing of your present proceedings?’—‘He is quite unaware of them, and +I have but one fear, which is that he should disapprove of what I have +done. But it is a glorious day for me,’ continued the young girl, +raising her ardent gaze to heaven, ‘that on which I find at last an +opportunity of avenging my father!’ + +“The count had not uttered one word the whole of this time. His +colleagues looked at him, and doubtless pitied his prospects, blighted +under the perfumed breath of a woman. His misery was depicted in +sinister lines on his countenance. ‘M. de Morcerf,’ said the president, +‘do you recognize this lady as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of +Yanina?’—‘No,’ said Morcerf, attempting to rise, ‘it is a base plot, +contrived by my enemies.’ Haydée, whose eyes had been fixed on the +door, as if expecting someone, turned hastily, and, seeing the count +standing, shrieked, ‘You do not know me?’ said she. ‘Well, I +fortunately recognize you! You are Fernand Mondego, the French officer +who led the troops of my noble father! It is you who surrendered the +castle of Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to Constantinople, to +treat with the emperor for the life or death of your benefactor, +brought back a false mandate granting full pardon! It is you who, with +that mandate, obtained the pasha’s ring, which gave you authority over +Selim, the fire-keeper! It is you who stabbed Selim. It is you who sold +us, my mother and me, to the merchant, El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin, +assassin, you have still on your brow your master’s blood! Look, +gentlemen, all!’ + +“These words had been pronounced with such enthusiasm and evident +truth, that every eye was fixed on the count’s forehead, and he himself +passed his hand across it, as if he felt Ali’s blood still lingering +there. ‘You positively recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer, Fernand +Mondego?’—‘Indeed I do!’ cried Haydée. ‘Oh, my mother, it was you who +said, “You were free, you had a beloved father, you were destined to be +almost a queen. Look well at that man; it is he who raised your +father’s head on the point of a spear; it is he who sold us; it is he +who forsook us! Look well at his right hand, on which he has a large +wound; if you forgot his features, you would know him by that hand, +into which fell, one by one, the gold pieces of the merchant +El-Kobbir!” I know him! Ah, let him say now if he does not recognize +me!’ Each word fell like a dagger on Morcerf, and deprived him of a +portion of his energy; as she uttered the last, he hid his mutilated +hand hastily in his bosom, and fell back on his seat, overwhelmed by +wretchedness and despair. This scene completely changed the opinion of +the assembly respecting the accused count. + +“‘Count of Morcerf,’ said the president, ‘do not allow yourself to be +cast down; answer. The justice of the court is supreme and impartial as +that of God; it will not suffer you to be trampled on by your enemies +without giving you an opportunity of defending yourself. Shall further +inquiries be made? Shall two members of the House be sent to Yanina? +Speak!’ Morcerf did not reply. Then all the members looked at each +other with terror. They knew the count’s energetic and violent temper; +it must be, indeed, a dreadful blow which would deprive him of courage +to defend himself. They expected that his stupefied silence would be +followed by a fiery outburst. ‘Well,’ asked the president, ‘what is +your decision?’ + +40206m + + + +“‘I have no reply to make,’ said the count in a low tone. + +“‘Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini spoken the truth?’ said the +president. ‘Is she, then, the terrible witness to whose charge you dare +not plead “Not guilty”? Have you really committed the crimes of which +you are accused?’ The count looked around him with an expression which +might have softened tigers, but which could not disarm his judges. Then +he raised his eyes towards the ceiling, but withdrew then, immediately, +as if he feared the roof would open and reveal to his distressed view +that second tribunal called heaven, and that other judge named God. +Then, with a hasty movement, he tore open his coat, which seemed to +stifle him, and flew from the room like a madman; his footstep was +heard one moment in the corridor, then the rattling of his +carriage-wheels as he was driven rapidly away. ‘Gentlemen,’ said the +president, when silence was restored, ‘is the Count of Morcerf +convicted of felony, treason, and conduct unbecoming a member of this +House?’—‘Yes,’ replied all the members of the committee of inquiry with +a unanimous voice. + +“Haydée had remained until the close of the meeting. She heard the +count’s sentence pronounced without betraying an expression of joy or +pity; then drawing her veil over her face she bowed majestically to the +councillors, and left with that dignified step which Virgil attributes +to his goddesses.” + + + + Chapter 87. The Challenge + +Then,” continued Beauchamp, “I took advantage of the silence and the +darkness to leave the house without being seen. The usher who had +introduced me was waiting for me at the door, and he conducted me +through the corridors to a private entrance opening into the Rue de +Vaugirard. I left with mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse +me, Albert,—sorrow on your account, and delight with that noble girl, +thus pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes, Albert, from whatever source the +blow may have proceeded—it may be from an enemy, but that enemy is only +the agent of Providence.” + +Albert held his head between his hands; he raised his face, red with +shame and bathed in tears, and seizing Beauchamp’s arm: + +“My friend,” said he, “my life is ended. I cannot calmly say with you, +‘Providence has struck the blow;’ but I must discover who pursues me +with this hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he +will kill me. I rely on your friendship to assist me, Beauchamp, if +contempt has not banished it from your heart.” + +“Contempt, my friend? How does this misfortune affect you? No, happily +that unjust prejudice is forgotten which made the son responsible for +the father’s actions. Review your life, Albert; although it is only +just beginning, did a lovely summer’s day ever dawn with greater purity +than has marked the commencement of your career? No, Albert, take my +advice. You are young and rich—leave Paris—all is soon forgotten in +this great Babylon of excitement and changing tastes. You will return +after three or four years with a Russian princess for a bride, and no +one will think more of what occurred yesterday than if it had happened +sixteen years ago.” + +“Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank you for the excellent feeling +which prompts your advice; but it cannot be. I have told you my wish, +or rather my determination. You understand that, interested as I am in +this affair, I cannot see it in the same light as you do. What appears +to you to emanate from a celestial source, seems to me to proceed from +one far less pure. Providence appears to me to have no share in this +affair; and happily so, for instead of the invisible, impalpable agent +of celestial rewards and punishments, I shall find one both palpable +and visible, on whom I shall revenge myself, I assure you, for all I +have suffered during the last month. Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish +to return to human and material existence, and if you are still the +friend you profess to be, help me to discover the hand that struck the +blow.” + +“Be it so,” said Beauchamp; “if you must have me descend to earth, I +submit; and if you will seek your enemy, I will assist you, and I will +engage to find him, my honor being almost as deeply interested as +yours.” + +“Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp, that we begin our search +immediately. Each moment’s delay is an eternity for me. The calumniator +is not yet punished, and he may hope that he will not be; but, on my +honor, if he thinks so, he deceives himself.” + +“Well, listen, Morcerf.” + +“Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know something already; you will restore me +to life.” + +“I do not say there is any truth in what I am going to tell you, but it +is, at least, a ray of light in a dark night; by following it we may, +perhaps, discover something more certain.” + +“Tell me; satisfy my impatience.” + +“Well, I will tell you what I did not like to mention on my return from +Yanina.” + +“Say on.” + +“I went, of course, to the chief banker of the town to make inquiries. +At the first word, before I had even mentioned your father’s name”— + +“‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I guess what brings you here.’ + +“‘How, and why?’ + +“‘Because a fortnight since I was questioned on the same subject.’ + +“‘By whom?’ + +“‘By a banker of Paris, my correspondent.’ + +“‘Whose name is——’ + +“‘Danglars.’” + +“He!” cried Albert; “yes, it is indeed he who has so long pursued my +father with jealous hatred. He, the man who would be popular, cannot +forgive the Count of Morcerf for being created a peer; and this +marriage broken off without a reason being assigned—yes, it is all from +the same cause.” + +“Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be angry without reason; make +inquiries, and if it be true——” + +“Oh, yes, if it be true,” cried the young man, “he shall pay me all I +have suffered.” + +“Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old man.” + +“I will respect his age as he has respected the honor of my family; if +my father had offended him, why did he not attack him personally? Oh, +no, he was afraid to encounter him face to face.” + +“I do not condemn you, Albert; I only restrain you. Act prudently.” + +“Oh, do not fear; besides, you will accompany me. Beauchamp, solemn +transactions should be sanctioned by a witness. Before this day closes, +if M. Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to live, or I shall die. +_Pardieu_, Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid funeral!” + +“When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be promptly +executed. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go immediately.” + +They sent for a cabriolet. On entering the banker’s mansion, they +perceived the phaeton and servant of M. Andrea Cavalcanti. + +“Ah! _parbleu!_ that’s good,” said Albert, with a gloomy tone. “If M. +Danglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti +will certainly fight.” + +The servant announced the young man; but the banker, recollecting what +had transpired the day before, did not wish him admitted. It was, +however, too late; Albert had followed the footman, and, hearing the +order given, forced the door open, and followed by Beauchamp found +himself in the banker’s study. + +“Sir,” cried the latter, “am I no longer at liberty to receive whom I +choose in my house? You appear to forget yourself sadly.” + +“No, sir,” said Albert, coldly; “there are circumstances in which one +cannot, except through cowardice,—I offer you that refuge,—refuse to +admit certain persons at least.” + +“What is your errand, then, with me, sir?” + +“I mean,” said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently noticing +Cavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the fireplace—“I mean to +propose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us +for ten minutes; that will be sufficient—where two men having met, one +of them will remain on the ground.” + +Danglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and Albert +turned towards him. + +“And you, too,” said he, “come, if you like, monsieur; you have a +claim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many +rendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them.” + +Cavalcanti looked at Danglars with a stupefied air, and the latter, +making an effort, arose and stepped between the two young men. Albert’s +attack on Andrea had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped +this visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed. + +“Indeed, sir,” said he to Albert, “if you are come to quarrel with this +gentleman because I have preferred him to you, I shall resign the case +to the king’s attorney.” + +“You mistake, sir,” said Morcerf with a gloomy smile; “I am not +referring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M. +Cavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one +respect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today; +but you have the first claim, M. Danglars.” + +40212m + + + +“Sir,” replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, “I warn you, when I +have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from +thinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness. +Now, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity. +Is it my fault that your father has dishonored himself?” + +“Yes, miserable wretch!” cried Morcerf, “it is your fault.” + +Danglars retreated a few steps. “My fault?” said he; “you must be mad! +What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country? +Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray——” + +“Silence!” said Albert, with a thundering voice. “No; it is not you who +have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you +hypocritically provoked it.” + +“I?” + +“Yes; you! How came it known?” + +“I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina?” + +“Who wrote to Yanina?” + +“To Yanina?” + +“Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?” + +“I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.” + +“But one person only wrote!” + +“One only?” + +“Yes; and that was you!” + +“I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to marry your +daughter to a young man, it is right to make some inquiries respecting +his family; it is not only a right, but a duty.” + +“You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive.” + +“I, indeed? I assure you,” cried Danglars, with a confidence and +security proceeding less from fear than from the interest he really +felt for the young man, “I solemnly declare to you, that I should never +have thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha’s +misfortunes.” + +“Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me.” + +“_Pardieu!_ it was the most simple thing in the world. I was speaking +of your father’s past history. I said the origin of his fortune +remained obscure. The person to whom I addressed my scruples asked me +where your father had acquired his property? I answered, ‘In +Greece.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘write to Yanina.’” + +“And who thus advised you?” + +“No other than your friend, Monte Cristo.” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina?” + +“Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like.” + +Albert and Beauchamp looked at each other. + +“Sir,” said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken, “you appear to accuse +the count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify +himself.” + +“I accuse no one, sir,” said Danglars; “I relate, and I will repeat +before the count what I have said to you.” + +“Does the count know what answer you received?” + +“Yes; I showed it to him.” + +“Did he know my father’s Christian name was Fernand, and his family +name Mondego?” + +“Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what any other +would have done in my circumstances, and perhaps less. When, the day +after the arrival of this answer, your father came by the advice of +Monte Cristo to ask my daughter’s hand for you, I decidedly refused +him, but without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I +have any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or disgrace of +M. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased nor decreased my income.” + +Albert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no doubt upon the +subject. Danglars defended himself with the baseness, but at the same +time with the assurance, of a man who speaks the truth, at least in +part, if not wholly—not for conscience’ sake, but through fear. +Besides, what was Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte +Cristo was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for the +offence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who would fight, and +it was evident Danglars would not fight. + +In addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before +presented itself now to his recollection. Monte Cristo knew everything, +as he had bought the daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he +had advised Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had +yielded to Albert’s wish to be introduced to Haydée, and allowed the +conversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Haydée’s +recital (but having, doubtless, warned the young girl, in the few +Romaic words he spoke to her, not to implicate Morcerf’s father). +Besides, had he not begged of Morcerf not to mention his father’s name +before Haydée? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew the +final blow was near. There could be no doubt that all had been +calculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo then was in league +with his father’s enemies. Albert took Beauchamp aside, and +communicated these ideas to him. + +“You are right,” said the latter; “M. Danglars has only been a +secondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de Monte Cristo +that you must demand an explanation.” + +Albert turned. + +“Sir,” said he to Danglars, “understand that I do not take a final +leave of you; I must ascertain if your insinuations are just, and am +going now to inquire of the Count of Monte Cristo.” + +He bowed to the banker, and went out with Beauchamp, without appearing +to notice Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he +again assured Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced +him against the Count of Morcerf. + + + + Chapter 88. The Insult + +At the banker’s door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf. + +“Listen,” said he; “just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo +you must demand an explanation.” + +“Yes; and we are going to his house.” + +“Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go.” + +“On what shall I reflect?” + +“On the importance of the step you are taking.” + +“Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars?” + +“Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love money, you know, +think too much of what they risk to be easily induced to fight a duel. +The other is, on the contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but +do you not fear to find him a bully?” + +“I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not fight.” + +“Do not be alarmed,” said Beauchamp; “he will meet you. My only fear is +that he will be too strong for you.” + +“My friend,” said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, “that is what I wish. +The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my +father’s stead; that would save us all.” + +“Your mother would die of grief.” + +“My poor mother!” said Albert, passing his hand across his eyes, “I +know she would; but better so than die of shame.” + +“Are you quite decided, Albert?” + +“Yes; let us go.” + +“But do you think we shall find the count at home?” + +“He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at +home.” + +They ordered the driver to take them to No. 30 Champs-Élysées. +Beauchamp wished to go in alone, but Albert observed that as this was +an unusual circumstance he might be allowed to deviate from the usual +etiquette of duels. The cause which the young man espoused was one so +sacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his wishes; he +yielded and contented himself with following Morcerf. Albert sprang +from the porter’s lodge to the steps. He was received by Baptistin. The +count had, indeed, just arrived, but he was in his bath, and had +forbidden that anyone should be admitted. + +“But after his bath?” asked Morcerf. + +“My master will go to dinner.” + +“And after dinner?” + +“He will sleep an hour.” + +“Then?” + +“He is going to the Opera.” + +“Are you sure of it?” asked Albert. + +“Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o’clock +precisely.” + +“Very good,” replied Albert; “that is all I wished to know.” + +Then, turning towards Beauchamp, “If you have anything to attend to, +Beauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this +evening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the +Opera; and if you can, bring Château-Renaud with you.” + +Beauchamp availed himself of Albert’s permission, and left him, +promising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On his return +home, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see +them at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother, who +since the events of the day before had refused to see anyone, and had +kept her room. He found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this +public humiliation. + +The sight of Albert produced the effect which might naturally be +expected on Mercédès; she pressed her son’s hand and sobbed aloud, but +her tears relieved her. Albert stood one moment speechless by the side +of his mother’s bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows +that his resolution to revenge himself was growing weaker. + +“My dear mother,” said he, “do you know if M. de Morcerf has any +enemy?” + +Mercédès started; she noticed that the young man did not say “my +father.” + +“My son,” she said, “persons in the count’s situation have many secret +enemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous.” + +“I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a +mind, nothing escapes you.” + +“Why do you say so?” + +“Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave, +that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.” + +Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm. + +“M. de Monte Cristo!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the +question you asked me?” + +40219m + + + +“You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is +customary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not +eating or drinking in the houses of their enemies.” + +“Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?” replied Mercédès, +becoming paler than the sheet which covered her. “Who told you so? Why, +you are mad, Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. M. +de Monte Cristo saved your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh, +I entreat you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it; +and my counsel to you—nay, my prayer—is to retain his friendship.” + +“Mother,” replied the young man, “you have special reasons for telling +me to conciliate that man.” + +“I?” said Mercédès, blushing as rapidly as she had turned pale, and +again becoming paler than ever. + +“Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he may never do us any harm?” + +Mercédès shuddered, and, fixing on her son a scrutinizing gaze, “You +speak strangely,” said she to Albert, “and you appear to have some +singular prejudices. What has the count done? Three days since you were +with him in Normandy; only three days since we looked on him as our +best friend.” + +An ironical smile passed over Albert’s lips. Mercédès saw it and with +the double instinct of woman and mother guessed all; but as she was +prudent and strong-minded she concealed both her sorrows and her fears. +Albert was silent; an instant after, the countess resumed: + +“You came to inquire after my health; I will candidly acknowledge that +I am not well. You should install yourself here, and cheer my solitude. +I do not wish to be left alone.” + +“Mother,” said the young man, “you know how gladly I would obey your +wish, but an urgent and important affair obliges me to leave you for +the whole evening.” + +“Well,” replied Mercédès, sighing, “go, Albert; I will not make you a +slave to your filial piety.” + +Albert pretended he did not hear, bowed to his mother, and quitted her. +Scarcely had he shut her door, when Mercédès called a confidential +servant, and ordered him to follow Albert wherever he should go that +evening, and to come and tell her immediately what he observed. Then +she rang for her lady’s maid, and, weak as she was, she dressed, in +order to be ready for whatever might happen. The footman’s mission was +an easy one. Albert went to his room, and dressed with unusual care. At +ten minutes to eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen Château-Renaud, who +had promised to be in the orchestra before the curtain was raised. Both +got into Albert’s _coupé_; and, as the young man had no reason to +conceal where he was going, he called aloud, “To the Opera.” In his +impatience he arrived before the beginning of the performance. + +40221m + + + +Château-Renaud was at his post; apprised by Beauchamp of the +circumstances, he required no explanation from Albert. The conduct of +the son in seeking to avenge his father was so natural that +Château-Renaud did not seek to dissuade him, and was content with +renewing his assurances of devotion. Debray was not yet come, but +Albert knew that he seldom lost a scene at the Opera. + +Albert wandered about the theatre until the curtain was drawn up. He +hoped to meet with M. de Monte Cristo either in the lobby or on the +stairs. The bell summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra +with Château-Renaud and Beauchamp. But his eyes scarcely quitted the +box between the columns, which remained obstinately closed during the +whole of the first act. At last, as Albert was looking at his watch for +about the hundredth time, at the beginning of the second act the door +opened, and Monte Cristo entered, dressed in black, and, leaning over +the front of the box, looked around the pit. Morrel followed him, and +looked also for his sister and brother in-law; he soon discovered them +in another box, and kissed his hand to them. + +The count, in his survey of the pit, encountered a pale face and +threatening eyes, which evidently sought to gain his attention. He +recognized Albert, but thought it better not to notice him, as he +looked so angry and discomposed. Without communicating his thoughts to +his companion, he sat down, drew out his opera-glass, and looked +another way. Although apparently not noticing Albert, he did not, +however, lose sight of him, and when the curtain fell at the end of the +second act, he saw him leave the orchestra with his two friends. Then +his head was seen passing at the back of the boxes, and the count knew +that the approaching storm was intended to fall on him. He was at the +moment conversing cheerfully with Morrel, but he was well prepared for +what might happen. + +The door opened, and Monte Cristo, turning round, saw Albert, pale and +trembling, followed by Beauchamp and Château-Renaud. + +“Well,” cried he, with that benevolent politeness which distinguished +his salutation from the common civilities of the world, “my cavalier +has attained his object. Good-evening, M. de Morcerf.” + +The countenance of this man, who possessed such extraordinary control +over his feelings, expressed the most perfect cordiality. Morrel only +then recollected the letter he had received from the viscount, in +which, without assigning any reason, he begged him to go to the Opera, +but he understood that something terrible was brooding. + +“We are not come here, sir, to exchange hypocritical expressions of +politeness, or false professions of friendship,” said Albert, “but to +demand an explanation.” + +The young man’s trembling voice was scarcely audible. + +“An explanation at the Opera?” said the count, with that calm tone and +penetrating eye which characterize the man who knows his cause is good. +“Little acquainted as I am with the habits of Parisians, I should not +have thought this the place for such a demand.” + +“Still, if people will shut themselves up,” said Albert, “and cannot be +seen because they are bathing, dining, or asleep, we must avail +ourselves of the opportunity whenever they are to be seen.” + +“I am not difficult of access, sir; for yesterday, if my memory does +not deceive me, you were at my house.” + +“Yesterday I was at your house, sir,” said the young man; “because then +I knew not who you were.” + +In pronouncing these words Albert had raised his voice so as to be +heard by those in the adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus the +attention of many was attracted by this altercation. + +“Where are you come from, sir? “ said Monte Cristo “You do not appear +to be in the possession of your senses.” + +“Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in making you +understand that I will be revenged, I shall be reasonable enough,” said +Albert furiously. + +“I do not understand you, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “and if I did, +your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right to +raise my voice above another’s. Leave the box, sir!” + +Monte Cristo pointed towards the door with the most commanding dignity. + +“Ah, I shall know how to make you leave your home!” replied Albert, +clasping in his convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not +lose sight of. + +“Well, well,” said Monte Cristo quietly, “I see you wish to quarrel +with me; but I would give you one piece of advice, which you will do +well to keep in mind. It is in poor taste to make a display of a +challenge. Display is not becoming to everyone, M. de Morcerf.” + +At this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the group of +spectators of this scene. They had talked of no one but Morcerf the +whole day. Albert understood the allusion in a moment, and was about to +throw his glove at the count, when Morrel seized his hand, while +Beauchamp and Château-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the +limits of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without rising, +and leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and, +taking the damp, crushed glove from the clenched hand of the young man: + +“Sir,” said he in a solemn tone, “I consider your glove thrown, and +will return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will +summon my servants to throw you out at the door.” + +Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back, +and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if +nothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like +bronze. Morrel whispered, “What have you done to him?” + +“I? Nothing—at least personally,” said Monte Cristo. + +“But there must be some cause for this strange scene.” + +“The Count of Morcerf’s adventure exasperates the young man.” + +“Have you anything to do with it?” + +“It was through Haydée that the Chamber was informed of his father’s +treason.” + +“Indeed?” said Morrel. “I had been told, but would not credit it, that +the Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the +daughter of Ali Pasha.” + +“It is true, nevertheless.” + +“Then,” said Morrel, “I understand it all, and this scene was +premeditated.” + +“How so?” + +“Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the Opera, doubtless that I +might be a witness to the insult he meant to offer you.” + +“Probably,” said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable tranquillity. + +“But what shall you do with him?” + +“With whom?” + +“With Albert.” + +“What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press +your hand, I shall kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” +Morrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo’s hand in both of his, and he +shuddered to feel how cold and steady it was. + +“Ah, count,” said he, “his father loves him so much!” + +“Do not speak to me of that,” said Monte Cristo, with the first +movement of anger he had betrayed; “I will make him suffer.” + +Morrel, amazed, let fall Monte Cristo’s hand. “Count, count!” said he. + +“Dear Maximilian,” interrupted the count, “listen how adorably Duprez +is singing that line,— + +‘O Mathilde! idole de mon âme!’ + + +“I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first to applaud +him. Bravo, bravo!” + +Morrel saw it was useless to say more, and refrained. The curtain, +which had risen at the close of the scene with Albert, again fell, and +a rap was heard at the door. + +“Come in,” said Monte Cristo with a voice that betrayed not the least +emotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared. “Good-evening, M. +Beauchamp,” said Monte Cristo, as if this was the first time he had +seen the journalist that evening; “be seated.” + +Beauchamp bowed, and, sitting down, “Sir,” said he, “I just now +accompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw.” + +“And that means,” replied Monte Cristo, laughing, “that you had, +probably, just dined together. I am happy to see, M. Beauchamp, that +you are more sober than he was.” + +“Sir,” said M. Beauchamp, “Albert was wrong, I acknowledge, to betray +so much anger, and I come, on my own account, to apologize for him. And +having done so, entirely on my own account, be it understood, I would +add that I believe you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some +explanation concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two +words about the young Greek girl.” + +Monte Cristo motioned him to be silent. “Come,” said he, laughing, +“there are all my hopes about to be destroyed.” + +“How so?” asked Beauchamp. + +“Doubtless you wish to make me appear a very eccentric character. I am, +in your opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord Ruthven; then, just as I am +arriving at the climax, you defeat your own end, and seek to make an +ordinary man of me. You bring me down to your own level, and demand +explanations! Indeed, M. Beauchamp, it is quite laughable.” + +“Yet,” replied Beauchamp haughtily, “there are occasions when probity +commands——” + +“M. Beauchamp,” interposed this strange man, “the Count of Monte Cristo +bows to none but the Count of Monte Cristo himself. Say no more, I +entreat you. I do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it is always well +done.” + +“Sir,” replied the young man, “honest men are not to be paid with such +coin. I require honorable guaranties.” + +“I am, sir, a living guaranty,” replied Monte Cristo, motionless, but +with a threatening look; “we have both blood in our veins which we wish +to shed—that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that +tomorrow, before ten o’clock, I shall see what color his is.” + +“Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel,” said Beauchamp. + +“It is quite immaterial to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and it was very +unnecessary to disturb me at the Opera for such a trifle. In France +people fight with the sword or pistol, in the colonies with the +carbine, in Arabia with the dagger. Tell your client that, although I +am the insulted party, in order to carry out my eccentricity, I leave +him the choice of arms, and will accept without discussion, without +dispute, anything, even combat by drawing lots, which is always stupid, +but with me different from other people, as I am sure to gain.” + +“Sure to gain!” repeated Beauchamp, looking with amazement at the +count. + +“Certainly,” said Monte Cristo, slightly shrugging his shoulders; +“otherwise I would not fight with M. de Morcerf. I shall kill him—I +cannot help it. Only by a single line this evening at my house let me +know the arms and the hour; I do not like to be kept waiting.” + +“Pistols, then, at eight o’clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,” said +Beauchamp, quite disconcerted, not knowing if he was dealing with an +arrogant braggadocio or a supernatural being. + +“Very well, sir,” said Monte Cristo. “Now all that is settled, do let +me see the performance, and tell your friend Albert not to come any +more this evening; he will hurt himself with all his ill-chosen +barbarisms: let him go home and go to sleep.” + +Beauchamp left the box, perfectly amazed. + +“Now,” said Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel, “I may depend upon +you, may I not?” + +“Certainly,” said Morrel, “I am at your service, count; still——” + +“What?” + +“It is desirable I should know the real cause.” + +“That is to say, you would rather not?” + +“No.” + +“The young man himself is acting blindfolded, and knows not the true +cause, which is known only to God and to me; but I give you my word, +Morrel, that God, who does know it, will be on our side.” + +“Enough,” said Morrel; “who is your second witness?” + +“I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom I could confer that honor +besides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think Emmanuel would +oblige me?” + +“I will answer for him, count.” + +“Well? that is all I require. Tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock, you +will be with me, will you not?” + +“We will.” + +“Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I never lose a note of this opera +if I can avoid it; the music of _William Tell_ is so sweet.” + + + + Chapter 89. The Night + +Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until Duprez had +sung his famous “_Suivez-moi!_” then he rose and went out. Morrel took +leave of him at the door, renewing his promise to be with him the next +morning at seven o’clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into +his _coupé_, calm and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one +who knew the count could mistake his expression when, on entering, he +said: + +“Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross.” + +Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons with a +solicitude very natural to a man who is about to intrust his life to a +little powder and shot. These were pistols of an especial pattern, +which Monte Cristo had had made for target practice in his own room. A +cap was sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining room +no one would have suspected that the count was, as sportsmen would say, +keeping his hand in. + +He was just taking one up and looking for the point to aim at on a +little iron plate which served him as a target, when his study door +opened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word, the count +saw in the next room a veiled woman, who had followed closely after +Baptistin, and now, seeing the count with a pistol in his hand and +swords on the table, rushed in. Baptistin looked at his master, who +made a sign to him, and he went out, closing the door after him. + +“Who are you, madame?” said the count to the veiled woman. + +40227m + + + +The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that they were +quite alone; then bending as if she would have knelt, and joining her +hands, she said with an accent of despair: + +“Edmond, you will not kill my son!” + +The count retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall +the pistol he held. + +“What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?” said he. + +“Yours!” cried she, throwing back her veil,—“yours, which I alone, +perhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is +come to you, it is Mercédès.” + +“Mercédès is dead, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “I know no one now of +that name.” + +“Mercédès lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone recognized you +when she saw you, and even before she saw you, by your voice, +Edmond,—by the simple sound of your voice; and from that moment she has +followed your steps, watched you, feared you, and she needs not to +inquire what hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf.” + +“Fernand, do you mean?” replied Monte Cristo, with bitter irony; “since +we are recalling names, let us remember them all.” Monte Cristo had +pronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred that +Mercédès felt a thrill of horror run through every vein. + +“You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say, ‘Spare my +son!’” + +“And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile intentions against +your son?” + +“No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed all; I +followed him this evening to the Opera, and, concealed in a parquet +box, have seen all.” + +“If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of Fernand has +publicly insulted me,” said Monte Cristo with awful calmness. + +“Oh, for pity’s sake!” + +“You have seen that he would have thrown his glove in my face if +Morrel, one of my friends, had not stopped him.” + +“Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are,—he attributes his +father’s misfortunes to you.” + +“Madame, you are mistaken, they are not misfortunes,—it is a +punishment. It is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is Providence +which punishes him.” + +“And why do you represent Providence?” cried Mercédès. “Why do you +remember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you, +Edmond? What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali +Tepelini?” + +“Ah, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “all this is an affair between the +French captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It does not concern me, +you are right; and if I have sworn to revenge myself, it is not on the +French captain, or the Count of Morcerf, but on the fisherman Fernand, +the husband of Mercédès the Catalane.” + +“Ah, sir!” cried the countess, “how terrible a vengeance for a fault +which fatality made me commit!—for I am the only culprit, Edmond, and +if you owe revenge to anyone, it is to me, who had not fortitude to +bear your absence and my solitude.” + +“But,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “why was I absent? And why were you +alone?” + +40231m + + + +“Because you had been arrested, Edmond, and were a prisoner.” + +“And why was I arrested? Why was I a prisoner?” + +“I do not know,” said Mercédès. + +“You do not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I was +arrested and became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La Réserve, +the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote this +letter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted.” + +Monte Cristo went to a secretaire, opened a drawer by a spring, from +which he took a paper which had lost its original color, and the ink of +which had become of a rusty hue—this he placed in the hands of +Mercédès. It was Danglars’ letter to the king’s attorney, which the +Count of Monte Cristo, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson & +French, had taken from the file against Edmond Dantès, on the day he +had paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de Boville. Mercédès +read with terror the following lines: + +“The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion +that one Edmond Dantès, second in command on board the _Pharaon_, this +day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and +Porto-Ferrajo, is the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and +of another letter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. +Ample corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting the +above-mentioned Edmond Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris +about with him, or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found +in possession of either father or son, then it will assuredly be +discovered in the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the +_Pharaon_.” + + +“How dreadful!” said Mercédès, passing her hand across her brow, moist +with perspiration; “and that letter——” + +“I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame,” said Monte +Cristo; “but that is a trifle, since it enables me to justify myself to +you.” + +“And the result of that letter——” + +“You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know how long +that arrest lasted. You do not know that I remained for fourteen years +within a quarter of a league of you, in a dungeon in the Château d’If. +You do not know that every day of those fourteen years I renewed the +vow of vengeance which I had made the first day; and yet I was not +aware that you had married Fernand, my calumniator, and that my father +had died of hunger!” + +“Can it be?” cried Mercédès, shuddering. + +“That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after I had +entered it; and that is why, on account of the living Mercédès and my +deceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on Fernand, and—I have +revenged myself.” + +“And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?” + +“I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you; besides, +that is not much more odious than that a Frenchman by adoption should +pass over to the English; that a Spaniard by birth should have fought +against the Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed +and murdered Ali. Compared with such things, what is the letter you +have just read?—a lover’s deception, which the woman who has married +that man ought certainly to forgive; but not so the lover who was to +have married her. Well, the French did not avenge themselves on the +traitor, the Spaniards did not shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left +the traitor unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen +from my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He sends me for +that purpose, and here I am.” + +The poor woman’s head and arms fell; her legs bent under her, and she +fell on her knees. + +“Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love you still!” + +The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother. +Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forward +and raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manly +countenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed +a threatening expression. + +“Not crush that accursed race?” murmured he; “abandon my purpose at the +moment of its accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible!” + +“Edmond,” said the poor mother, who tried every means, “when I call you +Edmond, why do you not call me Mercédès?” + +“Mercédès!” repeated Monte Cristo; “Mercédès! Well yes, you are right; +that name has still its charms, and this is the first time for a long +period that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh, Mercédès, I have +uttered your name with the sigh of melancholy, with the groan of +sorrow, with the last effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen +with cold, crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it, +consumed with heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison. Mercédès, +I must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years,—fourteen years I +wept, I cursed; now I tell you, Mercédès, I must revenge myself.” + +The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently +loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred. + +“Revenge yourself, then, Edmond,” cried the poor mother; “but let your +vengeance fall on the culprits,—on him, on me, but not on my son!” + +“It is written in the good book,” said Monte Cristo, “that the sins of +the fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourth +generation. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why +should I seek to make myself better than God?” + +“Edmond,” continued Mercédès, with her arms extended towards the count, +“since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected your +memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and +pure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if +you knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I +thought you were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes, +dead, alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy +tower, or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! +What could I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten +years I dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you had +endeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner; +that you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you +had been thrown alive from the top of the Château d’If, and that the +cry you uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your +jailers that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by +the head of that son for whom I entreat your pity,—Edmond, for ten +years I saw every night every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for +ten years I heard every night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and +cold. And I, too, Edmond—oh! believe me—guilty as I was—oh, yes, I, +too, have suffered much!” + +“Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in your +absence?” cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair; “have +you seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while you +were perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?” + +“No,” interrupted Mercédès, “but I have seen him whom I loved on the +point of murdering my son.” + +Mercédès uttered these words with such deep anguish, with an accent of +such intense despair, that Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob. The +lion was daunted; the avenger was conquered. + +“What do you ask of me?” said he,—“your son’s life? Well, he shall +live!” + +Mercédès uttered a cry which made the tears start from Monte Cristo’s +eyes; but these tears disappeared almost instantaneously, for, +doubtless, God had sent some angel to collect them—far more precious +were they in his eyes than the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir. + +“Oh,” said she, seizing the count’s hand and raising it to her lips; +“oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are exactly what I dreamt +you were,—the man I always loved. Oh, now I may say so!” + +“So much the better,” replied Monte Cristo; “as that poor Edmond will +not have long to be loved by you. Death is about to return to the tomb, +the phantom to retire in darkness.” + +“What do you say, Edmond?” + +“I say, since you command me, Mercédès, I must die.” + +“Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? Whence have you these ideas of +death?” + +“You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a whole +theatre, in the presence of your friends and those of your +son—challenged by a boy who will glory in my forgiveness as if it were +a victory—you do not suppose that I can for one moment wish to live. +What I most loved after you, Mercédès, was myself, my dignity, and that +strength which rendered me superior to other men; that strength was my +life. With one word you have crushed it, and I die.” + +“But the duel will not take place, Edmond, since you forgive?” + +“It will take place,” said Monte Cristo, in a most solemn tone; “but +instead of your son’s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow.” + +Mercédès shrieked, and sprang towards Monte Cristo, but, suddenly +stopping, “Edmond,” said she, “there is a God above us, since you live +and since I have seen you again; I trust to him from my heart. While +waiting his assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my son +should live, have you not?” + +“Yes, madame, he shall live,” said Monte Cristo, surprised that without +more emotion Mercédès had accepted the heroic sacrifice he made for +her. Mercédès extended her hand to the count. + +“Edmond,” said she, and her eyes were wet with tears while looking at +him to whom she spoke, “how noble it is of you, how great the action +you have just performed, how sublime to have taken pity on a poor woman +who appealed to you with every chance against her, Alas, I am grown old +with grief more than with years, and cannot now remind my Edmond by a +smile, or by a look, of that Mercédès whom he once spent so many hours +in contemplating. Ah, believe me, Edmond, as I told you, I too have +suffered much; I repeat, it is melancholy to pass one’s life without +having one joy to recall, without preserving a single hope; but that +proves that all is not yet over. No, it is not finished; I feel it by +what remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, Edmond; what you have just +done is beautiful—it is grand; it is sublime.” + +“Do you say so now, Mercédès?—then what would you say if you knew the +extent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose that the Supreme Being, +after having created the world and fertilized chaos, had paused in the +work to spare an angel the tears that might one day flow for mortal +sins from her immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in +readiness and the moment had come for God to look upon his work and see +that it was good—suppose he had snuffed out the sun and tossed the +world back into eternal night—then—even then, Mercédès, you could not +imagine what I lose in sacrificing my life at this moment.” + +Mercédès looked at the count in a way which expressed at the same time +her astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. Monte Cristo +pressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could no +longer bear alone the weight of its thoughts. + +“Edmond,” said Mercédès, “I have but one word more to say to you.” + +The count smiled bitterly. + +“Edmond,” continued she, “you will see that if my face is pale, if my +eyes are dull, if my beauty is gone; if Mercédès, in short, no longer +resembles her former self in her features, you will see that her heart +is still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask of +heaven—I have seen you again, and have found you as noble and as great +as formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you.” + +But the count did not answer. Mercédès opened the door of the study and +had disappeared before he had recovered from the painful and profound +reverie into which his thwarted vengeance had plunged him. + +The clock of the Invalides struck one when the carriage which conveyed +Madame de Morcerf rolled away on the pavement of the Champs-Élysées, +and made Monte Cristo raise his head. + +“What a fool I was,” said he, “not to tear my heart out on the day when +I resolved to avenge myself!” + + + + Chapter 90. The Meeting + +After Mercédès had left Monte Cristo, he fell into profound gloom. +Around him and within him the flight of thought seemed to have stopped; +his energetic mind slumbered, as the body does after extreme fatigue. + +“What?” said he to himself, while the lamp and the wax lights were +nearly burnt out, and the servants were waiting impatiently in the +anteroom; “what? this edifice which I have been so long preparing, +which I have reared with so much care and toil, is to be crushed by a +single touch, a word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom I thought so +much, of whom I was so proud, who had appeared so worthless in the +dungeons of the Château d’If, and whom I had succeeded in making so +great, will be but a lump of clay tomorrow. Alas, it is not the death +of the body I regret; for is not the destruction of the vital +principle, the repose to which everything is tending, to which every +unhappy being aspires,—is not this the repose of matter after which I +so long sighed, and which I was seeking to attain by the painful +process of starvation when Faria appeared in my dungeon? What is death +for me? One step farther into rest,—two, perhaps, into silence. No, it +is not existence, then, that I regret, but the ruin of projects so +slowly carried out, so laboriously framed. Providence is now opposed to +them, when I most thought it would be propitious. It is not God’s will +that they should be accomplished. This burden, almost as heavy as a +world, which I had raised, and I had thought to bear to the end, was +too great for my strength, and I was compelled to lay it down in the +middle of my career. Oh, shall I then, again become a fatalist, whom +fourteen years of despair and ten of hope had rendered a believer in +Providence? + +“And all this—all this, because my heart, which I thought dead, was +only sleeping; because it has awakened and has begun to beat again, +because I have yielded to the pain of the emotion excited in my breast +by a woman’s voice. + +“Yet,” continued the count, becoming each moment more absorbed in the +anticipation of the dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, which Mercédès +had accepted, “yet, it is impossible that so noble-minded a woman +should thus through selfishness consent to my death when I am in the +prime of life and strength; it is impossible that she can carry to such +a point maternal love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which +become crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some +pathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us; and what +would be sublime here will there appear ridiculous.” + +The blush of pride mounted to the count’s forehead as this thought +passed through his mind. + +“Ridiculous?” repeated he; “and the ridicule will fall on me. I +ridiculous? No, I would rather die.” + +By thus exaggerating to his own mind the anticipated ill-fortune of the +next day, to which he had condemned himself by promising Mercédès to +spare her son, the count at last exclaimed: + +“Folly, folly, folly!—to carry generosity so far as to put myself up as +a mark for that young man to aim at. He will never believe that my +death was suicide; and yet it is important for the honor of my +memory,—and this surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride,—it is +important the world should know that I have consented, by my free will, +to stop my arm, already raised to strike, and that with the arm which +has been so powerful against others I have struck myself. It must be; +it shall be.” + +Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a secret drawer in his desk, and +wrote at the bottom of the document (which was no other than his will, +made since his arrival in Paris) a sort of codicil, clearly explaining +the nature of his death. + +“I do this, Oh, my God,” said he, with his eyes raised to heaven, “as +much for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years considered +myself the agent of thy vengeance, and other wretches, like Morcerf, +Danglars, Villefort, even Morcerf himself, must not imagine that chance +has freed them from their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that +their punishment, which had been decreed by Providence, is only delayed +by my present determination, and although they escape it in this world, +it awaits them in another, and that they are only exchanging time for +eternity.” + +While he was thus agitated by gloomy uncertainties,—wretched waking +dreams of grief,—the first rays of morning pierced his windows, and +shone upon the pale blue paper on which he had just inscribed his +justification of Providence. + +It was just five o’clock in the morning when a slight noise like a +stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned his head, looked around him, +and saw no one; but the sound was repeated distinctly enough to +convince him of its reality. + +He arose, and quietly opening the door of the drawing-room, saw Haydée, +who had fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging down and her beautiful +head thrown back. She had been standing at the door, to prevent his +going out without seeing her, until sleep, which the young cannot +resist, had overpowered her frame, wearied as she was with watching. +The noise of the door did not awaken her, and Monte Cristo gazed at her +with affectionate regret. + +“She remembered that she had a son,” said he; “and I forgot I had a +daughter.” Then, shaking his head sorrowfully, “Poor Haydée,” said he; +“she wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed +something. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I cannot die +without confiding her to someone.” + +He quietly regained his seat, and wrote under the other lines: + +“I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis,—and son of my +former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner at Marseilles,—the sum of +twenty millions, a part of which may be offered to his sister Julie and +brother-in-law Emmanuel, if he does not fear this increase of fortune +may mar their happiness. These twenty millions are concealed in my +grotto at Monte Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the secret. If his +heart is free, and he will marry Haydée, the daughter of Ali Pasha of +Yanina, whom I have brought up with the love of a father, and who has +shown the love and tenderness of a daughter for me, he will thus +accomplish my last wish. This will has already constituted Haydée +heiress of the rest of my fortune, consisting of lands, funds in +England, Austria, and Holland, furniture in my different palaces and +houses, and which without the twenty millions and the legacies to my +servants, may still amount to sixty millions.” + + +40241m + + + +He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made him start, +and the pen fell from his hand. + +“Haydée,” said he, “did you read it?” + +“Oh, my lord,” said she, “why are you writing thus at such an hour? Why +are you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are you going to leave me?” + +“I am going on a journey, dear child,” said Monte Cristo, with an +expression of infinite tenderness and melancholy; “and if any +misfortune should happen to me——” + +The count stopped. + +“Well?” asked the young girl, with an authoritative tone the count had +never observed before, and which startled him. + +“Well, if any misfortune happen to me,” replied Monte Cristo, “I wish +my daughter to be happy.” Haydée smiled sorrowfully, and shook her +head. + +“Do you think of dying, my lord?” said she. + +“The wise man, my child, has said, ‘It is good to think of death.’” + +“Well, if you die,” said she, “bequeath your fortune to others, for if +you die I shall require nothing;” and, taking the paper, she tore it in +four pieces, and threw it into the middle of the room. Then, the effort +having exhausted her strength, she fell, not asleep this time, but +fainting on the floor. + +The count leaned over her and raised her in his arms; and seeing that +sweet pale face, those lovely eyes closed, that beautiful form +motionless and to all appearance lifeless, the idea occurred to him for +the first time, that perhaps she loved him otherwise than as a daughter +loves a father. + +“Alas,” murmured he, with intense suffering, “I might, then, have been +happy yet.” + +Then he carried Haydée to her room, resigned her to the care of her +attendants, and returning to his study, which he shut quickly this +time, he again copied the destroyed will. As he was finishing, the +sound of a cabriolet entering the yard was heard. Monte Cristo +approached the window, and saw Maximilian and Emmanuel alight. “Good,” +said he; “it was time,”—and he sealed his will with three seals. + +A moment afterwards he heard a noise in the drawing-room, and went to +open the door himself. Morrel was there; he had come twenty minutes +before the time appointed. + +“I am perhaps come too soon, count,” said he, “but I frankly +acknowledge that I have not closed my eyes all night, nor has anyone in +my house. I need to see you strong in your courageous assurance, to +recover myself.” + +Monte Cristo could not resist this proof of affection; he not only +extended his hand to the young man, but flew to him with open arms. + +“Morrel,” said he, “it is a happy day for me, to feel that I am beloved +by such a man as you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will come with me +then, Maximilian?” + +“Did you doubt it?” said the young captain. + +“But if I were wrong——” + +“I watched you during the whole scene of that challenge yesterday; I +have been thinking of your firmness all night, and I said to myself +that justice must be on your side, or man’s countenance is no longer to +be relied on.” + +“But, Morrel, Albert is your friend?” + +“Simply an acquaintance, sir.” + +“You met on the same day you first saw me?” + +“Yes, that is true; but I should not have recollected it if you had not +reminded me.” + +“Thank you, Morrel.” Then ringing the bell once, “Look.” said he to +Ali, who came immediately, “take that to my solicitor. It is my will, +Morrel. When I am dead, you will go and examine it.” + +“What?” said Morrel, “you dead?” + +“Yes; must I not be prepared for everything, dear friend? But what did +you do yesterday after you left me?” + +“I went to Tortoni’s, where, as I expected, I found Beauchamp and +Château-Renaud. I own I was seeking them.” + +“Why, when all was arranged?” + +“Listen, count; the affair is serious and unavoidable.” + +“Did you doubt it!” + +“No; the offence was public, and everyone is already talking of it.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, I hoped to get an exchange of arms,—to substitute the sword for +the pistol; the pistol is blind.” + +“Have you succeeded?” asked Monte Cristo quickly, with an imperceptible +gleam of hope. + +“No; for your skill with the sword is so well known.” + +“Ah?—who has betrayed me?” + +“The skilful swordsman whom you have conquered.” + +“And you failed?” + +“They positively refused.” + +“Morrel,” said the count, “have you ever seen me fire a pistol?” + +“Never.” + +“Well, we have time; look.” Monte Cristo took the pistols he held in +his hand when Mercédès entered, and fixing an ace of clubs against the +iron plate, with four shots he successively shot off the four sides of +the club. At each shot Morrel turned pale. He examined the bullets with +which Monte Cristo performed this dexterous feat, and saw that they +were no larger than buckshot. + +“It is astonishing,” said he. “Look, Emmanuel.” Then turning towards +Monte Cristo, “Count,” said he, “in the name of all that is dear to +you, I entreat you not to kill Albert!—the unhappy youth has a mother.” + +“You are right,” said Monte Cristo; “and I have none.” These words were +uttered in a tone which made Morrel shudder. + +“You are the offended party, count.” + +“Doubtless; what does that imply?” + +“That you will fire first.” + +“I fire first?” + +“Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed that; we had conceded enough for +them to yield us that.” + +“And at what distance?” + +“Twenty paces.” A smile of terrible import passed over the count’s +lips. + +“Morrel,” said he, “do not forget what you have just seen.” + +“The only chance for Albert’s safety, then, will arise from your +emotion.” + +“I suffer from emotion?” said Monte Cristo. + +“Or from your generosity, my friend; to so good a marksman as you are, +I may say what would appear absurd to another.” + +“What is that?” + +“Break his arm—wound him—but do not kill him.” + +“I will tell you, Morrel,” said the count, “that I do not need +entreating to spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he shall be so well +spared, that he will return quietly with his two friends, while I——” + +“And you?” + +“That will be another thing; I shall be brought home.” + +“No, no,” cried Maximilian, quite unable to restrain his feelings. + +“As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de Morcerf will kill me.” + +Morrel looked at him in utter amazement. “But what has happened, then, +since last evening, count?” + +“The same thing that happened to Brutus the night before the battle of +Philippi; I have seen a ghost.” + +“And that ghost——” + +“Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long enough.” + +Maximilian and Emmanuel looked at each other. Monte Cristo drew out his +watch. “Let us go,” said he; “it is five minutes past seven, and the +appointment was for eight o’clock.” + +A carriage was in readiness at the door. Monte Cristo stepped into it +with his two friends. He had stopped a moment in the passage to listen +at a door, and Maximilian and Emmanuel, who had considerately passed +forward a few steps, thought they heard him answer by a sigh to a sob +from within. As the clock struck eight they drove up to the place of +meeting. + +“We are first,” said Morrel, looking out of the window. + +“Excuse me, sir,” said Baptistin, who had followed his master with +indescribable terror, “but I think I see a carriage down there under +the trees.” + +Monte Cristo sprang lightly from the carriage, and offered his hand to +assist Emmanuel and Maximilian. The latter retained the count’s hand +between his. + +“I like,” said he, “to feel a hand like this, when its owner relies on +the goodness of his cause.” + +“It seems to me,” said Emmanuel, “that I see two young men down there, +who are evidently, waiting.” + +Monte Cristo drew Morrel a step or two behind his brother-in-law. + +“Maximilian,” said he, “are your affections disengaged?” Morrel looked +at Monte Cristo with astonishment. “I do not seek your confidence, my +dear friend. I only ask you a simple question; answer it;—that is all I +require.” + +“I love a young girl, count.” + +“Do you love her much?” + +“More than my life.” + +“Another hope defeated!” said the count. Then, with a sigh, “Poor +Haydée!” murmured he. + +“To tell the truth, count, if I knew less of you, I should think that +you were less brave than you are.” + +“Because I sigh when thinking of someone I am leaving? Come, Morrel, it +is not like a soldier to be so bad a judge of courage. Do I regret +life? What is it to me, who have passed twenty years between life and +death? Moreover, do not alarm yourself, Morrel; this weakness, if it is +such, is betrayed to you alone. I know the world is a drawing-room, +from which we must retire politely and honestly; that is, with a bow, +and our debts of honor paid.” + +“That is to the purpose. Have you brought your arms?” + +“I?—what for? I hope these gentlemen have theirs.” + +“I will inquire,” said Morrel. + +“Do; but make no treaty—you understand me?” + +“You need not fear.” Morrel advanced towards Beauchamp and +Château-Renaud, who, seeing his intention, came to meet him. The three +young men bowed to each other courteously, if not affably. + +“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Morrel, “but I do not see M. de Morcerf.” + +“He sent us word this morning,” replied Château-Renaud, “that he would +meet us on the ground.” + +“Ah,” said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out his watch. + +“It is only five minutes past eight,” said he to Morrel; “there is not +much time lost yet.” + +“Oh, I made no allusion of that kind,” replied Morrel. + +“There is a carriage coming,” said Château-Renaud. It advanced rapidly +along one of the avenues leading towards the open space where they were +assembled. + +“You are doubtless provided with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte Cristo +yields his right of using his.” + +“We had anticipated this kindness on the part of the count,” said +Beauchamp, “and I have brought some weapons which I bought eight or ten +days since, thinking to want them on a similar occasion. They are quite +new, and have not yet been used. Will you examine them.” + +“Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does not know +these pistols, you may readily believe that your word will be quite +sufficient.” + +“Gentlemen,” said Château-Renaud, “it is not Morcerf coming in that +carriage;—faith, it is Franz and Debray!” + +The two young men he announced were indeed approaching. “What chance +brings you here, gentlemen?” said Château-Renaud, shaking hands with +each of them. + +“Because,” said Debray, “Albert sent this morning to request us to +come.” Beauchamp and Château-Renaud exchanged looks of astonishment. “I +think I understand his reason,” said Morrel. + +“What is it?” + +“Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me +to attend the Opera.” + +“And I,” said Debray. + +“And I also,” said Franz. + +“And we, too,” added Beauchamp and Château-Renaud. + +“Having wished you all to witness the challenge, he now wishes you to +be present at the combat.” + +“Exactly so,” said the young men; “you have probably guessed right.” + +“But, after all these arrangements, he does not come himself,” said +Château-Renaud. “Albert is ten minutes after time.” + +“There he comes,” said Beauchamp, “on horseback, at full gallop, +followed by a servant.” + +“How imprudent,” said Château-Renaud, “to come on horseback to fight a +duel with pistols, after all the instructions I had given him.” + +“And besides,” said Beauchamp, “with a collar above his cravat, an open +coat and white waistcoat! Why has he not painted a spot upon his +heart?—it would have been more simple.” + +Meanwhile Albert had arrived within ten paces of the group formed by +the five young men. He jumped from his horse, threw the bridle on his +servant’s arms, and joined them. He was pale, and his eyes were red and +swollen; it was evident that he had not slept. A shade of melancholy +gravity overspread his countenance, which was not natural to him. + +“I thank you, gentlemen,” said he, “for having complied with my +request; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of friendship.” Morrel +had stepped back as Morcerf approached, and remained at a short +distance. “And to you also, M. Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there +cannot be too many.” + +40248m + + + +“Sir,” said Maximilian, “you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de +Monte Cristo’s friend?” + +“I was not sure, but I thought it might be so. So much the better; the +more honorable men there are here the better I shall be satisfied.” + +“M. Morrel,” said Château-Renaud, “will you apprise the Count of Monte +Cristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we are at his disposal?” + +Morrel was preparing to fulfil his commission. Beauchamp had meanwhile +drawn the box of pistols from the carriage. + +“Stop, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I have two words to say to the Count +of Monte Cristo.” + +“In private?” asked Morrel. + +“No, sir; before all who are here.” + +Albert’s witnesses looked at each other. Franz and Debray exchanged +some words in a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at this unexpected +incident, went to fetch the count, who was walking in a retired path +with Emmanuel. + +“What does he want with me?” said Monte Cristo. + +“I do not know, but he wishes to speak to you.” + +“Ah?” said Monte Cristo, “I trust he is not going to tempt me by some +fresh insult!” + +“I do not think that such is his intention,” said Morrel. + +The count advanced, accompanied by Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm +and serene look formed a singular contrast to Albert’s grief-stricken +face, who approached also, followed by the other four young men. + +When at three paces distant from each other, Albert and the count +stopped. + +“Approach, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I wish you not to lose one word of +what I am about to have the honor of saying to the Count of Monte +Cristo, for it must be repeated by you to all who will listen to it, +strange as it may appear to you.” + +“Proceed, sir,” said the count. + +“Sir,” said Albert, at first with a tremulous voice, but which +gradually became firmer, “I reproached you with exposing the conduct of +M. de Morcerf in Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, I thought you had +no right to punish him; but I have since learned that you had that +right. It is not Fernand Mondego’s treachery towards Ali Pasha which +induces me so readily to excuse you, but the treachery of the fisherman +Fernand towards you, and the almost unheard-of miseries which were its +consequences; and I say, and proclaim it publicly, that you were +justified in revenging yourself on my father, and I, his son, thank you +for not using greater severity.” + +Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the spectators of this +unexpected scene, it would not have surprised them more than did +Albert’s declaration. As for Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose towards +heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. He could not +understand how Albert’s fiery nature, of which he had seen so much +among the Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to this humiliation. He +recognized the influence of Mercédès, and saw why her noble heart had +not opposed the sacrifice she knew beforehand would be useless. + +“Now, sir,” said Albert, “if you think my apology sufficient, pray give +me your hand. Next to the merit of infallibility which you appear to +possess, I rank that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this +confession concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted +better than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us from +death—that angel came from heaven, if not to make us friends (which, +alas, fatality renders impossible), at least to make us esteem each +other.” + +Monte Cristo, with moistened eye, heaving breast, and lips half open, +extended to Albert a hand which the latter pressed with a sentiment +resembling respectful fear. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “M. de Monte Cristo receives my apology. I had +acted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are generally bad ones. Now my +fault is repaired. I hope the world will not call me cowardly for +acting as my conscience dictated. But if anyone should entertain a +false opinion of me,” added he, drawing himself up as if he would +challenge both friends and enemies, “I shall endeavor to correct his +mistake.” + +“What happened during the night?” asked Beauchamp of Château-Renaud; +“we appear to make a very sorry figure here.” + +“In truth, what Albert has just done is either very despicable or very +noble,” replied the baron. + +“What can it mean?” said Debray to Franz. + +“The Count of Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is +justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I should only +consider myself the more bound to fight ten times.” + +As for Monte Cristo, his head was bent down, his arms were powerless. +Bowing under the weight of twenty-four years’ reminiscences, he thought +not of Albert, of Beauchamp, of Château-Renaud, or of any of that +group; but he thought of that courageous woman who had come to plead +for her son’s life, to whom he had offered his, and who had now saved +it by the revelation of a dreadful family secret, capable of destroying +forever in that young man’s heart every feeling of filial piety. + +“Providence still,” murmured he; “now only am I fully convinced of +being the emissary of God!” + + + + Chapter 91. Mother and Son + +The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the five young men with a melancholy +and dignified smile, and got into his carriage with Maximilian and +Emmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and Château-Renaud remained alone. Albert +looked at his two friends, not timidly, but in a way that appeared to +ask their opinion of what he had just done. + +“Indeed, my dear friend,” said Beauchamp first, who had either the most +feeling or the least dissimulation, “allow me to congratulate you; this +is a very unhoped-for conclusion of a very disagreeable affair.” + +Albert remained silent and wrapped in thought. Château-Renaud contented +himself with tapping his boot with his flexible cane. + +“Are we not going?” said he, after this embarrassing silence. + +“When you please,” replied Beauchamp; “allow me only to compliment M. +de Morcerf, who has given proof today of rare chivalric generosity.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Château-Renaud. + +“It is magnificent,” continued Beauchamp, “to be able to exercise so +much self-control!” + +“Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,” said +Château-Renaud, with most significant coolness. + +“Gentlemen,” interrupted Albert, “I think you did not understand that +something very serious had passed between M. de Monte Cristo and +myself.” + +“Possibly, possibly,” said Beauchamp immediately; “but every simpleton +would not be able to understand your heroism, and sooner or later you +will find yourself compelled to explain it to them more energetically +than would be convenient to your bodily health and the duration of your +life. May I give you a friendly counsel? Set out for Naples, the Hague, +or St. Petersburg—calm countries, where the point of honor is better +understood than among our hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude and +oblivion, so that you may return peaceably to France after a few years. +Am I not right, M. de Château-Renaud?” + +40252m + + + +“That is quite my opinion,” said the gentleman; “nothing induces +serious duels so much as a duel forsworn.” + +“Thank you, gentlemen,” replied Albert, with a smile of indifference; +“I shall follow your advice—not because you give it, but because I had +before intended to quit France. I thank you equally for the service you +have rendered me in being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my +heart, and, after what you have just said, I remember that only.” + +Château-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at each other; the impression was +the same on both of them, and the tone in which Morcerf had just +expressed his thanks was so determined that the position would have +become embarrassing for all if the conversation had continued. + +“Good-bye, Albert,” said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly extending his +hand to the young man. The latter did not appear to arouse from his +lethargy; in fact, he did not notice the offered hand. + +“Good-bye,” said Château-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane in +his left hand, and saluting with his right. + +Albert’s lips scarcely whispered “Good-bye,” but his look was more +explicit; it expressed a whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain, +and generous indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless +position for some time after his two friends had regained their +carriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the little tree to +which his servant had tied it, he mounted and galloped off in the +direction of Paris. + +In a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue du Helder. +As he alighted, he thought he saw his father’s pale face behind the +curtain of the count’s bedroom. Albert turned away his head with a +sigh, and went to his own apartments. He cast one lingering look on all +the luxuries which had rendered life so easy and so happy since his +infancy; he looked at the pictures, whose faces seemed to smile, and +the landscapes, which appeared painted in brighter colors. Then he took +away his mother’s portrait, with its oaken frame, leaving the gilt +frame from which he took it black and empty. Then he arranged all his +beautiful Turkish arms, his fine English guns, his Japanese china, his +cups mounted in silver, his artistic bronzes by Feuchères or Barye; +examined the cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer +of his secretaire, which he left open, all the pocket-money he had +about him, and with it the thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his +jewel-boxes; then he made an exact inventory of everything, and placed +it in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting aside the +books and papers which had collected there. + +At the beginning of this work, his servant, notwithstanding orders to +the contrary, came to his room. + +“What do you want?” asked he, with a more sorrowful than angry tone. + +“Pardon me, sir,” replied the valet; “you had forbidden me to disturb +you, but the Count of Morcerf has called me.” + +“Well!” said Albert. + +“I did not like to go to him without first seeing you.” + +“Why?” + +“Because the count is doubtless aware that I accompanied you to the +meeting this morning.” + +40254m + + + +“It is probable,” said Albert. + +“And since he has sent for me, it is doubtless to question me on what +happened there. What must I answer?” + +“The truth.” + +“Then I shall say the duel did not take place?” + +“You will say I apologized to the Count of Monte Cristo. Go.” + +The valet bowed and retired, and Albert returned to his inventory. As +he was finishing this work, the sound of horses prancing in the yard, +and the wheels of a carriage shaking his window, attracted his +attention. He approached the window, and saw his father get into it, +and drive away. The door was scarcely closed when Albert bent his steps +to his mother’s room; and, no one being there to announce him, he +advanced to her bedchamber, and distressed by what he saw and guessed, +stopped for one moment at the door. + +As if the same idea had animated these two beings, Mercédès was doing +the same in her apartments that he had just done in his. Everything was +in order,—laces, dresses, jewels, linen, money, all were arranged in +the drawers, and the countess was carefully collecting the keys. Albert +saw all these preparations and understood them, and exclaiming, “My +mother!” he threw his arms around her neck. + +The artist who could have depicted the expression of these two +countenances would certainly have made of them a beautiful picture. All +these proofs of an energetic resolution, which Albert did not fear on +his own account, alarmed him for his mother. “What are you doing?” +asked he. + +“What were you doing?” replied she. + +“Oh, my mother!” exclaimed Albert, so overcome he could scarcely speak; +“it is not the same with you and me—you cannot have made the same +resolution I have, for I have come to warn you that I bid adieu to your +house, and—and to you.” + +“I also,” replied Mercédès, “am going, and I acknowledge I had depended +on your accompanying me; have I deceived myself?” + +“Mother,” said Albert with firmness. “I cannot make you share the fate +I have planned for myself. I must live henceforth without rank and +fortune, and to begin this hard apprenticeship I must borrow from a +friend the loaf I shall eat until I have earned one. So, my dear +mother, I am going at once to ask Franz to lend me the small sum I +shall require to supply my present wants.” + +“You, my poor child, suffer poverty and hunger? Oh, do not say so; it +will break my resolutions.” + +“But not mine, mother,” replied Albert. “I am young and strong; I +believe I am courageous, and since yesterday I have learned the power +of will. Alas, my dear mother, some have suffered so much, and yet +live, and have raised a new fortune on the ruin of all the promises of +happiness which heaven had made them—on the fragments of all the hope +which God had given them! I have seen that, mother; I know that from +the gulf in which their enemies have plunged them they have risen with +so much vigor and glory that in their turn they have ruled their former +conquerors, and have punished them. No, mother; from this moment I have +done with the past, and accept nothing from it—not even a name, because +you can understand that your son cannot bear the name of a man who +ought to blush for it before another.” + +“Albert, my child,” said Mercédès, “if I had a stronger heart, that is +the counsel I would have given you; your conscience has spoken when my +voice became too weak; listen to its dictates. You had friends, Albert; +break off their acquaintance. But do not despair; you have life before +you, my dear Albert, for you are yet scarcely twenty-two years old; and +as a pure heart like yours wants a spotless name, take my father’s—it +was Herrera. I am sure, my dear Albert, whatever may be your career, +you will soon render that name illustrious. Then, my son, return to the +world still more brilliant because of your former sorrows; and if I am +wrong, still let me cherish these hopes, for I have no future to look +forward to. For me the grave opens when I pass the threshold of this +house.” + +“I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear mother,” said the young man. +“Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of Heaven will not pursue us, since +you are pure and I am innocent. But, since our resolution is formed, +let us act promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about half an hour ago; the +opportunity is favorable to avoid an explanation.” + +“I am ready, my son,” said Mercédès. + +Albert ran to fetch a carriage. He recollected that there was a small +furnished house to let in the Rue des Saints-Pères, where his mother +would find a humble but decent lodging, and thither he intended +conducting the countess. As the carriage stopped at the door, and +Albert was alighting, a man approached and gave him a letter. + +Albert recognized the bearer. “From the count,” said Bertuccio. Albert +took the letter, opened, and read it, then looked round for Bertuccio, +but he was gone. + +He returned to Mercédès with tears in his eyes and heaving breast, and +without uttering a word he gave her the letter. Mercédès read: + +“Albert,—While showing you that I have discovered your plans, I hope +also to convince you of my delicacy. You are free, you leave the +count’s house, and you take your mother to your home; but reflect, +Albert, you owe her more than your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep +the struggle for yourself, bear all the suffering, but spare her the +trial of poverty which must accompany your first efforts; for she +deserves not even the shadow of the misfortune which has this day +fallen on her, and Providence is not willing that the innocent should +suffer for the guilty. I know you are going to leave the Rue du Helder +without taking anything with you. Do not seek to know how I discovered +it; I know it—that is sufficient. + +“Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned, proud and +joyful, to my country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a lovely girl whom I +adored, and I was bringing to my betrothed a hundred and fifty louis, +painfully amassed by ceaseless toil. This money was for her; I destined +it for her, and, knowing the treachery of the sea I buried our treasure +in the little garden of the house my father lived in at Marseilles, on +the Allées de Meilhan. Your mother, Albert, knows that poor house well. +A short time since I passed through Marseilles, and went to see the old +place, which revived so many painful recollections; and in the evening +I took a spade and dug in the corner of the garden where I had +concealed my treasure. The iron box was there—no one had touched +it—under a beautiful fig-tree my father had planted the day I was born, +which overshadowed the spot. Well, Albert, this money, which was +formerly designed to promote the comfort and tranquillity of the woman +I adored, may now, through strange and painful circumstances, be +devoted to the same purpose. + +“Oh, feel for me, who could offer millions to that poor woman, but who +return her only the piece of black bread forgotten under my poor roof +since the day I was torn from her I loved. You are a generous man, +Albert, but perhaps you may be blinded by pride or resentment; if you +refuse me, if you ask another for what I have a right to offer you, I +will say it is ungenerous of you to refuse the life of your mother at +the hands of a man whose father was allowed by your father to die in +all the horrors of poverty and despair.” + +Albert stood pale and motionless to hear what his mother would decide +after she had finished reading this letter. Mercédès turned her eyes +with an ineffable look towards heaven. + +“I accept it,” said she; “he has a right to pay the dowry, which I +shall take with me to some convent!” + +Putting the letter in her bosom, she took her son’s arm, and with a +firmer step than she even herself expected she went downstairs. + + + + Chapter 92. The Suicide + +Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with Emmanuel and +Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did not conceal his joy +at the peaceful termination of the affair, and was loud in his +expressions of delight. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, allowed +his brother-in-law’s gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt +equal inward joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his +countenance. + +At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there, +motionless as a sentinel at his post. Monte Cristo put his head out of +the window, exchanged a few words with him in a low tone, and the +steward disappeared. + +“Count,” said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the Place Royale, +“put me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment of +needless anxiety on my account or yours.” + +“If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, said +Morrel, I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he +doubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave of +our friend, and let him hasten home.” + +“Stop a moment,” said Monte Cristo; “do not let me lose both my +companions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and present my +best compliments to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the +Champs-Élysées.” + +“Willingly,” said Maximilian; “particularly as I have business in that +quarter.” + +“Shall we wait breakfast for you?” asked Emmanuel. + +“No,” replied the young man. The door was closed, and the carriage +proceeded. “See what good fortune I brought you!” said Morrel, when he +was alone with the count. “Have you not thought so?” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “for that reason I wished to keep you near +me.” + +“It is miraculous!” continued Morrel, answering his own thoughts. + +“What?” said Monte Cristo. + +“What has just happened.” + +“Yes,” said the Count, “you are right—it is miraculous.” + +“For Albert is brave,” resumed Morrel. + +“Very brave,” said Monte Cristo; “I have seen him sleep with a sword +suspended over his head.” + +“And I know he has fought two duels,” said Morrel. “How can you +reconcile that with his conduct this morning?” + +“All owing to your influence,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling. + +“It is well for Albert he is not in the army,” said Morrel. + +“Why?” + +“An apology on the ground!” said the young captain, shaking his head. + +“Come,” said the count mildly, “do not entertain the prejudices of +ordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert is brave, he cannot +be a coward; he must then have had some reason for acting as he did +this morning, and confess that his conduct is more heroic than +otherwise.” + +“Doubtless, doubtless,” said Morrel; “but I shall say, like the +Spaniard, ‘He has not been so brave today as he was yesterday.’” + +“You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?” said the count, to +turn the conversation. + +“No; I must leave you at ten o’clock.” + +“Your engagement was for breakfast, then?” said the count. + +Morrel smiled, and shook his head. + +“Still you must breakfast somewhere.” + +“But if I am not hungry?” said the young man. + +“Oh,” said the count, “I only know two things which destroy the +appetite,—grief—and as I am happy to see you very cheerful, it is not +that—and love. Now after what you told me this morning of your heart, I +may believe——” + +“Well, count,” replied Morrel gayly, “I will not dispute it.” + +“But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?” said the count, +in a tone which showed how gladly he would have been admitted to the +secret. + +“I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not, count?” Monte +Cristo only answered by extending his hand to the young man. “Well,” +continued the latter, “since that heart is no longer with you in the +Bois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I must go and find it.” + +“Go,” said the count deliberately; “go, dear friend, but promise me if +you meet with any obstacle to remember that I have some power in this +world, that I am happy to use that power in the behalf of those I love, +and that I love you, Morrel.” + +40260m + + + +“I will remember it,” said the young man, “as selfish children +recollect their parents when they want their aid. When I need your +assistance, and the moment arrives, I will come to you, count.” + +“Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-bye, then.” + +“Good-bye, till we meet again.” + +They had arrived in the Champs-Élysées. Monte Cristo opened the +carriage-door, Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting +on the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, and Monte +Cristo hastened to join Bertuccio. + +“Well?” asked he. + +“She is going to leave her house,” said the steward. + +“And her son?” + +“Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same.” + +“Come this way.” Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the +letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward. “Go,” said he quickly. +“But first, let Haydée be informed that I have returned.” + +“Here I am,” said the young girl, who at the sound of the carriage had +run downstairs and whose face was radiant with joy at seeing the count +return safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport of a daughter finding a +father, all the delight of a mistress seeing an adored lover, were felt +by Haydée during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so +eagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte Cristo’s joy +was not less intense. Joy to hearts which have suffered long is like +the dew on the ground after a long drought; both the heart and the +ground absorb that beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is +outwardly apparent. + +Monte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a long time +dared to believe, that there were two Mercédès in the world, and he +might yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was reading eagerly +the tearful gaze of Haydée, when suddenly the door opened. The count +knit his brow. + +“M. de Morcerf!” said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for his +excuse. In fact, the count’s face brightened. + +“Which,” asked he, “the viscount or the count?” + +“The count.” + +“Oh,” exclaimed Haydée, “is it not yet over?” + +“I know not if it is finished, my beloved child,” said Monte Cristo, +taking the young girl’s hands; “but I do know you have nothing more to +fear.” + +“But it is the wretched——” + +“That man cannot injure me, Haydée,” said Monte Cristo; “it was his son +alone that there was cause to fear.” + +“And what I have suffered,” said the young girl, “you shall never know, +my lord.” + +Monte Cristo smiled. “By my father’s tomb,” said he, extending his hand +over the head of the young girl, “I swear to you, Haydée, that if any +misfortune happens, it will not be to me.” + +“I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to me,” +said the young girl, presenting her forehead to him. Monte Cristo +pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts +throb at once, the one violently, the other secretly. + +“Oh,” murmured the count, “shall I then be permitted to love again? Ask +M. de Morcerf into the drawing-room,” said he to Baptistin, while he +led the beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase. + +We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte Cristo, is +unexpected to our readers. While Mercédès, as we have said, was making +a similar inventory of her property to Albert’s, while she was +arranging her jewels, shutting her drawers, collecting her keys, to +leave everything in perfect order, she did not perceive a pale and +sinister face at a glass door which threw light into the passage, from +which everything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus looking, +without being heard or seen, probably heard and saw all that passed in +Madame de Morcerf’s apartments. From that glass door the pale-faced man +went to the count’s bedroom and raised with a constricted hand the +curtain of a window overlooking the courtyard. He remained there ten +minutes, motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own +heart. For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert, +returning from his meeting with the count, perceived his father +watching for his arrival behind a curtain, and turned aside. The +count’s eye expanded; he knew Albert had insulted the count dreadfully, +and that in every country in the world such an insult would lead to a +deadly duel. Albert returned safely—then the count was revenged. + +An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched countenance like +the last ray of the sun before it disappears behind the clouds which +bear the aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have +said, he waited in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the +account of his triumph. He easily understood why his son did not come +to see him before he went to avenge his father’s honor; but when that +was done, why did not his son come and throw himself into his arms? + +It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he sent for his +servant, who he knew was authorized not to conceal anything from him. +Ten minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was seen on the steps in a +black coat with a military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves. +He had apparently given previous orders, for as he reached the bottom +step his carriage came from the coach-house ready for him. The valet +threw into the carriage his military cloak, in which two swords were +wrapped, and, shutting the door, he took his seat by the side of the +coachman. The coachman stooped down for his orders. + +“To the Champs-Élysées,” said the general; “the Count of Monte +Cristo’s. Hurry!” + +The horses bounded beneath the whip; and in five minutes they stopped +before the count’s door. M. de Morcerf opened the door himself, and as +the carriage rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered the +open door with his servant. + +A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of Morcerf to Monte +Cristo, and the latter, leading Haydée aside, ordered that Morcerf be +asked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the room the third +time when, in turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door. + +“Ah, it is M. de Morcerf,” said Monte Cristo quietly; “I thought I had +not heard aright.” + +“Yes, it is I,” said the count, whom a frightful contraction of the +lips prevented from articulating freely. + +“May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing M. de +Morcerf so early?” + +“Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?” asked the general. + +“I had,” replied the count. + +“And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with you, and to +endeavor to kill you.” + +“Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite of them he +has not killed me, and did not even fight.” + +“Yet he considered you the cause of his father’s dishonor, the cause of +the fearful ruin which has fallen on my house.” + +“It is true, sir,” said Monte Cristo with his dreadful calmness; “a +secondary cause, but not the principal.” + +“Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?” + +“I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me.” + +“But to what do you attribute this conduct?” + +“To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty than I.” + +“And who was that?” + +“His father.” + +“That may be,” said the count, turning pale; “but you know the guilty +do not like to find themselves convicted.” + +“I know it, and I expected this result.” + +“You expected my son would be a coward?” cried the count. + +“M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!” said Monte Cristo. + +“A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal enemy within +reach of that sword, and does not fight, is a coward! Why is he not +here that I may tell him so?” + +“Sir,” replied Monte Cristo coldly, “I did not expect that you had come +here to relate to me your little family affairs. Go and tell M. Albert +that, and he may know what to answer you.” + +“Oh, no, no,” said the general, smiling faintly, “I did not come for +that purpose; you are right. I came to tell you that I also look upon +you as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you instinctively; that +it seems as if I had always known you, and always hated you; and, in +short, since the young people of the present day will not fight, it +remains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir?” + +“Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result, it is the +honor of your visit I alluded to.” + +“So much the better. Are you prepared?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead,” said the +general, whose teeth were clenched with rage. + +40262m + + + +“Until one of us dies,” repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly +up and down. + +“Let us start, then; we need no witnesses.” + +“Very true,” said Monte Cristo; “it is unnecessary, we know each other +so well!” + +“On the contrary,” said the count, “we know so little of each other.” + +“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable coolness; “let +us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the +battle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served as +guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain +Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have +not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count of +Morcerf, peer of France?” + +“Oh,” cried the general, as if branded with a hot iron, “wretch,—to +reproach me with my shame when about, perhaps, to kill me! No, I did +not say I was a stranger to you. I know well, demon, that you have +penetrated into the darkness of the past, and that you have read, by +the light of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps +I may be more honorable in my shame than you under your pompous +coverings. No—no, I am aware you know me; but I know you only as an +adventurer sewn up in gold and jewellery. You call yourself, in Paris, +the Count of Monte Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I +forget what. But it is your real name I want to know, in the midst of +your hundred names, that I may pronounce it when we meet to fight, at +the moment when I plunge my sword through your heart.” + +The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to +burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room near his +bedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his cravat, his coat +and waistcoat, he put on a sailor’s jacket and hat, from beneath which +rolled his long black hair. He returned thus, formidable and +implacable, advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the +general, who could not understand why he had disappeared, but who on +seeing him again, and feeling his teeth chatter and his legs sink under +him, drew back, and only stopped when he found a table to support his +clenched hand. + +“Fernand,” cried he, “of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to +overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?—or, rather, you +remember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I +show you today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young +again—a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your +marriage with Mercédès, my betrothed!” + +40268m + + + +The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze fixed, +looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking the wall to +support him, he glided along close to it until he reached the door, +through which he went out backwards, uttering this single mournful, +lamentable, distressing cry: + +“Edmond Dantès!” + +Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself +to the door, reeled across the courtyard, and falling into the arms of +his valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible,—“Home, home.” + +The fresh air and the shame he felt at having exposed himself before +his servants, partly recalled his senses, but the ride was short, and +as he drew near his house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a +short distance from the house and alighted. The door was wide open, a +hackney-coach was standing in the middle of the yard—a strange sight +before so noble a mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but +without daring to inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his apartment. + +Two persons were coming down the stairs; he had only time to creep into +an alcove to avoid them. It was Mercédès leaning on her son’s arm and +leaving the house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who, +concealed behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercédès dress brush +past him, and his son’s warm breath, pronouncing these words: + +“Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!” + +The words died away, the steps were lost in the distance. The general +drew himself up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadful +sob which ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same +time by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of +the hackney-coach, then the coachman’s voice, and then the rolling of +the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to see +once more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach drove on +and the head of neither Mercédès nor her son appeared at the window to +take a last look at the house or the deserted father and husband. + +And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the +gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped through one of +the panes of the window, which was broken by the explosion. + +40270m + + + + + Chapter 93. Valentine + +We may easily conceive where Morrel’s appointment was. On leaving Monte +Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort’s; we say slowly, for Morrel +had more than half an hour to spare to go five hundred steps, but he +had hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo because he wished to be +alone with his thoughts. He knew his time well—the hour when Valentine +was giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was sure not to be disturbed in +the performance of this pious duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given +him leave to go twice a week, and he was now availing himself of that +permission. + +He arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she +seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness, +amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf’s adventure +had made in the world, for the affair at the Opera was generally known. +No one at Villefort’s doubted that a duel would ensue from it. +Valentine, with her woman’s instinct, guessed that Morrel would be +Monte Cristo’s second, and from the young man’s well-known courage and +his great affection for the count, she feared that he would not content +himself with the passive part assigned to him. We may easily understand +how eagerly the particulars were asked for, given, and received; and +Morrel could read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when +she knew that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was +unexpected. + +“Now,” said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her +grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool,—“now let us talk +about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of +leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M. de +Villefort’s.” + +“Yes,” said Maximilian, “I recollect the project, of which I highly +approved.” + +“Well,” said Valentine, “you may approve again, for grandpapa is again +thinking of it.” + +“Bravo,” said Maximilian. + +40272m + + + +“And do you know,” said Valentine, “what reason grandpapa gives for +leaving this house.” Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose silence, +but she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her smile, were all +for Morrel. + +“Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier’s reason,” answered Morrel, “I can +readily believe it to be a good one.” + +“An excellent one,” said Valentine. “He pretends the air of the +Faubourg Saint-Honoré is not good for me.” + +“Indeed?” said Morrel; “in that M. Noirtier may be right; you have not +seemed to be well for the last fortnight.” + +“Not very,” said Valentine. “And grandpapa has become my physician, and +I have the greatest confidence in him, because he knows everything.” + +“Do you then really suffer?” asked Morrel quickly. + +“Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general uneasiness, that +is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach feels as if it were +struggling to get accustomed to something.” Noirtier did not lose a +word of what Valentine said. + +“And what treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?” + +“A very simple one,” said Valentine. “I swallow every morning a +spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one +spoonful, I began by one—now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a +panacea.” Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she suffered. + +Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was very +beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were more +brilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white like +mother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was adding a +yellowish hue. + +From Valentine the young man looked towards Noirtier. The latter +watched with strange and deep interest the young girl, absorbed by her +affection, and he also, like Morrel, followed those traces of inward +suffering which was so little perceptible to a common observer that +they escaped the notice of everyone but the grandfather and the lover. + +“But,” said Morrel, “I thought this mixture, of which you now take four +spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?” + +“I know it is very bitter,” said Valentine; “so bitter, that all I +drink afterwards appears to have the same taste.” Noirtier looked +inquiringly at his granddaughter. “Yes, grandpapa,” said Valentine; “it +is so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared +water; I left half, because it seemed so bitter.” Noirtier turned pale, +and made a sign that he wished to speak. + +Valentine rose to fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with +evident anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl’s +head already, her cheeks were becoming red. + +“Oh,” cried she, without losing any of her cheerfulness, “this is +singular! I can’t see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?” And she leaned +against the window. + +“The sun is not shining,” said Morrel, more alarmed by Noirtier’s +expression than by Valentine’s indisposition. He ran towards her. The +young girl smiled. + +“Cheer up,” said she to Noirtier. “Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is +nothing, and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a +carriage in the courtyard?” She opened Noirtier’s door, ran to a window +in the passage, and returned hastily. “Yes,” said she, “it is Madame +Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye;—I +must run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather, farewell +till I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you +not to persuade them to stay.” + +40274m + + + +Morrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend the little +staircase which led both to Madame de Villefort’s apartments and to +hers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a sign to Morrel to take +the dictionary. Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine, he had learned how +to understand the old man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he was to +the work, he had to repeat most of the letters of the alphabet and to +find every word in the dictionary, so that it was ten minutes before +the thought of the old man was translated by these words, + +“Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from Valentine’s room.” + +Morrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken Barrois’s +situation, and in Noirtier’s name gave that order. The servant soon +returned. The decanter and the glass were completely empty. Noirtier +made a sign that he wished to speak. + +“Why are the glass and decanter empty?” asked he; “Valentine said she +only drank half the glassful.” + +The translation of this new question occupied another five minutes. + +“I do not know,” said the servant, “but the housemaid is in +Mademoiselle Valentine’s room: perhaps she has emptied them.” + +“Ask her,” said Morrel, translating Noirtier’s thought this time by his +look. The servant went out, but returned almost immediately. +“Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de +Villefort’s,” said he; “and in passing, as she was thirsty, she drank +what remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master Edward had +emptied that to make a pond for his ducks.” + +Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as a gambler does who stakes his +all on one stroke. From that moment the old man’s eyes were fixed on +the door, and did not quit it. + +It was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom Valentine had seen; +they had been ushered into Madame de Villefort’s room, who had said she +would receive them there. That is why Valentine passed through her +room, which was on a level with Valentine’s, and only separated from it +by Edward’s. The two ladies entered the drawing-room with that sort of +official stiffness which preludes a formal communication. Among worldly +people manner is contagious. Madame de Villefort received them with +equal solemnity. Valentine entered at this moment, and the formalities +were resumed. + +“My dear friend,” said the baroness, while the two young people were +shaking hands, “I and Eugénie are come to be the first to announce to +you the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti.” +Danglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found that it +answered better than count. + +“Allow me to present you my sincere congratulations,” replied Madame de +Villefort. “Prince Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare +qualities.” + +40276m + + + +“Listen,” said the baroness, smiling; “speaking to you as a friend I +can say that the prince does not yet appear all he will be. He has +about him a little of that foreign manner by which French persons +recognize, at first sight, the Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he +gives evidence of great kindness of disposition, much keenness of wit, +and as to suitability, M. Danglars assures me that his fortune is +majestic—that is his word.” + +“And then,” said Eugénie, while turning over the leaves of Madame de +Villefort’s album, “add that you have taken a great fancy to the young +man.” + +“And,” said Madame de Villefort, “I need not ask you if you share that +fancy.” + +“I?” replied Eugénie with her usual candor. “Oh, not the least in the +world, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or +the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in +heart, in person, and in thought.” + +Eugénie pronounced these words with so firm a tone that the color +mounted to Valentine’s cheeks. The timid girl could not understand that +vigorous nature which appeared to have none of the timidities of woman. + +“At any rate,” said she, “since I am to be married whether I will or +not, I ought to be thankful to Providence for having released me from +my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should this day have been +the wife of a dishonored man.” + +“It is true,” said the baroness, with that strange simplicity sometimes +met with among fashionable ladies, and of which plebeian intercourse +can never entirely deprive them,—“it is very true that had not the +Morcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert. The +general depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have +had a narrow escape.” + +“But,” said Valentine, timidly, “does all the father’s shame revert +upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent of the +treason charged against the general.” + +“Excuse me,” said the implacable young girl, “Monsieur Albert claims +and well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M. +de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground +today.” + +“Impossible,” said Madame de Villefort. + +“Ah, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, with the same simplicity we +before noticed, “it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was +present at the explanation.” + +Valentine also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word +had reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier’s room. +Deeply engaged with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had +ceased for a moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed, +have found it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few +minutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars’ hand, pressed on her arm, +aroused her from her lethargy. + +“What is it?” said she, starting at Madame Danglars’ touch as she would +have done from an electric shock. + +“It is, my dear Valentine,” said the baroness, “that you are, +doubtless, suffering.” + +40280m + + + +“I?” said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning forehead. + +“Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and then red +successively, three or four times in one minute.” + +“Indeed,” cried Eugénie, “you are very pale!” + +“Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.” Artless as she +was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to leave, and +besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance. + +“Retire, Valentine,” said she; “you are really suffering, and these +ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore +you.” + +Valentine kissed Eugénie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already +risen to take her leave, and went out. + +“That poor child,” said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone, +“she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had +some serious illness.” + +Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could not quite +understand, had crossed Edward’s room without noticing some trick of +the child, and through her own had reached the little staircase. + +She was within three steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel’s +voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot +missed the step, her hands had no power to hold the baluster, and +falling against the wall she lost her balance wholly and toppled to the +floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened it, and found Valentine +stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised +her in his arms and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes. + +“Oh, what a clumsy thing I am,” said she with feverish volubility; “I +don’t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the +landing.” + +“You have hurt yourself, perhaps,” said Morrel. “What can I do for you, +Valentine?” + +Valentine looked around her; she saw the deepest terror depicted in +Noirtier’s eyes. + +“Don’t worry, dear grandpapa,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “it is +nothing—it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all.” + +“Another attack of giddiness,” said Morrel, clasping his hands. “Oh, +attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you.” + +“But no,” said Valentine,—“no, I tell you it is all past, and it was +nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugénie is to be married in a +week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal +festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I—at +least, I understood it so.” + +“When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you +who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try to make him +answer—Soon.” + +“And do you,” said Valentine, “depend on me to stimulate the tardiness +and arouse the memory of grandpapa?” + +“Yes,” cried Morrel, “make haste. So long as you are not mine, +Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you.” + +“Oh,” replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, “oh, indeed, +Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they +say, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha!” + +She burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and +twisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless. +The cry of terror which was stopped on Noirtier’s lips, seemed to start +from his eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance. +The young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in +Mademoiselle Valentine’s room, and the servant who had replaced +Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold, so +inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they were +seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew into the +passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugénie were going out at +that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance. + +“I told you so!” exclaimed Madame de Villefort. “Poor child!” + +40278m + + + + + Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal + +At the same moment M. de Villefort’s voice was heard calling from his +study, “What is the matter?” + +Morrel looked at Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with +a glance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat similar +circumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time to get his hat and +throw himself breathless into the closet when the procureur’s footstep +was heard in the passage. + +Villefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took her in his +arms. + +“A physician, a physician,—M. d’Avrigny!” cried Villefort; “or rather I +will go for him myself.” + +He flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same moment darted out at +the other door. He had been struck to the heart by a frightful +recollection—the conversation he had heard between the doctor and +Villefort the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death, recurred to him; +these symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had +preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo’s voice +seemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours +before, “Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power.” + +More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence +to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. + +Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M. +d’Avrigny’s door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed. +Villefort ran upstairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and +let him pass, only calling to him: + +“In his study, Monsieur Procureur—in his study!” Villefort pushed, or +rather forced, the door open. + +“Ah,” said the doctor, “is it you?” + +“Yes,” said Villefort, closing the door after him, “it is I, who am +come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is +accursed!” + +“What?” said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion, +“have you another invalid?” + +“Yes, doctor,” cried Villefort, clutching his hair, “yes!” + +D’Avrigny’s look implied, “I told you it would be so.” Then he slowly +uttered these words, “Who is now dying in your house? What new victim +is going to accuse you of weakness before God?” + +A mournful sob burst from Villefort’s heart; he approached the doctor, +and seizing his arm,—“Valentine,” said he, “it is Valentine’s turn!” + +40284m + + + +“Your daughter!” cried d’Avrigny with grief and surprise. + +“You see you were deceived,” murmured the magistrate; “come and see +her, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected +her.” + +“Each time you have applied to me,” said the doctor, “it has been too +late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you +have to do with there is no time to be lost.” + +“Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with +weakness. This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him.” + +“Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,” +said d’Avrigny. “Come.” + +The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them back at full +speed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo’s door. + +The count was in his study and was reading with an angry look something +which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name of Morrel, who +had left him only two hours before, the count raised his head, arose, +and sprang to meet him. + +“What is the matter, Maximilian?” asked he; “you are pale, and the +perspiration rolls from your forehead.” Morrel fell into a chair. + +“Yes,” said he, “I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you.” + +“Are all your family well?” asked the count, with an affectionate +benevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt. + +“Thank you, count—thank you,” said the young man, evidently embarrassed +how to begin the conversation; “yes, everyone in my family is well.” + +“So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?” replied the +count with increased anxiety. + +“Yes,” said Morrel, “it is true; I have but now left a house where +death has just entered, to run to you.” + +“Are you then come from M. de Morcerf’s?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“No,” said Morrel; “is someone dead in his house?” + +“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied Monte Cristo with +great coolness. + +“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian. + +“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said Monte Cristo; “a dead +father or husband is better than a dishonored one,—blood washes out +shame.” + +“Poor countess,” said Maximilian, “I pity her very much; she is so +noble a woman!” + +“Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son of +the countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to +me—can I have the happiness of being useful to you?” + +40286m + + + +“Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could +lend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me.” + +“Tell me what it is,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“Oh,” said Morrel, “I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to +mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count——” +Morrel hesitated. + +“Do you think I love you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’s +hand affectionately in his. + +“Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,” placing his hand +on his heart, “that I ought to have no secret from you.” + +“You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart +speaks to you. Tell me what it says.” + +“Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone +you know?” + +“I am at your service, and still more my servants.” + +“Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.” + +“Shall I ring for Baptistin?” + +“No, I will go and speak to him myself.” Morrel went out, called +Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly. + +“Well, have you sent?” asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return. + +“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.” + +“You know I am waiting,” said Monte Cristo, smiling. + +“Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of +trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed +near me—allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were +speaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said +that I did not lose a single word.” + +“This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and +shuddering, Morrel.” + +“Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Someone had just died in the house to +which that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation I +overheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The +former was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the +second time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly +entered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some +exterminating angel, as an object of God’s anger.” + +“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man, +and by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained +in the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian’s face. + +“Yes,” continued Morrel, “death had entered that house twice within one +month.” + +“And what did the doctor answer?” asked Monte Cristo. + +“He replied—he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must +be attributed”— + +“To what?” + +“To poison.” + +“Indeed!” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of +extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the +intense interest with which he listened; “indeed, Maximilian, did you +hear that?” + +“Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another +death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice.” + +Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest +calmness. + +“Well,” said Maximilian, “death came a third time, and neither the +master of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps, +striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in +possession of this secret?” + +“My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be relating an +adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard +it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a +physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden +deaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know +all that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it +does not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have +devoted that house to God’s anger—well, who says your supposition is +not reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to +see them pass over. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which +is walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let +his justice accomplish its purpose.” + +Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in +the count’s manner. + +“Besides,” continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would have +supposed it was the same person speaking—“besides, who says that it +will begin again?” + +“It has returned, count,” exclaimed Morrel; “that is why I hastened to +you.” + +“Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give +information to the procureur?” Monte Cristo uttered the last words with +so much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out: + +“You know of whom I speak, count, do you not?” + +“Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting +the dots to the _i_, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking +one evening in M. de Villefort’s garden; from what you relate, I +suppose it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. +You heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M. +de Saint-Méran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M. +d’Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you, +honest man, have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your +conscience to know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We +are no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or +Free Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people? ‘Conscience, what +hast thou to do with me?’ as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them +sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness, +if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who +have no remorse to disturb you.” + +Deep grief was depicted on Morrel’s features; he seized Monte Cristo’s +hand. “But it is beginning again, I say!” + +“Well,” said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could +not understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, “let it +begin again,—it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemned +them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all +disappear, like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall, +one by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there are two +hundred of them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Méran; Madame de +Saint-Méran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the +old Noirtier, or young Valentine.” + +“You knew it?” cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte +Cristo started,—he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved; +“you knew it, and said nothing?” + +“And what is it to me?” replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders; +“do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other? +Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice.” + +“But I,” cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, “I love her!” + +“You love?—whom?” cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing +the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven. + +“I love most fondly—I love madly—I love as a man who would give his +life-blood to spare her a tear—I love Valentine de Villefort, who is +being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I +ask God and you how I can save her?” + +Monte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heard +the roar of a wounded lion. “Unhappy man,” cried he, wringing his hands +in his turn; “you love Valentine,—that daughter of an accursed race!” + +Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression—never had so terrible an +eye flashed before his face—never had the genius of terror he had so +often seen, either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of +Algeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified. + +As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as if +dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so +powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as +turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun’s genial influence when +the cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted +about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face. + +“See,” said he, “my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless +and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes +to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious +spectator,—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I, +who like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed +protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and +powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course +I was watching, and bitten to the heart!” + +Morrel groaned. + +“Come, come,” continued the count, “complaints are unavailing, be a +man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over +you.” + +Morrel shook his head sorrowfully. + +“I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?” cried Monte Cristo. +“Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is +twelve o’clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather +than in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel—it is noon; if +Valentine is not now dead, she will not die.” + +“How so?” cried Morrel, “when I left her dying?” + +Monte Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in +that brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of +light or the angel of darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and +generous? God only knows. + +Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as a +child awaking from its sleep. + +“Maximilian,” said he, “return home. I command you not to stir—attempt +nothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send +you tidings. Go.” + +“Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power +against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?” And the young +man, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo with +indescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy +and sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes. + +“I can do much for you, my friend,” replied the count. “Go; I must be +alone.” + +Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised +over everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressed +the count’s hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for +Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running. + +Meanwhile, Villefort and d’Avrigny had made all possible haste, +Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, and +the doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstances +demanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secret +intensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and +his lips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than +even the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was +watching also intently and affectionately. + +At last d’Avrigny slowly uttered these words: “She is still alive!” + +“Still?” cried Villefort; “oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that.” + +“Yes,” said the physician, “I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am +astonished at it.” + +“But is she safe?” asked the father. + +“Yes, since she lives.” + +At that moment d’Avrigny’s glance met Noirtier’s eye. It glistened with +such extraordinary joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physician +was struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair,—her lips were +scarcely discernible, they were so pale and white, as well as her whole +face,—and remained motionless, looking at Noirtier, who appeared to +anticipate and commend all he did. + +“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “call Mademoiselle Valentine’s +maid, if you please.” + +Villefort went himself to find her; and d’Avrigny approached Noirtier. + +“Have you something to tell me?” asked he. The old man winked his eyes +expressively, which we may remember was his only way of expressing his +approval. + +“Privately?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I will remain with you.” At this moment Villefort returned, +followed by the lady’s maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort. + +“What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me, +and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously +of it.” + +The young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection of a +true mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D’Avrigny +continued to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate +and become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration +stood in drops upon his forehead. + +“Ah,” said he, involuntarily following Noirtier’s eyes, which were +fixed on Madame de Villefort, who repeated: + +“This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her +to bed.” + +M. d’Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his remaining alone with +Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the best thing that could +be done; but he forbade that anything should be given to her except +what he ordered. + +They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move +or speak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, just +power to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing her +seemed to be resigning his very soul. D’Avrigny followed the invalid, +wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go in +person to a chemist’s to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself, +and wait for him in his daughter’s room. Then, having renewed his +injunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again to +Noirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that +no one was listening: + +“Do you,” said he, “know anything of this young lady’s illness?” + +“Yes,” said the old man. + +“We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me.” +Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. “Did you anticipate +the accident which has happened to your granddaughter?” + +“Yes.” D’Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching Noirtier: + +“Pardon what I am going to say,” added he, “but no indication should be +neglected in this terrible situation. Did you see poor Barrois die?” +Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven. + +“Do you know of what he died!” asked d’Avrigny, placing his hand on +Noirtier’s shoulder. + +“Yes,” replied the old man. + +“Do you think he died a natural death?” A sort of smile was discernible +on the motionless lips of Noirtier. + +“Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended for him?” + +“No.” + +“Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck Barrois has +now attacked Valentine?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then will she die too?” asked d’Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze +on Noirtier. He watched the effect of this question on the old man. + +“No,” replied he with an air of triumph which would have puzzled the +most clever diviner. + +“Then you hope?” said d’Avrigny, with surprise. + +“Yes.” + +“What do you hope?” The old man made him understand with his eyes that +he could not answer. + +“Ah, yes, it is true,” murmured d’Avrigny. Then, turning to +Noirtier,—“Do you hope the assassin will be tried?” + +“No.” + +“Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine?” + +“Yes.” + +“It is no news to you,” added d’Avrigny, “to tell you that an attempt +has been made to poison her?” The old man made a sign that he +entertained no doubt upon the subject. “Then how do you hope Valentine +will escape?” + +Noirtier kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same spot. D’Avrigny +followed the direction and saw that they were fixed on a bottle +containing the mixture which he took every morning. “Ah, indeed?” said +d’Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought, “has it occurred to +you”—Noirtier did not let him finish. + +“Yes,” said he. + +“To prepare her system to resist poison?” + +“Yes.” + +“By accustoming her by degrees——” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” said Noirtier, delighted to be understood. + +“Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the mixture I give +you.” + +“Yes.” + +“And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored to +neutralize the effect of a similar poison?” Noirtier’s joy continued. +“And you have succeeded,” exclaimed d’Avrigny. “Without that precaution +Valentine would have died before assistance could have been procured. +The dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and +this time, at any rate, Valentine will not die.” + +A superhuman joy expanded the old man’s eyes, which were raised towards +heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. At this moment +Villefort returned. + +“Here, doctor,” said he, “is what you sent me for.” + +“Was this prepared in your presence?” + +“Yes,” replied the procureur. + +“Have you not let it go out of your hands?” + +“No.” + +D’Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it +contained in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them. + +“Well,” said he, “let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions to +everyone, and you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one +deviates from them.” + +40294m + + + +At the moment when d’Avrigny was returning to Valentine’s room, +accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor and +calm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel of +M. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that house +left it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be +unsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishing +himself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o’clock. +The lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant, +who, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months in +advance. + +This new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was called Il +Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in, and that +same night the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with surprise +that carpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower part of +the tottering house. + + + + Chapter 95. Father and Daughter + +We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally to +announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of Eugénie +Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This formal announcement, which +implied or appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons concerned +in this momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our +readers must be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and to +transport themselves, the morning of that day of great catastrophes, +into the showy, gilded salon we have before shown them, and which was +the pride of its owner, Baron Danglars. + +In this room, at about ten o’clock in the morning, the banker himself +had been walking to and fro for some minutes thoughtfully and in +evident uneasiness, watching both doors, and listening to every sound. +When his patience was exhausted, he called his valet. + +“Étienne,” said he, “see why Mademoiselle Eugénie has asked me to meet +her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long.” + +Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more calm; +Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview with her +father, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the spot. The +singularity of this step, and above all its formality, had not a little +surprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed his daughter by +repairing first to the drawing-room. Étienne soon returned from his +errand. + +“Mademoiselle’s lady’s maid says, sir, that mademoiselle is finishing +her toilette, and will be here shortly.” + +Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world and to +his servants Danglars assumed the character of the good-natured man and +the indulgent father. This was one of his parts in the popular comedy +he was performing,—a make-up he had adopted and which suited him about +as well as the masks worn on the classic stage by paternal actors, who +seen from one side, were the image of geniality, and from the other +showed lips drawn down in chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that +in private the genial side descended to the level of the other, so that +generally the indulgent man disappeared to give place to the brutal +husband and domineering father. + +“Why the devil does that foolish girl, who pretends to wish to speak to +me, not come into my study? and why on earth does she want to speak to +me at all?” + +He was turning this thought over in his brain for the twentieth time, +when the door opened and Eugénie appeared, attired in a figured black +satin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if she were going to +the Italian Opera. + +“Well, Eugénie, what is it you want with me? and why in this solemn +drawing-room when the study is so comfortable?” + +“I quite understand why you ask, sir,” said Eugénie, making a sign that +her father might be seated, “and in fact your two questions suggest +fully the theme of our conversation. I will answer them both, and +contrary to the usual method, the last first, because it is the least +difficult. I have chosen the drawing-room, sir, as our place of +meeting, in order to avoid the disagreeable impressions and influences +of a banker’s study. Those gilded cashbooks, drawers locked like gates +of fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come from I know not where, and the +quantities of letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, and +Peru, have generally a strange influence on a father’s mind, and make +him forget that there is in the world an interest greater and more +sacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have, therefore, +chosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling and happy in their +magnificent frames, your portrait, mine, my mother’s, and all sorts of +rural landscapes and touching pastorals. I rely much on external +impressions; perhaps, with regard to you, they are immaterial, but I +should be no artist if I had not some fancies.” + +“Very well,” replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all this preamble +with imperturbable coolness, but without understanding a word, since +like every man burdened with thoughts of the past, he was occupied with +seeking the thread of his own ideas in those of the speaker. + +“There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so,” said +Eugénie, without the least confusion, and with that masculine +pointedness which distinguished her gesture and her language; “and you +appear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to the first. +You ask me why I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two +words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti.” + +Danglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms towards +heaven. + +40298m + + + +“Yes, indeed, sir,” continued Eugénie, still quite calm; “you are +astonished, I see; for since this little affair began, I have not +manifested the slightest opposition, and yet I am always sure, when the +opportunity arrives, to oppose a determined and absolute will to people +who have not consulted me, and things which displease me. However, this +time, my tranquillity, or passiveness as philosophers say, proceeded +from another source; it proceeded from a wish, like a submissive and +devoted daughter” (a slight smile was observable on the purple lips of +the young girl), “to practice obedience.” + +“Well?” asked Danglars. + +“Well, sir,” replied Eugénie, “I have tried to the very last and now +that the moment has come, I feel in spite of all my efforts that it is +impossible.” + +“But,” said Danglars, whose weak mind was at first quite overwhelmed +with the weight of this pitiless logic, marking evident premeditation +and force of will, “what is your reason for this refusal, Eugénie? what +reason do you assign?” + +“My reason?” replied the young girl. “Well, it is not that the man is +more ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable than any other; no, M. +Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those who look at men’s faces and +figures as a very good specimen of his kind. It is not, either, that my +heart is less touched by him than any other; that would be a +schoolgirl’s reason, which I consider quite beneath me. I actually love +no one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not then see why, without +real necessity, I should encumber my life with a perpetual companion. +Has not some sage said, ‘Nothing too much’? and another, ‘I carry all +my effects with me’? I have been taught these two aphorisms in Latin +and in Greek; one is, I believe, from Phædrus, and the other from Bias. +Well, my dear father, in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal +shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that +is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly +alone, and consequently perfectly free.” + +“Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!” murmured Danglars, turning pale, for he +knew from long experience the solidity of the obstacle he had so +suddenly encountered. + +“Unhappy girl,” replied Eugénie, “unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No, +indeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical and affected. Happy, +on the contrary, for what am I in want of? The world calls me +beautiful. It is something to be well received. I like a favorable +reception; it expands the countenance, and those around me do not then +appear so ugly. I possess a share of wit, and a certain relative +sensibility, which enables me to draw from life in general, for the +support of mine, all I meet with that is good, like the monkey who +cracks the nut to get at its contents. I am rich, for you have one of +the first fortunes in France. I am your only daughter, and you are not +so exacting as the fathers of the Porte Saint-Martin and Gaîté, who +disinherit their daughters for not giving them grandchildren. Besides, +the provident law has deprived you of the power to disinherit me, at +least entirely, as it has also of the power to compel me to marry +Monsieur This or Monsieur That. And so—being, beautiful, witty, +somewhat talented, as the comic operas say, and rich—and that is +happiness, sir—why do you call me unhappy?” + +Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to insolence, +could not entirely repress his brutal feelings, but they betrayed +themselves only by an exclamation. Under the fixed and inquiring gaze +levelled at him from under those beautiful black eyebrows, he prudently +turned away, and calmed himself immediately, daunted by the power of a +resolute mind. + +“Truly, my daughter,” replied he with a smile, “you are all you boast +of being, excepting one thing; I will not too hastily tell you which, +but would rather leave you to guess it.” + +Eugénie looked at Danglars, much surprised that one flower of her crown +of pride, with which she had so superbly decked herself, should be +disputed. + +“My daughter,” continued the banker, “you have perfectly explained to +me the sentiments which influence a girl like you, who is determined +she will not marry; now it remains for me to tell you the motives of a +father like me, who has decided that his daughter shall marry.” + +Eugénie bowed, not as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary +prepared for a discussion. + +“My daughter,” continued Danglars, “when a father asks his daughter to +choose a husband, he has always some reason for wishing her to marry. +Some are affected with the mania of which you spoke just now, that of +living again in their grandchildren. This is not my weakness, I tell +you at once; family joys have no charm for me. I may acknowledge this +to a daughter whom I know to be philosophical enough to understand my +indifference, and not to impute it to me as a crime.” + +“This is not to the purpose,” said Eugénie; “let us speak candidly, +sir; I admire candor.” + +“Oh,” said Danglars, “I can, when circumstances render it desirable, +adopt your system, although it may not be my general practice. I will +therefore proceed. I have proposed to you to marry, not for your sake, +for indeed I did not think of you in the least at the moment (you +admire candor, and will now be satisfied, I hope); but because it +suited me to marry you as soon as possible, on account of certain +commercial speculations I am desirous of entering into.” Eugénie became +uneasy. + +40302m + + + +“It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be angry with +me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not willingly enter into +arithmetical explanations with an artist like you, who fears to enter +my study lest she should imbibe disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions +and sensations. But in that same banker’s study, where you very +willingly presented yourself yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I +give you monthly for pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady, +that many things may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not +marry. There one may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your +nervous susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room, +namely, that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life; +that credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte +Cristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never +forgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body becomes a +corpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the banker who is +proud to own so good a logician as you for his daughter.” + +But Eugénie, instead of stooping, drew herself up under the blow. +“Ruined?” said she. + +“Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean,” said Danglars, +almost digging his nails into his breast, while he preserved on his +harsh features the smile of the heartless though clever man; +“ruined—yes, that is it.” + +“Ah!” said Eugénie. + +“Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of horror, as the +tragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from my lips how you may +alleviate this misfortune, so far as it will affect you.” + +“Oh,” cried Eugénie, “you are a bad physiognomist, if you imagine I +deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you warn me. I +ruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my talent left? +Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself what you +would never have given me, whatever might have been your fortune, a +hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per annum, for which I +shall be indebted to no one but myself; and which, instead of being +given as you gave me those poor twelve thousand francs, with sour looks +and reproaches for my prodigality, will be accompanied with +acclamations, with bravos, and with flowers? And if I do not possess +that talent, which your smiles prove to me you doubt, should I not +still have that ardent love of independence, which will be a substitute +for wealth, and which in my mind supersedes even the instinct of +self-preservation? No, I grieve not on my own account, I shall always +find a resource; my books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which +cost but little, and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my +own. + +“Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive yourself +again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided against the +catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass over without +affecting her. She has taken care for herself,—at least I hope so,—for +her attention has not been diverted from her projects by watching over +me. She has fostered my independence by professedly indulging my love +for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my childhood I have seen too much, and +understood too much, of what has passed around me, for misfortune to +have an undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have +been beloved by no one—so much the worse; that has naturally led me to +love no one—so much the better—now you have my profession of faith.” + +“Then,” said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due to +offended paternal love,—“then, mademoiselle, you persist in your +determination to accelerate my ruin?” + +“Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not +understand you.” + +“So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen.” + +“I am all attention,” said Eugénie, looking so earnestly at her father +that it was an effort for the latter to endure her unrelenting gaze. + +“M. Cavalcanti,” continued Danglars, “is about to marry you, and will +place in my hands his fortune, amounting to three million livres.” + +“That is admirable!” said Eugénie with sovereign contempt, smoothing +her gloves out one upon the other. + +“You think I shall deprive you of those three millions,” said Danglars; +“but do not fear it. They are destined to produce at least ten. I and a +brother banker have obtained a grant of a railway, the only industrial +enterprise which in these days promises to make good the fabulous +prospects that Law once held out to the eternally deluded Parisians, in +the fantastic Mississippi scheme. As I look at it, a millionth part of +a railway is worth fully as much as an acre of waste land on the banks +of the Ohio. We make in our case a deposit, on a mortgage, which is an +advance, as you see, since we gain at least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a +hundred livres’ worth of iron in exchange for our money. Well, within a +week I am to deposit four millions for my share; the four millions, I +promise you, will produce ten or twelve.” + +“But during my visit to you the day before yesterday, sir, which you +appear to recollect so well,” replied Eugénie, “I saw you arranging a +deposit—is not that the term?—of five millions and a half; you even +pointed it out to me in two drafts on the treasury, and you were +astonished that so valuable a paper did not dazzle my eyes like +lightning.” + +“Yes, but those five millions and a half are not mine, and are only a +proof of the great confidence placed in me; my title of popular banker +has gained me the confidence of charitable institutions, and the five +millions and a half belong to them; at any other time I should not have +hesitated to make use of them, but the great losses I have recently +sustained are well known, and, as I told you, my credit is rather +shaken. That deposit may be at any moment withdrawn, and if I had +employed it for another purpose, I should bring on me a disgraceful +bankruptcy. I do not despise bankruptcies, believe me, but they must be +those which enrich, not those which ruin. Now, if you marry M. +Cavalcanti, and I get the three millions, or even if it is thought I am +going to get them, my credit will be restored, and my fortune, which +for the last month or two has been swallowed up in gulfs which have +been opened in my path by an inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do +you understand me?” + +“Perfectly; you pledge me for three millions, do you not?” + +“The greater the amount, the more flattering it is to you; it gives you +an idea of your value.” + +“Thank you. One word more, sir; do you promise me to make what use you +can of the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti will bring without +touching the money? This is no act of selfishness, but of delicacy. I +am willing to help rebuild your fortune, but I will not be an +accomplice in the ruin of others.” + +“But since I tell you,” cried Danglars, “that with these three +million——” + +“Do you expect to recover your position, sir, without touching those +three million?” + +“I hope so, if the marriage should take place and confirm my credit.” + +“Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti the five hundred thousand +francs you promise for my dowry?” + +“He shall receive them on returning from the mayor’s20.” + +“Very well!” + +“What next? what more do you want?” + +“I wish to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me entirely +free in my person?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Then, as I said before, sir,—very well; I am ready to marry M. +Cavalcanti.” + +“But what are you up to?” + +“Ah, that is my affair. What advantage should I have over you, if +knowing your secret I were to tell you mine?” + +Danglars bit his lips. “Then,” said he, “you are ready to pay the +official visits, which are absolutely indispensable?” + +“Yes,” replied Eugénie. + +“And to sign the contract in three days?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then, in my turn, I also say, very well!” + +Danglars pressed his daughter’s hand in his. But, extraordinary to +relate, the father did not say, “Thank you, my child,” nor did the +daughter smile at her father. + +“Is the conference ended?” asked Eugénie, rising. + +Danglars motioned that he had nothing more to say. Five minutes +afterwards the piano resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle d’Armilly’s +fingers, and Mademoiselle Danglars was singing Brabantio’s malediction +on Desdemona. At the end of the piece Étienne entered, and announced to +Eugénie that the horses were to the carriage, and that the baroness was +waiting for her to pay her visits. We have seen them at Villefort’s; +they proceeded then on their course. + +40306m + + + + +VOLUME FIVE + +50009m + + + +50011m + + + +50019m + + + + + Chapter 96. The Contract + +Three days after the scene we have just described, namely towards five +o’clock in the afternoon of the day fixed for the signature of the +contract between Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars and Andrea Cavalcanti, +whom the banker persisted in calling prince, a fresh breeze was +stirring the leaves in the little garden in front of the Count of Monte +Cristo’s house, and the count was preparing to go out. While his horses +were impatiently pawing the ground, held in by the coachman, who had +been seated a quarter of an hour on his box, the elegant phaeton with +which we are familiar rapidly turned the angle of the entrance-gate, +and cast out on the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as decked up and +gay as if he were going to marry a princess. + +He inquired after the count with his usual familiarity, and ascending +lightly to the first story met him at the top of the stairs. + +The count stopped on seeing the young man. As for Andrea, he was +launched, and when he was once launched nothing stopped him. + +“Ah, good morning, my dear count,” said he. + +“Ah, M. Andrea,” said the latter, with his half-jesting tone; “how do +you do?” + +“Charmingly, as you see. I am come to talk to you about a thousand +things; but, first tell me, were you going out or just returned?” + +“I was going out, sir.” + +“Then, in order not to hinder you, I will get up with you if you please +in your carriage, and Tom shall follow with my phaeton in tow.” + +“No,” said the count, with an imperceptible smile of contempt, for he +had no wish to be seen in the young man’s society,—“no; I prefer +listening to you here, my dear M. Andrea; we can chat better in-doors, +and there is no coachman to overhear our conversation.” + +The count returned to a small drawing-room on the first floor, sat +down, and crossing his legs motioned to the young man to take a seat +also. Andrea assumed his gayest manner. + +“You know, my dear count,” said he, “the ceremony is to take place this +evening. At nine o’clock the contract is to be signed at my +father-in-law’s.” + +“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. + +“What; is it news to you? Has not M. Danglars informed you of the +ceremony?” + +“Oh, yes,” said the count; “I received a letter from him yesterday, but +I do not think the hour was mentioned.” + +“Possibly my father-in-law trusted to its general notoriety.” + +“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “you are fortunate, M. Cavalcanti; it is a +most suitable alliance you are contracting, and Mademoiselle Danglars +is a handsome girl.” + +“Yes, indeed she is,” replied Cavalcanti, in a very modest tone. + +“Above all, she is very rich,—at least, I believe so,” said Monte +Cristo. + +“Very rich, do you think?” replied the young man. + +“Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars conceals at least half of his +fortune.” + +“And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty millions,” said Andrea with a +look sparkling with joy. + +“Without reckoning,” added Monte Cristo, “that he is on the eve of +entering into a sort of speculation already in vogue in the United +States and in England, but quite novel in France.” + +“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,—the railway, of which he has obtained +the grant, is it not?” + +“Precisely; it is generally believed he will gain ten millions by that +affair.” + +“Ten millions! Do you think so? It is magnificent!” said Cavalcanti, +who was quite confounded at the metallic sound of these golden words. + +“Without reckoning,” replied Monte Cristo, “that all his fortune will +come to you, and justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only +daughter. Besides, your own fortune, as your father assured me, is +almost equal to that of your betrothed. But enough of money matters. Do +you know, M. Andrea, I think you have managed this affair rather +skilfully?” + +“Not badly, by any means,” said the young man; “I was born for a +diplomatist.” + +“Well, you must become a diplomatist; diplomacy, you know, is something +that is not to be acquired; it is instinctive. Have you lost your +heart?” + +“Indeed, I fear it,” replied Andrea, in the tone in which he had heard +Dorante or Valère reply to Alceste21 at the Théâtre Français. + +“Is your love returned?” + +“I suppose so,” said Andrea with a triumphant smile, “since I am +accepted. But I must not forget one grand point.” + +“Which?” + +“That I have been singularly assisted.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“I have, indeed.” + +“By circumstances?” + +“No; by you.” + +“By me? Not at all, prince,” said Monte Cristo laying a marked stress +on the title, “what have I done for you? Are not your name, your social +position, and your merit sufficient?” + +“No,” said Andrea,—“no; it is useless for you to say so, count. I +maintain that the position of a man like you has done more than my +name, my social position, and my merit.” + +“You are completely mistaken, sir,” said Monte Cristo coldly, who felt +the perfidious manœuvre of the young man, and understood the bearing of +his words; “you only acquired my protection after the influence and +fortune of your father had been ascertained; for, after all, who +procured for me, who had never seen either you or your illustrious +father, the pleasure of your acquaintance?—two of my good friends, Lord +Wilmore and the Abbé Busoni. What encouraged me not to become your +surety, but to patronize you?—your father’s name, so well known in +Italy and so highly honored. Personally, I do not know you.” + +This calm tone and perfect ease made Andrea feel that he was, for the +moment, restrained by a more muscular hand than his own, and that the +restraint could not be easily broken through. + +“Oh, then my father has really a very large fortune, count?” + +“It appears so, sir,” replied Monte Cristo. + +“Do you know if the marriage settlement he promised me has come?” + +“I have been advised of it.” + +“But the three millions?” + +“The three millions are probably on the road.” + +“Then I shall really have them?” + +“Oh, well,” said the count, “I do not think you have yet known the want +of money.” + +Andrea was so surprised that he pondered the matter for a moment. Then, +arousing from his reverie: + +“Now, sir, I have one request to make to you, which you will +understand, even if it should be disagreeable to you.” + +“Proceed,” said Monte Cristo. + +“I have formed an acquaintance, thanks to my good fortune, with many +noted persons, and have, at least for the moment, a crowd of friends. +But marrying, as I am about to do, before all Paris, I ought to be +supported by an illustrious name, and in the absence of the paternal +hand some powerful one ought to lead me to the altar; now, my father is +not coming to Paris, is he?” + +“He is old, covered with wounds, and suffers dreadfully, he says, in +travelling.” + +“I understand; well, I am come to ask a favor of you.” + +“Of me?” + +“Yes, of you.” + +“And pray what may it be?” + +“Well, to take his part.” + +“Ah, my dear sir! What?—after the varied relations I have had the +happiness to sustain towards you, can it be that you know me so little +as to ask such a thing? Ask me to lend you half a million and, although +such a loan is somewhat rare, on my honor, you would annoy me less! +Know, then, what I thought I had already told you, that in +participation in this world’s affairs, more especially in their moral +aspects, the Count of Monte Cristo has never ceased to entertain the +scruples and even the superstitions of the East. I, who have a seraglio +at Cairo, one at Smyrna, and one at Constantinople, preside at a +wedding?—never!” + +“Then you refuse me?” + +“Decidedly; and were you my son or my brother I would refuse you in the +same way.” + +“But what must be done?” said Andrea, disappointed. + +“You said just now that you had a hundred friends.” + +“Very true, but you introduced me at M. Danglars’.” + +“Not at all! Let us recall the exact facts. You met him at a dinner +party at my house, and you introduced yourself at his house; that is a +totally different affair.” + +“Yes, but, by my marriage, you have forwarded that.” + +“I?—not in the least, I beg you to believe. Recollect what I told you +when you asked me to propose you. ‘Oh, I never make matches, my dear +prince, it is my settled principle.’” Andrea bit his lips. + +50025m + + + +“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. + +50025m + + + +No one could deny that the rooms were splendidly illuminated; the light +streamed forth on the gilt mouldings and the silk hangings; and all the +bad taste of decorations, which had only their richness to boast of, +shone in its splendor. Mademoiselle Eugénie was dressed with elegant +simplicity in a figured white silk dress, and a white rose half +concealed in her jet black hair was her only ornament, unaccompanied by +a single jewel. Her eyes, however, betrayed that perfect confidence +which contradicted the girlish simplicity of this modest attire. + +Madame Danglars was chatting at a short distance with Debray, +Beauchamp, and Château-Renaud. Debray was admitted to the house for +this grand ceremony, but on the same plane with everyone else, and +without any particular privilege. M. Danglars, surrounded by deputies +and men connected with the revenue, was explaining a new theory of +taxation which he intended to adopt when the course of events had +compelled the government to call him into the ministry. Andrea, on +whose arm hung one of the most consummate dandies of the Opera, was +explaining to him rather cleverly, since he was obliged to be bold to +appear at ease, his future projects, and the new luxuries he meant to +introduce to Parisian fashions with his hundred and seventy-five +thousand livres per annum. + +The crowd moved to and fro in the rooms like an ebb and flow of +turquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds. As usual, the oldest +women were the most decorated, and the ugliest the most conspicuous. If +there was a beautiful lily, or a sweet rose, you had to search for it, +concealed in some corner behind a mother with a turban, or an aunt with +a bird-of-paradise. + +At each moment, in the midst of the crowd, the buzzing, and the +laughter, the door-keeper’s voice was heard announcing some name well +known in the financial department, respected in the army, or +illustrious in the literary world, and which was acknowledged by a +slight movement in the different groups. But for one whose privilege it +was to agitate that ocean of human waves, how many were received with a +look of indifference or a sneer of disdain! + +At the moment when the hand of the massive time-piece, representing +Endymion asleep, pointed to nine on its golden face, and the hammer, +the faithful type of mechanical thought, struck nine times, the name of +the Count of Monte Cristo resounded in its turn, and as if by an +electric shock all the assembly turned towards the door. The count was +dressed in black and with his habitual simplicity; his white waistcoat +displayed his expansive noble chest and his black stock was singularly +noticeable because of its contrast with the deadly paleness of his +face. His only jewellery was a chain, so fine that the slender gold +thread was scarcely perceptible on his white waistcoat. + +A circle was immediately formed around the door. The count perceived at +one glance Madame Danglars at one end of the drawing-room, M. Danglars +at the other, and Eugénie in front of him. He first advanced towards +the baroness, who was chatting with Madame de Villefort, who had come +alone, Valentine being still an invalid; and without turning aside, so +clear was the road left for him, he passed from the baroness to +Eugénie, whom he complimented in such rapid and measured terms, that +the proud artist was quite struck. Near her was Mademoiselle Louise +d’Armilly, who thanked the count for the letters of introduction he had +so kindly given her for Italy, which she intended immediately to make +use of. On leaving these ladies he found himself with Danglars, who had +advanced to meet him. + +Having accomplished these three social duties, Monte Cristo stopped, +looking around him with that expression peculiar to a certain class, +which seems to say, “I have done my duty, now let others do theirs.” + +Andrea, who was in an adjoining room, had shared in the sensation +caused by the arrival of Monte Cristo, and now came forward to pay his +respects to the count. He found him completely surrounded; all were +eager to speak to him, as is always the case with those whose words are +few and weighty. The solicitors arrived at this moment and arranged +their scrawled papers on the velvet cloth embroidered with gold which +covered the table prepared for the signature; it was a gilt table +supported on lions’ claws. One of the notaries sat down, the other +remained standing. They were about to proceed to the reading of the +contract, which half Paris assembled was to sign. All took their +places, or rather the ladies formed a circle, while the gentlemen (more +indifferent to the restraints of what Boileau calls the _style +énergique_) commented on the feverish agitation of Andrea, on M. +Danglars’ riveted attention, Eugénie’s composure, and the light and +sprightly manner in which the baroness treated this important affair. + +The contract was read during a profound silence. But as soon as it was +finished, the buzz was redoubled through all the drawing-rooms; the +brilliant sums, the rolling millions which were to be at the command of +the two young people, and which crowned the display of the wedding +presents and the young lady’s diamonds, which had been made in a room +entirely appropriated for that purpose, had exercised to the full their +delusions over the envious assembly. + +Mademoiselle Danglars’ charms were heightened in the opinion of the +young men, and for the moment seemed to outvie the sun in splendor. As +for the ladies, it is needless to say that while they coveted the +millions, they thought they did not need them for themselves, as they +were beautiful enough without them. Andrea, surrounded by his friends, +complimented, flattered, beginning to believe in the reality of his +dream, was almost bewildered. The notary solemnly took the pen, +flourished it above his head, and said: + +“Gentlemen, we are about to sign the contract.” + +The baron was to sign first, then the representative of M. Cavalcanti, +senior, then the baroness, afterwards the “future couple,” as they are +styled in the abominable phraseology of legal documents. + +The baron took the pen and signed, then the representative. The +baroness approached, leaning on Madame de Villefort’s arm. + +“My dear,” said she, as she took the pen, “is it not vexatious? An +unexpected incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of +Monte Cristo’s, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the +pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort.” + +“Indeed?” said M. Danglars, in the same tone in which he would have +said, “Oh, well, what do I care?” + +“As a matter of fact,” said Monte Cristo, approaching, “I am much +afraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence.” + +“What, you, count?” said Madame Danglars, signing; “if you are, take +care, for I shall never forgive you.” + +Andrea pricked up his ears. + +“But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove.” + +Everyone listened eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely opened his lips, +was about to speak. + +“You remember,” said the count, during the most profound silence, “that +the unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the supposition +is that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on attempting to leave it.” + +“Yes,” said Danglars. + +“In order that his wounds might be examined he was undressed, and his +clothes were thrown into a corner, where the police picked them up, +with the exception of the waistcoat, which they overlooked.” + +Andrea turned pale, and drew towards the door; he saw a cloud rising in +the horizon, which appeared to forebode a coming storm. + +“Well, this waistcoat was discovered today, covered with blood, and +with a hole over the heart.” The ladies screamed, and two or three +prepared to faint. “It was brought to me. No one could guess what the +dirty rag could be; I alone suspected that it was the waistcoat of the +murdered man. My valet, in examining this mournful relic, felt a paper +in the pocket and drew it out; it was a letter addressed to you, +baron.” + +“To me?” cried Danglars. + +“Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in deciphering your name under the +blood with which the letter was stained,” replied Monte Cristo, amid +the general outburst of amazement. + +“But,” asked Madame Danglars, looking at her husband with uneasiness, +“how could that prevent M. de Villefort——” + +“In this simple way, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “the waistcoat and +the letter were both what is termed circumstantial evidence; I +therefore sent them to the king’s attorney. You understand, my dear +baron, that legal methods are the safest in criminal cases; it was, +perhaps, some plot against you.” Andrea looked steadily at Monte Cristo +and disappeared in the second drawing-room. + +“Possibly,” said Danglars; “was not this murdered man an old +galley-slave?” + +50025m + + + +“Yes,” replied the count; “a felon named Caderousse.” Danglars turned +slightly pale; Andrea reached the anteroom beyond the little +drawing-room. + +“But go on signing,” said Monte Cristo; “I perceive that my story has +caused a general emotion, and I beg to apologize to you, baroness, and +to Mademoiselle Danglars.” + +The baroness, who had signed, returned the pen to the notary. + +“Prince Cavalcanti,” said the latter; “Prince Cavalcanti, where are +you?” + +“Andrea, Andrea,” repeated several young people, who were already on +sufficiently intimate terms with him to call him by his Christian name. + +“Call the prince; inform him that it is his turn to sign,” cried +Danglars to one of the floorkeepers. + +But at the same instant the crowd of guests rushed in alarm into the +principal salon as if some frightful monster had entered the +apartments, _quærens quem devoret_. There was, indeed, reason to +retreat, to be alarmed, and to scream. An officer was placing two +soldiers at the door of each drawing-room, and was advancing towards +Danglars, preceded by a commissary of police, girded with his scarf. +Madame Danglars uttered a scream and fainted. Danglars, who thought +himself threatened (certain consciences are never calm),—Danglars even +before his guests showed a countenance of abject terror. + +“What is the matter, sir?” asked Monte Cristo, advancing to meet the +commissioner. + +“Which of you gentlemen,” asked the magistrate, without replying to the +count, “answers to the name of Andrea Cavalcanti?” + +A cry of astonishment was heard from all parts of the room. They +searched; they questioned. + +“But who then is Andrea Cavalcanti?” asked Danglars in amazement. + +“A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon.” + +“And what crime has he committed?” + +“He is accused,” said the commissary with his inflexible voice, “of +having assassinated the man named Caderousse, his former companion in +prison, at the moment he was making his escape from the house of the +Count of Monte Cristo.” + +Monte Cristo cast a rapid glance around him. Andrea was gone. + + + + Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium + +A few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the salons of M. +Danglars by the unexpected appearance of the brigade of soldiers, and +by the disclosure which had followed, the mansion was deserted with as +much rapidity as if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken +out among the guests. + +In a few minutes, through all the doors, down all the staircases, by +every exit, everyone hastened to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a +situation where the ordinary condolences,—which even the best friends +are so eager to offer in great catastrophes,—were seen to be utterly +futile. There remained in the banker’s house only Danglars, closeted in +his study, and making his statement to the officer of gendarmes; Madame +Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are acquainted; and +Eugénie, who with haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her +room with her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly. + +As for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than usual, +for their number was augmented by cooks and butlers from the Café de +Paris), venting on their employers their anger at what they termed the +insult to which they had been subjected, they collected in groups in +the hall, in the kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of +their duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this +household, only two persons deserve our notice; these are Mademoiselle +Eugénie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly. + +The betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air, disdainful +lip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen, followed by her companion, +who was paler and more disturbed than herself. On reaching her room +Eugénie locked her door, while Louise fell on a chair. + +“Ah, what a dreadful thing,” said the young musician; “who would have +suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer—a galley-slave escaped—a +convict!” + +An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugénie. “In truth, I was fated,” +said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.” + +“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.” + +“Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able +now to do more than detest them—I despise them.” + +“What shall we do?” asked Louise. + +“What shall we do?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why, the same we had intended doing three days since—set off.” + +“What?—although you are not now going to be married, you intend +still——” + +“Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always +ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always +wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and +independent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to +myself. Remain here? What for?—that they may try, a month hence, to +marry me again; and to whom?—M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once +proposed. No, Louise, no! This evening’s adventure will serve for my +excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this, +and I hail it joyfully!” + +“How strong and courageous you are!” said the fair, frail girl to her +brunette companion. + +“Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our affairs. The +post-chaise——” + +“Was happily bought three days since.” + +“Have you had it sent where we are to go for it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Our passport?” + +“Here it is.” + +And Eugénie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and +read: + +“M. Léon d’Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist; hair +black, eyes black; travelling with his sister.” + +“Capital! How did you get this passport?” + +“When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo for letters to the directors of +the theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed my fears of travelling as +a woman; he perfectly understood them, and undertook to procure for me +a man’s passport, and two days after I received this, to which I have +added with my own hand, ‘travelling with his sister.’” + +50035m + + + +“Well,” said Eugénie cheerfully, “we have then only to pack up our +trunks; we shall start the evening of the signing of the contract, +instead of the evening of the wedding—that is all.” + +“But consider the matter seriously, Eugénie!” + +“Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only of market +reports, of the end of the month, of the rise and fall of Spanish +funds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise—do you +understand?—air, liberty, melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian +canals, Roman palaces, the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise?” + +The young girl to whom this question was addressed drew from an inlaid +secretaire a small portfolio with a lock, in which she counted +twenty-three bank-notes. + +“Twenty-three thousand francs,” said she. + +“And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,” said Eugénie. +“We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs we can live like +princesses for two years, and comfortably for four; but before six +months—you with your music, and I with my voice—we shall double our +capital. Come, you shall take charge of the money, I of the jewel-box; +so that if one of us had the misfortune to lose her treasure, the other +would still have hers left. Now, the portmanteau—let us make haste—the +portmanteau!” + +“Stop!” said Louise, going to listen at Madame Danglars’ door. + +“What do you fear?” + +“That we may be discovered.” + +“The door is locked.” + +“They may tell us to open it.” + +“They may if they like, but we will not.” + +“You are a perfect Amazon, Eugénie!” And the two young girls began to +heap into a trunk all the things they thought they should require. + +“There now,” said Eugénie, “while I change my costume do you lock the +portmanteau.” Louise pressed with all the strength of her little hands +on the top of the portmanteau. + +“But I cannot,” said she; “I am not strong enough; do you shut it.” + +“Ah, you do well to ask,” said Eugénie, laughing; “I forgot that I was +Hercules, and you only the pale Omphale!” + +And the young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed the two parts of the +portmanteau together, and Mademoiselle d’Armilly passed the bolt of the +padlock through. When this was done, Eugénie opened a drawer, of which +she kept the key, and took from it a wadded violet silk travelling +cloak. + +“Here,” said she, “you see I have thought of everything; with this +cloak you will not be cold.” + +“But you?” + +“Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men’s clothes——” + +“Will you dress here?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Shall you have time?” + +“Do not be uneasy, you little coward! All our servants are busy, +discussing the grand affair. Besides, what is there astonishing, when +you think of the grief I ought to be in, that I shut myself up?—tell +me!” + +“No, truly—you comfort me.” + +“Come and help me.” + +From the same drawer she took a man’s complete costume, from the boots +to the coat, and a provision of linen, where there was nothing +superfluous, but every requisite. Then, with a promptitude which +indicated that this was not the first time she had amused herself by +adopting the garb of the opposite sex, Eugénie drew on the boots and +pantaloons, tied her cravat, buttoned her waistcoat up to the throat, +and put on a coat which admirably fitted her beautiful figure. + +“Oh, that is very good—indeed, it is very good!” said Louise, looking +at her with admiration; “but that beautiful black hair, those +magnificent braids, which made all the ladies sigh with envy,—will they +go under a man’s hat like the one I see down there?” + +“You shall see,” said Eugénie. And with her left hand seizing the thick +mass, which her long fingers could scarcely grasp, she took in her +right hand a pair of long scissors, and soon the steel met through the +rich and splendid hair, which fell in a cluster at her feet as she +leaned back to keep it from her coat. Then she grasped the front hair, +which she also cut off, without expressing the least regret; on the +contrary, her eyes sparkled with greater pleasure than usual under her +ebony eyebrows. + +50039m + + + +“Oh, the magnificent hair!” said Louise, with regret. + +“And am I not a hundred times better thus?” cried Eugénie, smoothing +the scattered curls of her hair, which had now quite a masculine +appearance; “and do you not think me handsomer so?” + +“Oh, you are beautiful—always beautiful!” cried Louise. “Now, where are +you going?” + +“To Brussels, if you like; it is the nearest frontier. We can go to +Brussels, Liège, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the Rhine to Strasbourg. We +will cross Switzerland, and go down into Italy by the Saint-Gothard. +Will that do?” + +“Yes.” + +“What are you looking at?” + +“I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One would say +you were carrying me off.” + +“And they would be right, _pardieu!_” + +“Oh, I think you swore, Eugénie.” + +And the two young girls, whom everyone might have thought plunged in +grief, the one on her own account, the other from interest in her +friend, burst out laughing, as they cleared away every visible trace of +the disorder which had naturally accompanied the preparations for their +escape. Then, having blown out the lights, the two fugitives, looking +and listening eagerly, with outstretched necks, opened the door of a +dressing-room which led by a side staircase down to the yard,—Eugénie +going first, and holding with one arm the portmanteau, which by the +opposite handle Mademoiselle d’Armilly scarcely raised with both hands. +The yard was empty; the clock was striking twelve. The porter was not +yet gone to bed. Eugénie approached softly, and saw the old man +sleeping soundly in an armchair in his lodge. She returned to Louise, +took up the portmanteau, which she had placed for a moment on the +ground, and they reached the archway under the shadow of the wall. + +Eugénie concealed Louise in an angle of the gateway, so that if the +porter chanced to awake he might see but one person. Then placing +herself in the full light of the lamp which lit the yard: + +“Gate!” cried she, with her finest contralto voice, and rapping at the +window. + +The porter got up as Eugénie expected, and even advanced some steps to +recognize the person who was going out, but seeing a young man striking +his boot impatiently with his riding-whip, he opened it immediately. +Louise slid through the half-open gate like a snake, and bounded +lightly forward. Eugénie, apparently calm, although in all probability +her heart beat somewhat faster than usual, went out in her turn. + +A porter was passing and they gave him the portmanteau; then the two +young girls, having told him to take it to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire, +walked behind this man, whose presence comforted Louise. As for +Eugénie, she was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at +the appointed spot. Eugénie ordered the porter to put down the +portmanteau, gave him some pieces of money, and having rapped at the +shutter sent him away. The shutter where Eugénie had rapped was that of +a little laundress, who had been previously warned, and was not yet +gone to bed. She opened the door. + +“Mademoiselle,” said Eugénie, “let the porter get the post-chaise from +the coach-house, and fetch some post-horses from the hotel. Here are +five francs for his trouble.” + +“Indeed,” said Louise, “I admire you, and I could almost say respect +you.” The laundress looked on in astonishment, but as she had been +promised twenty louis, she made no remark. + +In a quarter of an hour the porter returned with a post-boy and horses, +which were harnessed, and put in the post-chaise in a minute, while the +porter fastened the portmanteau on with the assistance of a cord and +strap. + +“Here is the passport,” said the postilion, “which way are we going, +young gentleman?” + +“To Fontainebleau,” replied Eugénie with an almost masculine voice. + +“What do you say?” said Louise. + +“I am giving them the slip,” said Eugénie; “this woman to whom we have +given twenty louis may betray us for forty; we will soon alter our +direction.” + +And the young girl jumped into the britzka, which was admirably +arranged for sleeping in, without scarcely touching the step. + +“You are always right,” said the music teacher, seating herself by the +side of her friend. + +A quarter of an hour afterwards the postilion, having been put in the +right road, passed with a crack of his whip through the gateway of the +Barrière Saint-Martin. + +“Ah,” said Louise, breathing freely, “here we are out of Paris.” + +“Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,” replied Eugénie. + +“Yes, and without violence,” said Louise. + +“I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,” replied +Eugénie. + +These words were lost in the noise which the carriage made in rolling +over the pavement of La Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a daughter. + + + + Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern + +And now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend pursuing +their way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea Cavalcanti, so +inopportunely interrupted in his rise to fortune. Notwithstanding his +youth, Master Andrea was a very skilful and intelligent boy. We have +seen that on the first rumor which reached the salon he had gradually +approached the door, and crossing two or three rooms at last +disappeared. But we have forgotten to mention one circumstance, which +nevertheless ought not to be omitted; in one of the rooms he crossed, +the _trousseau_ of the bride-elect was on exhibition. There were +caskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes lace, English veils, +and in fact all the tempting things, the bare mention of which makes +the hearts of young girls bound with joy, and which is called the +_corbeille_.22 Now, in passing through this room, Andrea proved himself +not only to be clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he +helped himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him. + +Furnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from +the window, intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall +and well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a +Spartan, he walked for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to +direct his steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the +spot where if he lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having +passed through the Rue du Mont-Blanc, guided by the instinct which +leads thieves always to take the safest path, he found himself at the +end of the Rue La Fayette. There he stopped, breathless and panting. He +was quite alone; on one side was the vast wilderness of the +Saint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in darkness. + +“Am I to be captured?” he cried; “no, not if I can use more activity +than my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed.” + +At this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg Poissonnière. +The dull driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along toward the limits +of the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his +station. + +“Ho, friend!” said Benedetto. + +“What do you want, sir?” asked the driver. + +“Is your horse tired?” + +“Tired? oh, yes, tired enough—he has done nothing the whole of this +blessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making in all +seven francs, are all that I have earned, and I ought to take ten to +the owner.” + +“Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have?” + +“With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell me what +I am to do for this.” + +“A very easy thing, if your horse isn’t tired.” + +“I tell you he’ll go like the wind,—only tell me which way to drive.” + +“Towards the Louvres.” + +“Ah, I know the way—you get good sweetened rum over there.” + +“Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with whom I +am going to hunt tomorrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited +for me here with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and, +tired of waiting, he must have gone on.” + +“It is likely.” + +“Well, will you try and overtake him?” + +“Nothing I should like better.” + +“If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall have +twenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty.” + +“And if we do overtake him?” + +“Forty,” said Andrea, after a moment’s hesitation, at the end of which +he remembered that he might safely promise. + +“That’s all right,” said the man; “hop in, and we’re off! Who-o-o-pla!” + +Andrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the Faubourg +Saint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and +threaded its way through the interminable Villette. They never overtook +the chimerical friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot +whom he passed and at the inns which were not yet closed, for a green +cabriolet and bay horse; and as there are a great many cabriolets to be +seen on the road to the Low Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are +green, the inquiries increased at every step. Everyone had just seen it +pass; it was only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in +advance; at length they reached it, but it was not the friend. Once the +cab was also passed by a calash rapidly whirled along by two +post-horses. + +“Ah,” said Cavalcanti to himself, “if I only had that britzka, those +two good post-horses, and above all the passport that carries them on!” +And he sighed deeply. + +The calash contained Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle d’Armilly. + +“Hurry, hurry!” said Andrea, “we must overtake him soon.” + +And the poor horse resumed the desperate gallop it had kept up since +leaving the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres. + +“Certainly,” said Andrea, “I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall +kill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I +will sleep at the _Cheval Rouge_, and will secure a place in the first +coach. Good-night, friend.” + +And Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in the man’s +hand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman joyfully pocketed +the sum, and turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended to go +towards the hotel of the _Cheval Rouge_, but after leaning an instant +against the door, and hearing the last sound of the cab, which was +disappearing from view, he went on his road, and with a lusty stride +soon traversed the space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be +near Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended to be going. + +It was not fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was that he might form +some resolution, adopt some plan. It would be impossible to make use of +a diligence, equally so to engage post-horses; to travel either way a +passport was necessary. It was still more impossible to remain in the +department of the Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in +France; this was quite out of the question, especially to a man like +Andrea, perfectly conversant with criminal matters. + +He sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his hands and +reflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his resolution was +made. He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he had found time to +unhook from the antechamber and button over his ball costume, and going +to Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only inn in +the place. + +The host opened. + +“My friend,” said Andrea, “I was coming from Mortefontaine to Senlis, +when my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me. +I must reach Compiègne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my +family. Could you let me hire a horse of you?” + +An innkeeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The +host called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle _Le Blanc_ then +he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride +before the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the +innkeeper twenty francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a +visiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Café de +Paris, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was +convinced that he had let his horse to the Count of Mauléon, 25 Rue +Saint-Dominique, that being the name and address on the card. + +_Le Blanc_ was not a fast animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace; +in three hours and a half Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which +separated him from Compiègne, and four o’clock struck as he reached the +place where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern at +Compiègne, well remembered by those who have ever been there. Andrea, +who had often stayed there in his rides about Paris, recollected the +Bell and Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a +reflected lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the +small coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door, very +reasonably concluding that having now three or four hours before him he +had best fortify himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound +sleep and a good supper. A waiter opened the door. + +“My friend,” said Andrea, “I have been dining at Saint-Jean-aux-Bois, +and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a +fool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours +in the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which +overlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux.” + +The waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he +had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat; +his clothes were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots +irreproachable; he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, +that was all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess +arose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could +have No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiègne. +Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with +his sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the +hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated +precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting +about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced his +room to be ready. + +Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out +upon the court of the Bell Hotel, which with its triple galleries like +those of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis twining round the +light columns, forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you +can imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and +sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to find himself eating with as good +an appetite as though nothing had happened. Then he went to bed and +almost immediately fell into that deep sleep which is sure to visit men +of twenty years of age, even when they are torn with remorse. Now, here +we are obliged to own that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that +he did not. + +This was the plan which had appealed to him to afford the best chance +of his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after +rigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would, under +pretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality of some +peasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a hatchet, +casting off the lion’s skin to assume that of the woodman; then, with +his hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means of a leaden +comb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for which one of his +old comrades had given him the recipe, he intended, by following the +wooded districts, to reach the nearest frontier, walking by night and +sleeping in the day in the forests and quarries, and only entering +inhabited regions to buy a loaf from time to time. + +Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his diamonds; +and by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always carried about +with him in case of accident, he would then find himself possessor of +about 50,000 livres, which he philosophically considered as no very +deplorable condition after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the +interest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own +misadventures. These were the reasons which, added to the fatigue, +caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he might wake early he +did not close the shutters, but contented himself with bolting the door +and placing on the table an unclasped and long-pointed knife, whose +temper he well knew, and which was never absent from him. + +About seven in the morning Andrea was awakened by a ray of sunlight, +which played, warm and brilliant, upon his face. In all well-organized +brains, the predominating idea—and there always is one—is sure to be +the last thought before sleeping, and the first upon waking in the +morning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating +idea presented itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too +long. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was +crossing the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in +the world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a +timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and white +uniform is really very alarming. + +“Why is that gendarme there?” asked Andrea of himself. + +Then, all at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has, +doubtless, remarked in him, “There is nothing astonishing in seeing a +gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress myself.” +And the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de chambre had +failed to rob him of during the two months of fashionable life he had +led in Paris. + +“Now then,” said Andrea, while dressing himself, “I’ll wait till he +leaves, and then I’ll slip away.” + +50047m + + + +And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots and cravat, +stole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up the muslin +curtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there, but the young man +now perceived a second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the foot of +the staircase, the only one by which he could descend, while a third, +on horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was posted as a sentinel at +the great street-door which alone afforded the means of egress. The +appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a crowd of +curious loungers was extended before him, effectually blocking the +entrance to the hotel. + +“They’re after me!” was Andrea’s first thought. “_Diable!_” + +A pallor overspread the young man’s forehead, and he looked around him +with anxiety. His room, like all those on the same floor, had but one +outlet to the gallery in the sight of everybody. “I am lost!” was his +second thought; and, indeed, for a man in Andrea’s situation, an arrest +meant the assizes, trial, and death,—death without mercy or delay. + +For a moment he convulsively pressed his head within his hands, and +during that brief period he became nearly mad with terror; but soon a +ray of hope glimmered in the multitude of thoughts which bewildered his +mind, and a faint smile played upon his white lips and pallid cheeks. +He looked around and saw the objects of his search upon the +chimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and paper. With forced composure +he dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the following lines upon a +sheet of paper: + +“I have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest man; I leave +behind me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times the amount. I shall be +excused for leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed.” + +He then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper. This +done, instead of leaving the door fastened, he drew back the bolts and +even placed the door ajar, as though he had left the room, forgetting +to close it, and slipping into the chimney like a man accustomed to +that kind of gymnastic exercise, after replacing the chimney-board, +which represented Achilles with Deidamia, and effacing the very marks +of his feet upon the ashes, he commenced climbing the hollow tunnel, +which afforded him the only means of escape left. + +At this precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked +upstairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by the +second gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself reinforced by +the one stationed at the door. + +Andrea was indebted for this visit to the following circumstances. At +daybreak, the telegraphs were set at work in all directions, and almost +immediately the authorities in every district had exerted their utmost +endeavors to arrest the murderer of Caderousse. Compiègne, that royal +residence and fortified town, is well furnished with authorities, +gendarmes, and commissaries of police; they therefore began operations +as soon as the telegraphic despatch arrived, and the Bell and Bottle +being the best-known hotel in the town, they had naturally directed +their first inquiries there. + +Now, besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the Hôtel de Ville, +which is next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had been stated by others +that a number of travellers had arrived during the night. The sentinel +who was relieved at six o’clock in the morning, remembered perfectly +that, just as he was taking his post a few minutes past four, a young +man arrived on horseback, with a little boy before him. The young man, +having dismissed the boy and horse, knocked at the door of the hotel, +which was opened, and again closed after his entrance. This late +arrival had attracted much suspicion, and the young man being no other +than Andrea, the commissary and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed +their steps towards his room. They found the door ajar. + +“Oh, oh,” said the brigadier, who thoroughly understood the trick; “a +bad sign to find the door open! I would rather find it triply bolted.” + +And, indeed, the little note and pin upon the table confirmed, or +rather corroborated, the sad truth. Andrea had fled. We say +corroborated, because the brigadier was too experienced to be convinced +by a single proof. He glanced around, looked in the bed, shook the +curtains, opened the closets, and finally stopped at the chimney. +Andrea had taken the precaution to leave no traces of his feet in the +ashes, but still it was an outlet, and in this light was not to be +passed over without serious investigation. + +The brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having filled the +chimney with them, set a light to it. The fire crackled, and the smoke +ascended like the dull vapor from a volcano; but still no prisoner fell +down, as they expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at war with society +ever since his youth, was quite as deep as a gendarme, even though he +were advanced to the rank of brigadier, and quite prepared for the +fire, he had climbed out on the roof and was crouching down against the +chimney-pots. + +50049m + + + +At one time he thought he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim +in a loud voice, to the two gendarmes, “He is not here!” But venturing +to peep, he perceived that the latter, instead of retiring, as might +have been reasonably expected upon this announcement, were watching +with increased attention. + +It was now his turn to look about him; the Hôtel de Ville, a massive +sixteenth century building, was on his right; anyone could descend from +the openings in the tower, and examine every corner of the roof below, +and Andrea expected momentarily to see the head of a gendarme appear at +one of these openings. If once discovered, he knew he would be lost, +for the roof afforded no chance of escape; he therefore resolved to +descend, not through the same chimney by which he had come up, but by a +similar one conducting to another room. + +He looked around for a chimney from which no smoke issued, and having +reached it, he disappeared through the orifice without being seen by +anyone. At the same minute, one of the little windows of the Hôtel de +Ville was thrown open, and the head of a gendarme appeared. For an +instant it remained motionless as one of the stone decorations of the +building, then after a long sigh of disappointment the head +disappeared. The brigadier, calm and dignified as the law he +represented, passed through the crowd, without answering the thousand +questions addressed to him, and re-entered the hotel. + +“Well?” asked the two gendarmes. + +“Well, my boys,” said the brigadier, “the brigand must really have +escaped early this morning; but we will send to the Villers-Coterets +and Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we shall catch him, no +doubt.” + +The honorable functionary had scarcely expressed himself thus, in that +intonation which is peculiar to brigadiers of the gendarmerie, when a +loud scream, accompanied by the violent ringing of a bell, resounded +through the court of the hotel. + +“Ah, what is that?” cried the brigadier. + +“Some traveller seems impatient,” said the host. “What number was it +that rang?” + +“Number 3.” + +“Run, waiter!” + +At this moment the screams and ringing were redoubled. + +“Aha!” said the brigadier, stopping the servant, “the person who is +ringing appears to want something more than 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. + +“Eugénie! Mademoiselle Danglars!” exclaimed Andrea, stupefied. + +“Help, help!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, taking the bell from her +companion’s hand, and ringing it yet more violently. + +“Save me, I am pursued!” said Andrea, clasping his hands. “For pity, +for mercy’s sake do not deliver me up!” + +“It is too late, they are coming,” said Eugénie. + +“Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed; +you can turn their suspicions and save my life!” + +50053m + + + +The two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the +bedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this supplicating +voice, repugnance and fear taking possession of their minds. + +“Well, be it so,” at length said Eugénie; “return by the same road you +came, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy wretch.” + +“Here he is, here he is!” cried a voice from the landing; “here he is! +I see him!” + +The brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea +in a posture of entreaty. A violent blow from the butt end of the +musket burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and the +broken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading to the +gallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short, and he stood with +his body a little thrown back, pale, and with the useless knife in his +clenched hand. + +“Fly, then!” cried Mademoiselle d’Armilly, whose pity returned as her +fears diminished; “fly!” + +“Or kill yourself!” said Eugénie (in a tone which a Vestal in the +amphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious gladiator to +finish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered, and looked on the +young girl with an expression which proved how little he understood +such ferocious honor. + +“Kill myself?” he cried, throwing down his knife; “why should I do so?” + +“Why, you said,” answered Mademoiselle Danglars, “that you would be +condemned to die like the worst criminals.” + +50055m + + + +“Bah,” said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms, “one has friends.” + +The brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand. + +“Come, come,” said Andrea, “sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there +is no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;” and he +held out his hands to be manacled. + +The two girls looked with horror upon this shameful metamorphosis, the +man of the world shaking off his covering and appearing as a +galley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an impertinent smile +asked, “Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars, +for in all probability I shall return to Paris?” + +Eugénie covered her face with her hands. + +“Oh, oh!” said Andrea, “you need not be ashamed, even though you did +post after me. Was I not nearly your husband?” + +50056m + + + +And with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a prey to +their own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the crowd. An hour +after they stepped into their calash, both dressed in feminine attire. +The gate of the hotel had been closed to screen them from sight, but +they were forced, when the door was open, to pass through a throng of +curious glances and whispering voices. + +Eugénie closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could hear, +and the sneers of the crowd reached her in the carriage. + +“Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?” she exclaimed, throwing +herself into the arms of Mademoiselle d’Armilly, her eyes sparkling +with the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the Roman world +had but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow. + +The next day they stopped at the Hôtel de Flandre, at Brussels. The +same evening Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie. + + + + Chapter 99. The Law + +We have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle +d’Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact being +that everyone was too much occupied in his or her own affairs to think +of theirs. + +We will leave the banker contemplating the enormous magnitude of his +debt before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness, who +after being momentarily crushed under the weight of the blow which had +struck her, had gone to seek her usual adviser, Lucien Debray. The +baroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding her +of a guardianship which, over a girl of Eugénie’s character, could not +fail to be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in the tacit relations +which maintain the bond of family union, the mother, to maintain her +ascendancy over her daughter, must never fail to be a model of wisdom +and a type of perfection. + +Now, Madame Danglars feared Eugénie’s sagacity and the influence of +Mademoiselle d’Armilly; she had frequently observed the contemptuous +expression with which her daughter looked upon Debray,—an expression +which seemed to imply that she understood all her mother’s amorous and +pecuniary relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she saw +that Eugénie detested Debray, not only because he was a source of +dissension and scandal under the paternal roof, but because she had at +once classed him in that catalogue of bipeds whom Plato endeavors to +withdraw from the appellation of men, and whom Diogenes designated as +animals upon two legs without feathers. + +Unfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views things through +a certain medium, and so is prevented from seeing in the same light as +others, and Madame Danglars, therefore, very much regretted that the +marriage of Eugénie had not taken place, not only because the match was +good, and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because it +would also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to Debray, who, after +having, like the rest of Paris, witnessed the contract scene and the +scandal attending it, had retired in haste to his club, where he was +chatting with some friends upon the events which served as a subject of +conversation for three-fourths of that city known as the capital of the +world. + +At the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and +concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to Debray’s +apartments, notwithstanding the assurances of the concierge that the +young man was not at home, Debray was occupied in repelling the +insinuations of a friend, who tried to persuade him that after the +terrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a friend of the +family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her two millions. Debray did +not defend himself very warmly, for the idea had sometimes crossed his +mind; still, when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of +Eugénie, he positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the +same thought again continually recurred and found a resting-place in +his heart. Tea, play, and the conversation, which had become +interesting during the discussion of such serious affairs, lasted till +one o’clock in the morning. + +Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the return of +Debray in the little green room, seated between two baskets of flowers, +which she had that morning sent, and which, it must be confessed, +Debray had himself arranged and watered with so much care that his +absence was half excused in the eyes of the poor woman. + +At twenty minutes to twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting, +returned home. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous grisettes +in one respect, they seldom return home after twelve o’clock. The +baroness returned to the hotel with as much caution as Eugénie used in +leaving it; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered +her apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugénie. She was +fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter’s +innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eugénie’s +door, and hearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place. +Madame Danglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome +with the terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to +sleep. She called the maid and questioned her. + +“Mademoiselle Eugénie,” said the maid, “retired to her apartment with +Mademoiselle d’Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they +desired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer.” + +Since then the maid had been below, and like everyone else she thought +the young ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, +went to bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over the +recent events. In proportion as her memory became clearer, the +occurrences of the evening were revealed in their true light; what she +had taken for confusion was a tumult; what she had regarded as +something distressing, was in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness +remembered that she had felt no pity for poor Mercédès, who had been +afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son. + +“Eugénie,” she said to herself, “is lost, and so are we. The affair, as +it will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such as +ours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that +Eugénie is possessed of that strange character which has so often made +me tremble!” + +And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious Providence +disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes +produces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving through space like +a bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a +robber, an assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort +of education, if not a complete one; he had been presented to the world +with the appearance of an immense fortune, supported by an honorable +name. How could she extricate herself from this labyrinth? To whom +would she apply to help her out of this painful situation? Debray, to +whom she had run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man +she loves, and who yet betrays her,—Debray could but give her advice, +she must apply to someone more powerful than he. + +The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort +who had remorselessly brought misfortune into her family, as though +they had been strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not +a merciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, +but the friend, the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the +very core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the +surgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from ignominious +association with the disgraced young man they had presented to the +world as their son-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars, +had acted in this way, no one could suppose that he had been previously +acquainted with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea’s intrigues. +Villefort’s conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the +baroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility +of the procureur should stop there; she would see him the next day, and +if she could not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she +would, at least, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would +invoke the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by +the remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle +the affair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea +to fly, and follow up the crime under that shadow of guilt called +contempt of court. And after this reasoning she slept easily. + +At nine o’clock next morning she arose, and without ringing for her +maid or giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in +the same simple style as on the previous night; then running +downstairs, she left the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a +cab, and drove to M. de Villefort’s house. + +For the last month this wretched house had presented the gloomy +appearance of a lazaretto infected with the plague. Some of the +apartments were closed within and without; the shutters were only +opened to admit a minute’s air, showing the scared face of a footman, +and immediately afterwards the window would be closed, like a +gravestone falling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would say to each +other in a low voice, “Will there be another funeral today at the +procureur’s house?” + +Madame Danglars involuntarily shuddered at the desolate aspect of the +mansion; descending from the cab, she approached the door with +trembling knees, and rang the bell. Three times did the bell ring with +a dull, heavy sound, seeming to participate, in the general sadness, +before the concierge appeared and peeped through the door, which he +opened just wide enough to allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady, +a fashionable, elegantly dressed lady, and yet the door remained almost +closed. + +“Do you intend opening the door?” said the baroness. + +“First, madame, who are you?” + +“Who am I? You know me well enough.” + +“We no longer know anyone, madame.” + +“You must be mad, my friend,” said the baroness. + +“Where do you come from?” + +“Oh, this is too much!” + +“Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name?” + +“The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times.” + +“Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want?” + +“Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort of the +impertinence of his servants.” + +“Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters here +without an order from M. d’Avrigny, or without speaking to the +procureur.” + +“Well, I have business with the procureur.” + +“Is it pressing business?” + +“You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my carriage out yet. +But enough of this—here is my card, take it to your master.” + +“Madame will await my return?” + +“Yes; go.” + +The concierge closed the door, leaving Madame Danglars in the street. +She had not long to wait; directly afterwards the door was opened wide +enough to admit her, and when she had passed through, it was again +shut. Without losing sight of her for an instant, the concierge took a +whistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and blew it. +The valet de chambre appeared on the door-steps. + +“You will excuse this poor fellow, madame,” he said, as he preceded the +baroness, “but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to +tell you that he could not act otherwise.” + +In the court showing his merchandise, was a tradesman who had been +admitted with the same precautions. The baroness ascended the steps; +she felt herself strongly infected with the sadness which seemed to +magnify her own, and still guided by the valet de chambre, who never +lost sight of her for an instant, she was introduced to the +magistrate’s study. + +Preoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the object of her visit, +the treatment she had received from these underlings appeared to her so +insulting, that she began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raising +his head, bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile +that her complaints died upon her lips. + +“Forgive my servants,” he said, “for a terror I cannot blame them for; +from being suspected they have become suspicious.” + +Madame Danglars had often heard of the terror to which the magistrate +alluded, but without the evidence of her own eyesight she could never +have believed that the sentiment had been carried so far. + +“You too, then, are unhappy?” she said. + +“Yes, madame,” replied the magistrate. + +“Then you pity me!” + +“Sincerely, madame.” + +“And you understand what brings me here?” + +“You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has just +happened?” + +“Yes, sir,—a fearful misfortune.” + +“You mean a mischance.” + +“A mischance?” repeated the baroness. + +“Alas, madame,” said the procureur with his imperturbable calmness of +manner, “I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable.” + +“And do you suppose this will be forgotten?” + +“Everything will be forgotten, madame,” said Villefort. “Your daughter +will be married tomorrow, if not today—in a week, if not tomorrow; and +I do not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter.” + +Madame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so almost +insultingly calm. “Am I come to a friend?” she asked in a tone full of +mournful dignity. + +“You know that you are, madame,” said Villefort, whose pale cheeks +became slightly flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly this +assurance carried him back to different events from those now occupying +the baroness and him. + +“Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort,” said the +baroness. “Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I +am in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay.” +Villefort bowed. + +“When I hear misfortunes named, madame,” he said, “I have within the +last few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and +then I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That +is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me +mere mischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appear +enviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were +saying, madame——” + +“I came to ask you, my friend,” said the baroness, “what will be done +with this impostor?” + +“Impostor,” repeated Villefort; “certainly, madame, you appear to +extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed!—M. +Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less +than an assassin!” + +“Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the more +severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeply +will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead +of pursuing him, let him go.” + +“You are too late, madame; the orders are issued.” + +“Well, should he be arrested—do they think they will arrest him?” + +“I hope so.” + +“If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means +of escape), will you leave him in prison?” + +The procureur shook his head. + +“At least keep him there till my daughter be married.” + +“Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities.” + +“What, even for me?” said the baroness, half jesting, half in earnest. + +“For all, even for myself among the rest,” replied Villefort. + +50063m + + + +“Ah!” exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas which the +exclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with that piercing glance +which reads the secrets of the heart. + +“Yes, I know what you mean,” he said; “you refer to the terrible rumors +spread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me in +mourning for the last three months, and from which Valentine has only +escaped by a miracle, have not happened by natural means.” + +“I was not thinking of that,” replied Madame Danglars quickly. + +“Yes, you were thinking of it, and with justice. You could not help +thinking of it, and saying to yourself, ‘you, who pursue crime so +vindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in your +dwelling?’” The baroness became pale. “You were saying this, were you +not?” + +“Well, I own it.” + +“I will answer you.” + +Villefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then resting +both hands upon his desk he said in a voice more hollow than usual: + +“There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are +unknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but +when the culprits are discovered” (Villefort here extended his hand +toward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk)—“when they are +discovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever +they may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and +which I will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch!” + +“But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say?” + +“Listen; this is his description: ‘Benedetto, condemned, at the age of +sixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.’ He promised well, +as you see—first a runaway, then an assassin.” + +“And who is this wretch?” + +“Who can tell?—a vagabond, a Corsican.” + +“Has no one owned him?” + +“No one; his parents are unknown.” + +“But who was the man who brought him from Lucca?” + +“Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice.” The baroness +clasped her hands. + +“Villefort,” she exclaimed in her softest and most captivating manner. + +“For Heaven’s sake, madame,” said Villefort, with a firmness of +expression not altogether free from harshness—“for Heaven’s sake, do +not ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I?—the law. Has the +law any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by +your sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections +you endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it +commands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not +a code—a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame—look around me. Has +mankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared +me? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands? +No, madame, they struck me, always struck me! + +50065m + + + +“Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that +fascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it +so; let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps—perhaps for even +more than those! But having sinned myself,—it may be more deeply than +others,—I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my +fellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found +them; and more,—I repeat it with joy, with triumph,—I have always found +some proof of human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems +to me living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest. +Alas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at +wickedness!” + +Villefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave +a ferocious eloquence to his words. + +“But”’ said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort, “this +young man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody.” + +“So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been so +ordained that he may have none to weep his fate.” + +“But this is trampling on the weak, sir.” + +“The weakness of a murderer!” + +“His dishonor reflects upon us.” + +“Is not death in my house?” + +“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baroness, “you are without pity for others, +well, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you!” + +“Be it so!” said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven with a +threatening gesture. + +“At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have +six months before us.” + +“No, madame,” said Villefort; “instructions have been given. There are +yet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think +that I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, I +sometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the +same sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is better +than suffering.” + +“But, sir, he has fled; let him escape—inaction is a pardonable +offence.” + +“I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was +employed, and at this very minute——” + +“Sir,” said the valet de chambre, entering the room, “a dragoon has +brought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior.” + +Villefort seized the letter, and hastily broke the seal. Madame +Danglars trembled with fear; Villefort started with joy. + +“Arrested!” he exclaimed; “he was taken at Compiègne, and all is over.” + +Madame Danglars rose from her seat, pale and cold. + +“Adieu, sir,” she said. + +“Adieu, madame,” replied the king’s attorney, as in an almost joyful +manner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he +said, striking the letter with the back of his right hand: + +“Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I only +wanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session!” + + + + Chapter 100. The Apparition + +As the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not yet +recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed confined to her bed; +and it was in her own room, and from the lips of Madame de Villefort, +that she heard all the strange events we have related; we mean the +flight of Eugénie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather +Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced against +him. But Valentine was so weak that this recital scarcely produced the +same effect it would have done had she been in her usual state of +health. Indeed, her brain was only the seat of vague ideas, and +confused forms, mingled with strange fancies, alone presented +themselves before her eyes. + +During the daytime Valentine’s perceptions remained tolerably clear, +owing to the constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused himself to be +carried to his granddaughter’s room, and watched her with his paternal +tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law courts, +frequently passed an hour or two with his father and child. + +At six o’clock Villefort retired to his study, at eight M. d’Avrigny +himself arrived, bringing the night draught prepared for the young +girl, and then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse of the doctor’s +choice succeeded them, and never left till about ten or eleven o’clock, +when Valentine was asleep. As she went downstairs she gave the keys of +Valentine’s room to M. de Villefort, so that no one could reach the +sick-room excepting through that of Madame de Villefort and little +Edward. + +Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of Valentine, +and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less uneasy. +Certainly, though Valentine still labored under dreadful nervous +excitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had told him +when, half distracted, he had rushed to the count’s house, that if she +were not dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had +elapsed, and Valentine still lived. + +The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine even in her +sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking +hours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the dim light shed from +the alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass +and repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the fever with +their trembling wings. First she fancied she saw her stepmother +threatening her, then Morrel stretched his arms towards her; sometimes +mere strangers, like the Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even +the very furniture, in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and +this state lasted till about three o’clock in the morning, when a deep, +heavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did not awake +till daylight. + +On the evening of the day on which Valentine had learned of the flight +of Eugénie and the arrest of Benedetto,—Villefort having retired as +well as Noirtier and d’Avrigny,—her thoughts wandered in a confused +maze, alternately reviewing her own situation and the events she had +just heard. + +Eleven o’clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the beverage +prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked the +door, was listening with terror to the comments of the servants in the +kitchen, and storing her memory with all the horrible stories which had +for some months past amused the occupants of the antechambers in the +house of the king’s attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene was passing +in the room which had been so carefully locked. + +Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine, who for +the last hour had been suffering from the fever which returned nightly, +incapable of controlling her ideas, was forced to yield to the +excitement which exhausted itself in producing and reproducing a +succession and recurrence of the same fancies and images. The +night-lamp threw out countless rays, each resolving itself into some +strange form to her disordered imagination, when suddenly by its +flickering light Valentine thought she saw the door of her library, +which was in the recess by the chimney-piece, open slowly, though she +in vain listened for the sound of the hinges on which it turned. + +At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken bell-pull and +summoned assistance, but nothing astonished her in her present +situation. Her reason told her that all the visions she beheld were but +the children of her imagination, and the conviction was strengthened by +the fact that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal +phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight. + +From behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl was too +familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and therefore only +stared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The figure advanced towards the bed +and appeared to listen with profound attention. At this moment a ray of +light glanced across the face of the midnight visitor. + +“It is not he,” she murmured, and waited, in the assurance that this +was but a dream, for the man to disappear or assume some other form. +Still, she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently she +remembered that the best method of dispelling such illusions was to +drink, for a draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay +her fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a short time +she suffered less. Valentine therefore reached her hand towards the +glass, but as soon as her trembling arm left the bed the apparition +advanced more quickly towards her, and approached the young girl so +closely that she fancied she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of +his hand. + +This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed anything +Valentine had before experienced; she began to believe herself really +alive and awake, and the belief that her reason was this time not +deceived made her shudder. The pressure she felt was evidently intended +to arrest her arm, and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from +whom she could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting +than menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the night-light held +it up, as if to test its transparency. This did not seem sufficient; +the man, or rather the ghost—for he trod so softly that no sound was +heard—then poured out about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it. + +Valentine witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every +minute she had expected that it would vanish and give place to another +vision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again +approached her, and said in an agitated voice, “Now you may drink.” + +Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these visions had +ever addressed her in a living voice, and she was about to utter an +exclamation. The man placed his finger on her lips. + +“The Count of Monte Cristo!” she murmured. + +It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young girl’s mind +as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror, her hands +trembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes closer to her. Still, the +presence of Monte Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and +extraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might well seem +impossibilities to her shattered reason. + +“Do not call anyone—do not be alarmed,” said the count; “do not let a +shade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your breast; the man +standing before you, Valentine (for this time it is no ghost), is +nothing more than the tenderest father and the most respectful friend +you could dream of.” + +Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real presence +of a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter a +syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed to inquire, “If your +intentions are pure, why are you here?” The count’s marvellous sagacity +understood all that was passing in the young girl’s mind. + +“Listen to me,” he said, “or, rather, look upon me; look at my face, +paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness—for four days I +have not closed them, for I have been constantly watching you, to +protect and preserve you for Maximilian.” + +The blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just +announced by the count dispelled all the fear with which his presence +had inspired her. + +“Maximilian!” she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to her, +that she repeated it—“Maximilian!—has he then owned all to you?” + +“Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised him that +you shall live.” + +“You have promised him that I shall live?” + +“Yes.” + +“But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor?” + +“Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe me.” + +“But you say you have watched?” said Valentine uneasily; “where have +you been?—I have not seen you.” + +The count extended his hand towards the library. + +“I was hidden behind that door,” he said, “which leads into the next +house, which I have rented.” + +Valentine turned her eyes away, and, with an indignant expression of +pride and modest fear, exclaimed: + +“Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and +that what you call protection is more like an insult.” + +“Valentine,” he answered, “during my long watch over you, all I have +observed has been what people visited you, what nourishment was +prepared, and what beverage was served; then, when the latter appeared +dangerous to me, I entered, as I have now done, and substituted, in the +place of the poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing +the death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins.” + +“Poison—death!” exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself under the +influence of some feverish hallucination; “what are you saying, sir?” + +50071m + + + +“Hush, my child,” said Monte Cristo, again placing his finger upon her +lips, “I did say poison and death. But drink some of this;” and the +count took a bottle from his pocket, containing a red liquid, of which +he poured a few drops into the glass. “Drink this, and then take +nothing more tonight.” + +Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she touched the +glass when she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass, drank +half its contents, and then presented it to Valentine, who smiled and +swallowed the rest. + +“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, “I recognize the flavor of my nocturnal +beverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed to ease my aching +brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!” + +“This is how you have lived during the last four nights, Valentine,” +said the count. “But, oh, how I passed that time! Oh, the wretched +hours I have endured—the torture to which I have submitted when I saw +the deadly poison poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you +should drink it before I could find time to throw it away!” + +“Sir,” said Valentine, at the height of her terror, “you say you +endured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass; +but if you saw this, you must also have seen the person who poured it?” + +“Yes.” + +Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which +appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with +the cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror. +“You saw the person?” repeated the young girl. + +“Yes,” repeated the count. + +“What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe +something too dreadful. What?—attempt to murder me in my father’s +house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are +tempting me—you make me doubt the goodness of Providence—it is +impossible, it cannot be!” + +“Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not seen M. de +Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, Barrois, all fall? Would not M. +Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the treatment he has been +pursuing for the last three years neutralized the effects of the +poison?” + +“Oh, Heaven,” said Valentine; “is this the reason why grandpapa has +made me share all his beverages during the last month?” + +“And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that of +dried orange-peel?” + +“Oh, yes, yes!” + +“Then that explains all,” said Monte Cristo. “Your grandfather knows, +then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects the person. +He has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against the fatal +effects of the poison, which has failed because your system was already +impregnated with it. But even this would have availed little against a +more deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is generally +but too fatal.” + +“But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?” + +“Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen anyone enter your +room at night?” + +“Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me, approach, +and disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my feverish +imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was under the +influence of delirium.” + +“Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?” + +50073m + + + +“No,” said Valentine; “who could desire my death?” + +“You shall know it now, then,” said Monte Cristo, listening. + +“How do you mean?” said Valentine, looking anxiously around. + +“Because you are not feverish or delirious tonight, but thoroughly +awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose.” + +“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down +her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour seemed to +strike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor girl. + +“Valentine,” said the count, “summon up all your courage; still the +beatings of your heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be +asleep; then you will see.” + +Valentine seized the count’s hand. “I think I hear a noise,” she said; +“leave me.” + +“Good-bye, for the present,” replied the count, walking upon tiptoe +towards the library door, and smiling with an expression so sad and +paternal that the young girl’s heart was filled with gratitude. + +Before closing the door he turned around once more, and said, “Not a +movement—not a word; let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be +killed before I have the power of helping you.” + +And with this fearful injunction the count disappeared through the +door, which noiselessly closed after him. + + + + Chapter 101. Locusta + +Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of +Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different +directions, and excepting the rumbling of a few carriages all was +silent. Then Valentine’s attention was engrossed by the clock in her +room, which marked the seconds. She began counting them, remarking that +they were much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she +doubted,—the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine that anyone should +desire her death. Why should they? To what end? What had she done to +excite the malice of an enemy? + +There was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon +her mind,—that someone existed in the world who had attempted to +assassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again. +Supposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison, should, +as Monte Cristo intimated, have recourse to steel!—What if the count +should have no time to run to her rescue!—What if her last moments were +approaching, and she should never again see Morrel! + +When this terrible chain of ideas presented itself, Valentine was +nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help. But through the +door she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the count—that eye which +lived in her memory, and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much +shame that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude could ever +repay his adventurous and devoted friendship. + +Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, passed thus, then ten more, and +at last the clock struck the half-hour. + +Just then the sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the door +of the library informed Valentine that the count was still watching, +and recommended her to do the same; at the same time, on the opposite +side, that is towards Edward’s room, Valentine fancied that she heard +the creaking of the floor; she listened attentively, holding her breath +till she was nearly suffocated; the lock turned, and the door slowly +opened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow, and had scarcely +time to throw herself down on the bed and shade her eyes with her arm; +then, trembling, agitated, and her heart beating with indescribable +terror, she awaited the event. + +Someone approached the bed and drew back the curtains. Valentine +summoned every effort, and breathed with that regular respiration which +announces tranquil sleep. + +“Valentine!” said a low voice. + +The girl shuddered to the heart but did not reply. + +“Valentine,” repeated the same voice. + +Still silent: Valentine had promised not to wake. Then everything was +still, excepting that Valentine heard the almost noiseless sound of +some liquid being poured into the glass she had just emptied. Then she +ventured to open her eyelids, and glance over her extended arm. She saw +a woman in a white dressing-gown pouring a liquor from a phial into her +glass. During this short time Valentine must have held her breath, or +moved in some slight degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and +leaned over the bed, in order the better to ascertain whether Valentine +slept: it was Madame de Villefort. + +On recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress a shudder, +which caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de Villefort instantly +stepped back close to the wall, and there, shaded by the bed-curtains, +she silently and attentively watched the slightest movement of +Valentine. The latter recollected the terrible caution of Monte Cristo; +she fancied that the hand not holding the phial clasped a long sharp +knife. Then collecting all her remaining strength, she forced herself +to close her eyes; but this simple operation upon the most delicate +organs of our frame, generally so easy to accomplish, became almost +impossible at this moment, so much did curiosity struggle to retain the +eyelid open and learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, however, +reassured by the silence, which was alone disturbed by the regular +breathing of Valentine, again extended her hand, and half hidden by the +curtains succeeded in emptying the contents of the phial into the +glass. Then she retired so gently that Valentine did not know she had +left the room. She only witnessed the withdrawal of the arm—the fair +round arm of a woman but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread +death around her. + +50077m + + + +It is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by Valentine +during the minute and a half Madame de Villefort remained in the room. + +The grating against the library-door aroused the young girl from the +stupor in which she was plunged, and which almost amounted to +insensibility. She raised her head with an effort. The noiseless door +again turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo reappeared. + +“Well,” said he, “do you still doubt?” + +“Oh,” murmured the young girl. + +“Have you seen?” + +“Alas!” + +“Did you recognize?” Valentine groaned. + +“Oh, yes;” she said, “I saw, but I cannot believe!” + +“Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian’s death?” + +“Oh,” repeated the young girl, almost bewildered, “can I not leave the +house?—can I not escape?” + +“Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you +everywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will be +offered to you disguised in every shape. You will find it in the water +you drink from the spring, in the fruit you pluck from the tree.” + +“But did you not say that my kind grandfather’s precaution had +neutralized the poison?” + +“Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be changed, and +the quantity increased.” He took the glass and raised it to his lips. +“It is already done,” he said; “brucine is no longer employed, but a +simple narcotic! I can recognize the flavor of the alcohol in which it +has been dissolved. If you had taken what Madame de Villefort has +poured into your glass, Valentine—Valentine—you would have been +doomed!” + +“But,” exclaimed the young girl, “why am I thus pursued?” + +“Why?—are you so kind—so good—so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot +understand, Valentine?” + +“No, I have never injured her.” + +“But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a year, and you +prevent her son from enjoying these 200,000 livres.” + +“How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from my +relations.” + +“Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-Méran have died; +that is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he made you his heir; +that is why you, in your turn, are to die—it is because your father +would inherit your property, and your brother, his only son, succeed to +his.” + +“Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his account?” + +“Ah, then you at length understand?” + +“Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!” + +“Valentine, you are an angel!” + +“But why is my grandfather allowed to live?” + +“It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would naturally revert +to your brother, unless he were disinherited; and besides, the crime +appearing useless, it would be folly to commit it.” + +“And is it possible that this frightful combination of crimes has been +invented by a woman?” + +“Do you recollect in the arbor of the Hôtel des Postes, at Perugia, +seeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother was questioning +upon _aqua tofana_? Well, ever since then, the infernal project has +been ripening in her brain.” + +“Ah, then, indeed, sir,” said the sweet girl, bathed in tears, “I see +that I am condemned to die!” + +“No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no, your enemy is +conquered since we know her, and you will live, Valentine—live to be +happy yourself, and to confer happiness upon a noble heart; but to +insure this you must rely on me.” + +“Command me, sir—what am I to do?” + +“You must blindly take what I give you.” + +“Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to die!” + +“You must not confide in anyone—not even in your father.” + +“My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?” asked +Valentine, clasping her hands. + +“No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial accusations, +ought to have known that all these deaths have not happened naturally; +it is he who should have watched over you—he should have occupied my +place—he should have emptied that glass—he should have risen against +the assassin. Spectre against spectre!” he murmured in a low voice, as +he concluded his sentence. + +“Sir,” said Valentine, “I will do all I can to live, for there are two +beings who love me and will die if I die—my grandfather and +Maximilian.” + +“I will watch over them as I have over you.” + +“Well, sir, do as you will with me;” and then she added, in a low +voice, “oh, heavens, what will befall me?” + +“Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though you suffer; +though you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, fear nothing; though you +should awake and be ignorant where you are, still do not fear; even +though you should find yourself in a sepulchral vault or coffin. +Reassure yourself, then, and say to yourself: ‘At this moment, a +friend, a father, who lives for my happiness and that of Maximilian, +watches over me!’” + +“Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!” + +“Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother?” + +“I would rather die a hundred times—oh, yes, die!” + +“No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever happens, that +you will not complain, but hope?” + +“I will think of Maximilian!” + +“You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you, and I +will.” + +Valentine in the extremity of her terror joined her hands,—for she felt +that the moment had arrived to ask for courage,—and began to pray, and +while uttering little more than incoherent words, she forgot that her +white shoulders had no other covering than her long hair, and that the +pulsations of her heart could be seen through the lace of her +nightdress. Monte Cristo gently laid his hand on the young girl’s arm, +drew the velvet coverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal +smile: + +“My child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the goodness +of Providence and the love of Maximilian.” Valentine gave him a look +full of gratitude, and remained as docile as a child. + +Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald box, raised +the golden lid, and took from it a pastille about the size of a pea, +which he placed in her hand. She took it, and looked attentively on the +count; there was an expression on the face of her intrepid protector +which commanded her veneration. She evidently interrogated him by her +look. + +“Yes,” said he. + +Valentine carried the pastille to her mouth, and swallowed it. + +“And now, my dear child, adieu for the present. I will try and gain a +little sleep, for you are saved.” + +“Go,” said Valentine, “whatever happens, I promise you not to fear.” + +Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young girl, who +gradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of the narcotic the +count had given her. Then he took the glass, emptied three parts of the +contents in the fireplace, that it might be supposed Valentine had +taken it, and replaced it on the table; then he disappeared, after +throwing a farewell glance on Valentine, who slept with the confidence +and innocence of an angel at the feet of the Lord. + + + + Chapter 102. Valentine + +The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting the +last drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globe +of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening +before it expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate +object have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human +creature in its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over +the bedclothes and curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in +the streets had ceased, and the silence was frightful. + +It was then that the door of Edward’s room opened, and a head we have +before noticed appeared in the glass opposite; it was Madame de +Villefort, who came to witness the effects of the drink she had +prepared. She stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to the +flickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted room, and then +advanced to the table to see if Valentine’s glass were empty. It was +still about a quarter full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort +emptied the contents into the ashes, which she disturbed that they +might the more readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the +glass, and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table. + +If anyone could have looked into the room just then he would have +noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the +bed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound +silence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more +by her own conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the +poisoner was terrified at the contemplation of her own work. + +At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the +pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed, +no breath issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no +longer quivered—the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the +long black lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort +gazed upon the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she +ventured to raise the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl’s +heart. It was cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her +own fingers, and withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging +out of the bed; from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of +Germain Pillon’s “Graces,”23 but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly +distorted by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was +resting with stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed. +The nails, too, were turning blue. + +Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over—she had +consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no +more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though +fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she +still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction +always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely +mysterious and does not excite disgust. + +The minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain +which she held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was +lost in reverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse. + +Just then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de +Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately +afterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful +obscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half-past four. + +Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way +to the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear. The darkness +lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept through the +Venetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in the room. + +About this time the nurse’s cough was heard on the stairs and the woman +entered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a father +or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine’s +condition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep. + +“Good,” she exclaimed, approaching the table, “she has taken part of +her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty.” + +Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she had +just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by +Valentine’s sleep, so she threw herself into an armchair to snatch a +little more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the +prolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm +was still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and +for the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the +arm, but it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a +sick-nurse. She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed: + +“Help, help!” + +50083m + + + +“What is the matter?” asked M. d’Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it +being the hour he usually visited her. + +“What is it?” asked Villefort, rushing from his room. “Doctor, do you +hear them call for help?” + +“Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine’s room.” + +But before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants +who were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and +motionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and +stood transfixed, as though struck by lightening. + +“Call Madame de Villefort!—Wake Madame de Villefort!” cried the +procureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he scarcely +dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watching +M. d’Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms. + +“What?—this one, too?” he exclaimed. “Oh, where will be the end?” + +Villefort rushed into the room. + +“What are you saying, doctor?” he exclaimed, raising his hands to +heaven. + +“I say that Valentine is dead!” replied d’Avrigny, in a voice terrible +in its solemn calmness. + +50085m + + + +M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the +exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all +fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the +stairs and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the +court, afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the +accursed house. + +Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on her +dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood +motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while +she endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she +stepped, or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table. +She saw d’Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain +of having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it +was when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of +Valentine rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It +was, indeed, the same color as the draught she had poured into the +glass, and which Valentine had drunk; it was indeed the poison, which +could not deceive M. d’Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it +was doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her +precautions, there should be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal +the crime. + +While Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of +terror, and Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw +nothing around him, d’Avrigny approached the window, that he might the +better examine the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his +finger in, tasted it. + +“Ah,” he exclaimed, “it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see +what it is!” + +Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine’s room, which had been +transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a +small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor, +which immediately changed to a blood-red color. + +“Ah,” exclaimed d’Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge +unveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student making a +discovery. + +Madame de Villefort was overpowered; her eyes first flashed and then +swam, she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly +afterwards the distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground +was heard, but no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged +in watching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in +grief. M. d’Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his +eyes, and watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over +the entrance to Edward’s room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de +Villefort’s apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor. + +“Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort,” he said to the nurse. +“Madame de Villefort is ill.” + +50087m + + + +“But Mademoiselle de Villefort——” stammered the nurse. + +“Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help,” said d’Avrigny, +“since she is dead.” + +“Dead,—dead!” groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which +was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron +heart of that man. + +“Dead!” repeated a third voice. “Who said Valentine was dead?” + +The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and +terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel +had presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier’s room. +Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring +he entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant +to conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants +having, as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason +for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should +live, and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the +count had given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by +Noirtier. Still this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and +he called a second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined +to go up. Noirtier’s room was opened, like all the rest. The first +thing he saw was the old man sitting in his armchair in his usual +place, but his eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor +which overspread his features. + +“How are you, sir?” asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart. + +“Well,” answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance +manifested increasing uneasiness. + +“You are thoughtful, sir,” continued Morrel; “you want something; shall +I call one of the servants?” + +“Yes,” replied Noirtier. + +Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one +answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed +on his countenance momentarily increased. + +“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, “why do they not come? Is anyone ill in the +house?” The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from +their sockets. “What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine? +Valentine?” + +“Yes, yes,” signed Noirtier. + +Maximilian tried to speak, but he could articulate nothing; he +staggered, and supported himself against the wainscot. Then he pointed +to the door. + +“Yes, yes, yes!” continued the old man. + +50089m + + + +Maximilian rushed up the little staircase, while Noirtier’s eyes seemed +to say,—“Quicker, quicker!” + +In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length +he reached Valentine’s. + +There was no occasion to push the door, it was wide open. A sob was the +only sound he heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure +kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible +fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim “Valentine is +dead!” and another voice which, like an echo repeated: + +“Dead,—dead!” + +50090m + + + + + Chapter 103. Maximilian + +Villefort rose, half-ashamed of being surprised in such a paroxysm of +grief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five years had +succeeded in making him more or less than man. His glance, at first +wandering, fixed itself upon Morrel. “Who are you, sir,” he asked, +“that forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with +death? Go, sir, go!” + +But Morrel remained motionless; he could not detach his eyes from that +disordered bed, and the pale corpse of the young girl who was lying on +it. + +“Go!—do you hear?” said Villefort, while d’Avrigny advanced to lead +Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the corpse, gazed all +around the room, then upon the two men; he opened his mouth to speak, +but finding it impossible to give utterance to the innumerable ideas +that occupied his brain, he went out, thrusting his hands through his +hair in such a manner that Villefort and d’Avrigny, for a moment +diverted from the engrossing topic, exchanged glances, which seemed to +say,—“He is mad!” + +But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an +extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman +strength, the armchair containing Noirtier upstairs. When he reached +the landing he placed the armchair on the floor and rapidly rolled it +into Valentine’s room. This could only have been accomplished by means +of unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement. But the most +fearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed towards the bed, his face +expressing all his meaning, and his eyes supplying the want of every +other faculty. That pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort +like a frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact +with his father, something terrible had happened. + +“See what they have done!” cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the +back of the chair, and the other extended towards Valentine. “See, my +father, see!” + +Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who, +almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment +the whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his eyes which became +bloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples +became purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was +wanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued +from his pores, if we may thus speak—a cry frightful in its silence. +D’Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful +restorative. + +“Sir,” cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, “they ask +me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell +them, tell them!” And the young man’s voice was choked by sobs. + +As for the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One +could have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death. +At length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping, +tears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier. + +“Tell them,” said Morrel in a hoarse voice, “tell them that I am her +betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble girl, my only +blessing in the world. Tell them—oh, tell them, that corpse belongs to +me!” + +The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell heavily on +his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive +energy. D’Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion, +turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation, +and attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us +towards those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his +hand towards the young man. + +But Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and +unable to weep vented his agony in groans as he bit the sheets. For +some time nothing was heard in that chamber but sobs, exclamations, and +prayers. At length Villefort, the most composed of all, spoke: + +“Sir,” said he to Maximilian, “you say you loved Valentine, that you +were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of this love, +yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that your grief is real and +deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for anger to find a place +in my heart. But you see that the angel whom you hoped for has left +this earth—she has nothing more to do with the adoration of men. Take a +last farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take the hand you expected to +possess once more within your own, and then separate yourself from her +forever. Valentine now requires only the ministrations of the priest.” + +50093m + + + +“You are mistaken, sir,” exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on one knee, +his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had yet felt—“you +are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only requires a priest, +but an avenger. _You_, M. de Villefort, send for the priest; _I_ will +be the avenger.” + +“What do you mean, sir?” asked Villefort, trembling at the new idea +inspired by the delirium of Morrel. + +“I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned +sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office.” + +The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d’Avrigny approached. + +“Gentlemen,” said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of +the witnesses to the scene, “I know what I am saying, and you know as +well as I do what I am about to say—Valentine has been assassinated!” + +Villefort hung his head, d’Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said +“Yes” with his eyes. + +“Now, sir,” continued Morrel, “in these days no one can disappear by +violent means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her +disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable +creature like Valentine. Now, M. le Procureur du Roi,” said Morrel with +increasing vehemence, “no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is +your place to seek the assassin.” + +The young man’s implacable eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his +side, glanced from Noirtier to d’Avrigny. But instead of finding +sympathy in the eyes of the doctor and his father, he only saw an +expression as inflexible as that of Maximilian. + +“Yes,” indicated the old man. + +“Assuredly,” said d’Avrigny. + +“Sir,” said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple force +and his own emotion,—“sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes +here. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no one +assassinates.” + +The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d’Avrigny prepared to +speak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and commanded silence. + +“And I say that murders _are_ committed here,” said Morrel, whose +voice, though lower in tone, lost none of its terrible distinctness: “I +tell you that this is the fourth victim within the last four months. I +tell you, Valentine’s life was attempted by poison four days ago, +though she escaped, owing to the precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you +that the dose has been double, the poison changed, and that this time +it has succeeded. I tell you that you know these things as well as I +do, since this gentleman has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a +friend.” + +“Oh, you rave, sir,” exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape +the net in which he was taken. + +50095m + + + +“I rave?” said Morrel; “well, then, I appeal to M. d’Avrigny himself. +Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of +this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You thought +yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the +fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of +Valentine.” Villefort and d’Avrigny exchanged looks. + +“Yes, yes,” continued Morrel; “recall the scene, for the words you +thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears. +Certainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M. de +Villefort towards his own relations, I ought to have denounced him to +the authorities; then I should not have been an accomplice to thy +death, as I now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall +become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent to all, and if thy +father abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that shall +pursue the assassin.” + +And this time, as though nature had at least taken compassion on the +vigorous frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of +Morrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so +long rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on +his knees by the side of the bed. + +Then d’Avrigny spoke. “And I, too,” he exclaimed in a low voice, “I +unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood boils at +the idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly concession.” + +“Oh, merciful Heavens!” murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and +reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with unnatural lustre,— + +“Stay,” he said, “M. Noirtier wishes to speak.” + +“Yes,” indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible, from +all his faculties being centred in his glance. + +“Do you know the assassin?” asked Morrel. + +“Yes,” replied Noirtier. + +“And will you direct us?” exclaimed the young man. “Listen, M. +d’Avrigny, listen!” + +Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those melancholy smiles which +had so often made Valentine happy, and thus fixed his attention. Then, +having riveted the eyes of his interlocutor on his own, he glanced +towards the door. + +“Do you wish me to leave?” said Morrel, sadly. + +“Yes,” replied Noirtier. + +“Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!” + +The old man’s eyes remained fixed on the door. + +“May I, at least, return?” asked Morrel. + +“Yes.” + +“Must I leave alone?” + +“No.” + +“Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?” + +“No.” + +“The doctor?” + +“Yes.” + +“You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?” + +“Yes.” + +“But can he understand you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh,” said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the +inquiries were to be made by him alone,—“oh, be satisfied, I can +understand my father.” While uttering these words with this expression +of joy, his teeth clashed together violently. + +D’Avrigny took the young man’s arm, and led him out of the room. A more +than deathlike silence then reigned in the house. At the end of a +quarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort +appeared at the door of the apartment where d’Avrigny and Morrel had +been staying, one absorbed in meditation, the other in grief. + +“You can come,” he said, and led them back to Noirtier. + +Morrel looked attentively on Villefort. His face was livid, large drops +rolled down his face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a +quill pen which he had torn to atoms. + +“Gentlemen,” he said in a hoarse voice, “give me your word of honor +that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst +ourselves!” The two men drew back. + +“I entreat you——” continued Villefort. + +“But,” said Morrel, “the culprit—the murderer—the assassin.” + +“Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done,” said Villefort. “My +father has revealed the culprit’s name; my father thirsts for revenge +as much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this +secret. Do you not, father?” + +“Yes,” resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an exclamation of +horror and surprise to escape him. + +“Oh, sir,” said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm, “if my +father, the inflexible man, makes this request, it is because he knows, +be assured, that Valentine will be terribly revenged. Is it not so, +father?” + +The old man made a sign in the affirmative. Villefort continued: + +“He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him. Rest assured, +gentlemen, that within three days, in a less time than justice would +demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder of my child will +be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;” and as he spoke these +words he ground his teeth, and grasped the old man’s senseless hand. + +“Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?” asked Morrel, while +d’Avrigny looked inquiringly. + +“Yes,” replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy. + +“Swear, then,” said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and +d’Avrigny, “swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave +me to avenge my child.” + +D’Avrigny turned round and uttered a very feeble “Yes,” but Morrel, +disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after having pressed the +cold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly left, uttering a long, +deep groan of despair and anguish. + +We have before stated that all the servants had fled. M. de Villefort +was therefore obliged to request M. d’Avrigny to superintend all the +arrangements consequent upon a death in a large city, more especially a +death under such suspicious circumstances. + +It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair +of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks. Villefort +retired to his study, and d’Avrigny left to summon the doctor of the +mayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after decease, and who +is expressly named “the doctor of the dead.” M. Noirtier could not be +persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of an hour M. +d’Avrigny returned with his associate; they found the outer gate +closed, and not a servant remaining in the house; Villefort himself was +obliged to open to them. But he stopped on the landing; he had not the +courage to again visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore, +entered the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless, +and silent as the corpse. The district doctor approached with the +indifference of a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the +dead; he then lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just +unclosed the lips. + +“Alas,” said d’Avrigny, “she is indeed dead, poor child!” + +50099m + + + +“Yes,” answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he had +raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the old +man’s eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he wished to +behold his child. He therefore approached the bed, and while his +companion was dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of +the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face, +which looked like that of a sleeping angel. + +A tear, which appeared in the old man’s eye, expressed his thanks to +the doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner +of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out by +d’Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study; having in a few +words thanked the district doctor, he turned to d’Avrigny, and said: + +“And now the priest.” + +“Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?” asked +d’Avrigny. + +“No.” said Villefort; “fetch the nearest.” + +“The nearest,” said the district doctor, “is a good Italian abbé, who +lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass?” + +“D’Avrigny,” said Villefort, “be so kind, I beseech you, as to +accompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you can +go in and out as you please; you will bring the priest with you, and +will oblige me by introducing him into my child’s room.” + +50101m + + + +“Do you wish to see him?” + +“I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not? A priest +can understand a father’s grief.” + +And M. de Villefort, giving the key to d’Avrigny, again bade farewell +to the strange doctor, and retired to his study, where he began to +work. For some temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions. + +As the doctors entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing +on the threshold of the next door. + +“This is the abbé of whom I spoke,” said the doctor to d’Avrigny. +D’Avrigny accosted the priest. + +“Sir,” he said, “are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an +unhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de Villefort, +the king’s attorney.” + +“Ah,” said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; “yes, I have heard +that death is in that house.” + +“Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of you.” + +“I was about to offer myself, sir,” said the priest; “it is our mission +to forestall our duties.” + +“It is a young girl.” + +“I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me. I +also know that her name is Valentine, and I have already prayed for +her.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said d’Avrigny; “since you have commenced your sacred +office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead, and all the +wretched family will be grateful to you.” + +“I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be +more fervent than mine.” + +D’Avrigny took the priest’s hand, and without meeting Villefort, who +was engaged in his study, they reached Valentine’s room, which on the +following night was to be occupied by the undertakers. On entering the +room, Noirtier’s eyes met those of the abbé, and no doubt he read some +particular expression in them, for he remained in the room. D’Avrigny +recommended the attention of the priest to the living as well as to the +dead, and the abbé promised to devote his prayers to Valentine and his +attentions to Noirtier. + +In order, doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling +his sacred mission, the priest rose as soon as d’Avrigny departed, and +not only bolted the door through which the doctor had just left, but +also that leading to Madame de Villefort’s room. + + + + Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature + +The next morning dawned dull and cloudy. During the night the +undertakers had executed their melancholy office, and wrapped the +corpse in the winding-sheet, which, whatever may be said about the +equality of death, is at least a last proof of the luxury so pleasing +in life. This winding-sheet was nothing more than a beautiful piece of +cambric, which the young girl had bought a fortnight before. + +During the evening two men, engaged for the purpose, had carried +Noirtier from Valentine’s room into his own, and contrary to all +expectation there was no difficulty in withdrawing him from his child. +The Abbé Busoni had watched till daylight, and then left without +calling anyone. D’Avrigny returned about eight o’clock in the morning; +he met Villefort on his way to Noirtier’s room, and accompanied him to +see how the old man had slept. They found him in the large armchair, +which served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, nay, almost a smiling +sleep. They both stood in amazement at the door. + +“See,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “nature knows how to alleviate the +deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child, +and yet he sleeps.” + +“Yes, you are right,” replied Villefort, surprised; “he sleeps, indeed! +And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him +awake all night.” + +“Grief has stunned him,” replied d’Avrigny; and they both returned +thoughtfully to the procureur’s study. + +“See, I have not slept,” said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed; +“grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but +then look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and +nights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation +against the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work,—my passion, my joy, my +delight,—it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!” and he convulsively +grasped the hand of d’Avrigny. + +“Do you require my services now?” asked d’Avrigny. + +“No,” said Villefort; “only return again at eleven o’clock; at twelve +the—the—oh, Heavens, my poor, poor child!” and the procureur again +becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned. + +“Shall you be present in the reception-room?” + +“No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work, +doctor—when I work I forget everything.” + +And, indeed, no sooner had the doctor left the room, than he was again +absorbed in work. On the doorsteps d’Avrigny met the cousin whom +Villefort had mentioned, a personage as insignificant in our story as +in the world he occupied—one of those beings designed from their birth +to make themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in black, +with crape around his hat, and presented himself at his cousin’s with a +face made up for the occasion, and which he could alter as might be +required. + +At eleven o’clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and +the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré was filled with a crowd of idlers, +equally pleased to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich, +and who rush with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the +marriage of a duchess. + +Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends made +their appearance—we mean Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp, +accompanied by all the leading men of the day at the bar, in +literature, or the army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first +Parisian circles, less owing to his social position than to his +personal merit. + +The cousin standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was +rather a relief to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as +themselves, and who did not exact a mournful face or force tears, as +would have been the case with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those +who were acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of them was +made of Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp. + +“Poor girl,” said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute +to the sad event,—“poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could +you have imagined this scene, Château-Renaud, when we saw her, at the +most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?” + +“Indeed, no,” said Château-Renaud.” + +“Did you know her?” + +“I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf’s, among the rest; +she appeared to me charming, though rather melancholy. Where is her +stepmother? Do you know?” + +“She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who is +receiving us.” + +50105m + + + +“Who is he?” + +“Whom do you mean?” + +“The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy?” + +“Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every day,” said +Beauchamp; “but he is perfectly unknown to me.” + +“Have you mentioned this death in your paper?” + +“It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed, I doubt if +it will please M. Villefort, for it says that if four successive deaths +had happened anywhere else than in the house of the king’s attorney, he +would have interested himself somewhat more about it.” + +“Still,” said Château-Renaud, “Dr. d’Avrigny, who attends my mother, +declares he is in despair about it. But whom are you seeking, Debray?” + +“I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo” said the young man. + +“I met him on the boulevard, on my way here,” said Beauchamp. “I think +he is about to leave Paris; he was going to his banker.” + +“His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?” asked Château-Renaud +of Debray. + +“I believe so,” replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. “But +Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel.” + +“Morrel? Do they know him?” asked Château-Renaud. “I think he has only +been introduced to Madame de Villefort.” + +“Still, he ought to have been here,” said Debray; “I wonder what will +be talked about tonight; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush, +here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some +little speech to the cousin,” and the three young men drew near to +listen. + +Beauchamp told the truth when he said that on his way to the funeral he +had met Monte Cristo, who was directing his steps towards the Rue de la +Chaussée d’Antin, to M. Danglars’. The banker saw the carriage of the +count enter the courtyard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though +affable smile. + +“Well,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, “I suppose you +have come to sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken +possession of my house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself +whether I had not wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would +have justified the proverb of ‘He who wishes misfortunes to happen to +others experiences them himself.’ Well, on my word of honor, I +answered, ‘No!’ I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud, +perhaps, for a man who like myself has risen from nothing; but we all +have our faults. Do you know, count, that persons of our time of +life—not that you belong to the class, you are still a young man,—but +as I was saying, persons of our time of life have been very unfortunate +this year. For example, look at the puritanical procureur, who has just +lost his daughter, and in fact nearly all his family, in so singular a +manner; Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with +ridicule through the villany of Benedetto; besides——” + +“Besides what?” asked the Count. + +“Alas, do you not know?” + +“What new calamity?” + +“My daughter——” + +“Mademoiselle Danglars?” + +“Eugénie has left us!” + +“Good heavens, what are you telling me?” + +“The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having +either wife or children!” + +“Do you think so?” + +“Indeed I do.” + +“And so Mademoiselle Danglars——” + +“She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she +asked permission to travel.” + +“And is she gone?” + +“The other night she left.” + +“With Madame Danglars?” + +“No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugénie; +for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.” + +“Still, baron,” said Monte Cristo, “family griefs, or indeed any other +affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure, +are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and +practical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates +many trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you +ought to be very easily consoled—you, the king of finance, the focus of +immeasurable power.” + +Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke +seriously. + +“Yes,” he answered, “if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be +consoled; I am rich.” + +“So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you +wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you +would not dare!” + +Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count. “That +reminds me,” he said, “that when you entered I was on the point of +signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me +to do the same to the others?” + +“Pray do so.” + +There was a moment’s silence, during which the noise of the banker’s +pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on +the ceiling. + +“Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo. + +“No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France, +payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may be called the +emperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces +of paper of this size, each worth a million?” + +The count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly +presented to him, and read:— + +“‘To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund +deposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my +account. + +“Baron Danglars.’” + +“One, two, three, four, five,” said Monte Cristo; “five millions—why +what a Crœsus you are!” + +“This is how I transact business,” said Danglars. + +“It is really wonderful,” said the count; “above all, if, as I suppose, +it is payable at sight.” + +“It is, indeed,” said Danglars. + +“It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France +these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper!—it +must be seen to be believed.” + +“You do not doubt it?” + +“No!” + +“You say so with an accent—stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk +to the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the +Treasury for the same sum.” + +“No,” said Monte Cristo folding the five notes, “most decidedly not; +the thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am +credited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand +francs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand +francs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, +with your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six +millions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in +want of money today.” + +And Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while +with the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt +had fallen at the banker’s feet, he could not have experienced greater +terror. + +“What,” he stammered, “do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me, +excuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund,—a deposit which I +promised to pay this morning.” + +“Oh, well, then,” said Monte Cristo, “I am not particular about these +five notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to +take these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or +preparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a +minute’s delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds; +pay me differently;” and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized +them like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is +being wrested from its grasp. + +Suddenly he rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and +then a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed +countenance. + +50109m + + + +“Certainly,” he said, “your receipt is money.” + +“Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French +would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than +you have just done.” + +“Pardon me, count, pardon me.” + +“Then I may keep this money?” + +“Yes,” said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of +his hair. “Yes, keep it—keep it.” + +Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable +expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is +still time.” + +“No,” said Danglars, “no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you +know none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended +this money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I +did not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd—as if one crown +were not as good as another. Excuse me;” and he began to laugh loudly, +but nervously. + +“Certainly, I excuse you,” said Monte Cristo graciously, “and pocket +them.” And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book. + +“But,” said Danglars, “there is still a sum of one hundred thousand +francs?” + +“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Monte Cristo. “The balance would come to +about that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits.” + +“Count,” said Danglars, “are you speaking seriously?” + +“I never joke with bankers,” said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner, +which repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the +valet de chambre announced: + +“M. de Boville, Receiver-General of the charities.” + +“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo; “I think I arrived just in time to +obtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me.” + +Danglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out. +Monte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was +standing in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars’ +room as soon as the count had left. + +The count’s serious face was illumined by a faint smile, as he noticed +the portfolio which the receiver-general held in his hand. At the door +he found his carriage, and was immediately driven to the bank. +Meanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the +receiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension was +stamped upon his lips. + +“Good-morning, creditor,” said he; “for I wager anything it is the +creditor who visits me.” + +“You are right, baron,” answered M. de Boville; “the charities present +themselves to you through me; the widows and orphans depute me to +receive alms to the amount of five millions from you.” + +“And yet they say orphans are to be pitied,” said Danglars, wishing to +prolong the jest. “Poor things!” + +“Here I am in their name,” said M. de Boville; “but did you receive my +letter yesterday?” + +“Yes.” + +“I have brought my receipt.” + +50111m + + + +“My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by +waiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw +leaving here—you did see him, I think?” + +“Yes; well?” + +“Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions.” + +“How so?” + +“The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson +& French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I +paid him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you +can understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will +appear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different +thing,” said Danglars, smiling. + +“Come,” said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity, “five millions +to that gentleman who just left, and who bowed to me as though he knew +me?” + +“Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo +knows everybody.” + +“Five millions!” + +“Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes.” M. de Boville took the +paper Danglars presented him, and read: + +“Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred +thousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson & +French of Rome.” + +“It is really true,” said M. de Boville. + +“Do you know the house of Thomson & French?” + +“Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000 +francs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned.” + +“It is one of the best houses in Europe,” said Danglars, carelessly +throwing down the receipt on his desk. + +“And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte +Cristo must be a nabob?” + +“Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits—one on +me, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see,” he added +carelessly, “he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of +100,000 francs.” + +M. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration. + +“I must visit him,” he said, “and obtain some pious grant from him.” + +“Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000 +francs a month.” + +“It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de +Morcerf and her son.” + +“What example?” + +“They gave all their fortune to the hospitals.” + +“What fortune?” + +“Their own—M. de Morcerf’s, who is deceased.” + +“For what reason?” + +“Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired.” + +“And what are they to live upon?” + +“The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army.” + +50113m + + + +“Well, I must confess, these are scruples.” + +“I registered their deed of gift yesterday.” + +“And how much did they possess?” + +“Oh, not much—from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to +return to our millions.” + +“Certainly,” said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world. “Are +you then pressed for this money?” + +“Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow.” + +“Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a +century! At what hour does the examination take place?” + +“At two o’clock.” + +“Send at twelve,” said Danglars, smiling. + +M. de Boville said nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the +portfolio. + +“Now I think of it, you can do better,” said Danglars. + +“How do you mean?” + +“The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to +Rothschild’s or Lafitte’s, and they will take it off your hands at +once.” + +“What, though payable at Rome?” + +“Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs.” + +The receiver started back. + +“_Ma foi!_” he said, “I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a +proposition!” + +“I thought, perhaps,” said Danglars with supreme impertinence, “that +you had a deficiency to make up?” + +“Indeed,” said the receiver. + +“And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some +sacrifice.” + +“Thank you, no, sir.” + +“Then it will be tomorrow.” + +“Yes; but without fail.” + +“Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank +shall be notified.” + +“I will come myself.” + +“Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.” +They shook hands. + +“By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of +poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?” + +“No,” said the banker; “I have appeared rather ridiculous since that +affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background.” + +“Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?” + +“Listen—when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather +sensitive.” + +“Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!” + +“Poor Eugénie!” said Danglars; “do you know she is going to embrace a +religious life?” + +“No.” + +“Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she +decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone +to seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain.” + +“Oh, it is terrible!” and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation, +after expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely +left before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone +understand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Frédérick,24 +exclaimed: + +“Fool!” + +Then enclosing Monte Cristo’s receipt in a little pocket-book, he +added:—“Yes, come at twelve o’clock; I shall then be far away.” + +Then he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers, collected +about fifty thousand francs in bank-notes, burned several papers, left +others exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which he +addressed: + +“To Madame la Baronne Danglars.” + +“I will place it on her table myself tonight,” he murmured. Then taking +a passport from his drawer he said,—“Good, it is available for two +months longer.” + + + + Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise + +M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking +Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a +cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the +trees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards. +M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of +Père-Lachaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a +Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be +surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault, +which was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of +the monument was inscribed: “The families of Saint-Méran and +Villefort,” for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renée, +Valentine’s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way +towards Père-Lachaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Having crossed +Paris, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the +exterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private +carriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more +than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot. + +50117m + + + +These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine’s death had +struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness +of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the +memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the +flower of her youth. + +As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was +seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the +carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Château-Renaud +perceived him and immediately alighting from his _coupé_, joined him; +Beauchamp did the same. + +The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was +evidently watching for someone, but his search ended in disappointment. + +50119m + + + +“Where is Morrel?” he asked; “do either of these gentlemen know where +he is?” + +“We have already asked that question,” said Château-Renaud, “for none +of us has seen him.” + +The count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they +arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced +through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all +anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo +recognized him whom he sought. + +One funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent +metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white +avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise +made by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments; +then follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then +with a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass +of flowers. + +The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of +Abélard and Héloïse, placed itself close to the heads of the horses +belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker’s men, arrived +with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person’s attention +was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one +else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object +of his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the +procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his +coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively +crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated +on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral +details could escape his observation. + +Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least +impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring +this premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father, +and one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had +solicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice +was ready to fall—until at length they exhausted their stores of +metaphor and mournful speeches, elaborate variations on the stanzas of +Malherbe to Du Périer. + +Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose +calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in +his heart. + +“See,” said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. “What is he doing +up there?” And they called Château-Renaud’s attention to him. + +“How pale he is!” said Château-Renaud, shuddering. + +“He is cold,” said Debray. + +“Not at all,” said Château-Renaud, slowly; “I think he is violently +agitated. He is very susceptible.” + +“Bah,” said Debray; “he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you +said so yourself.” + +“True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de +Morcerf’s. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such +an effect?” + +50121m + + + +“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or +to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel, +who was holding his breath with emotion. + +“The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,” said the count, +unceremoniously. + +And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went. + +The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud +looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the +departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and +Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp. + +Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the +arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by +spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it +reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet +nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with +outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to +pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till +it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he +murmured: + +“Oh, Valentine!” + +The count’s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he +stepped forward, and touching the young man’s shoulder, said: + +“I was looking for you, my friend.” Monte Cristo expected a burst of +passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly,— + +“You see I was praying.” The scrutinizing glance of the count searched +the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy. + +“Shall I drive you back to Paris?” he asked. + +“No, thank you.” + +“Do you wish anything?” + +“Leave me to pray.” + +The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself +in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at +length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards +Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la +Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a +hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue +Meslay by the boulevards. + +Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel’s entrance, it +was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the +garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with +zeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some +Bengal roses. “Ah, count,” she exclaimed, with the delight manifested +by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay. + +“Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?” asked the count. + +50123m + + + +“Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel.” + +“Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian’s room this +instant,” replied Monte Cristo, “I have something of the greatest +importance to tell him.” + +“Go, then,” she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until +he had disappeared. + +Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground floor +to Maximilian’s room; when he reached the landing he listened +attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a +single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was +locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was +passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass. +The count’s anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom +appeared on the face of that imperturbable man. + +“What shall I do!” he uttered, and reflected for a moment; “shall I +ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but +accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian’s situation, and then +the bell would be followed by a louder noise.” + +Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had +been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes +of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then +withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his +desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window. + +“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the count, “there is nothing the +matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my +elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your +room; do not disturb yourself—do not disturb yourself!” + +And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the +door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less +with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry. + +“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, “it’s all your +servant’s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on +glass.” + +“Are you hurt, sir?” coldly asked Morrel. + +“I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing.” + +“I?” + +“Your fingers are stained with ink.” + +“Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am.” + +Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him +pass, but he followed him. + +“You were writing?” said Monte Cristo with a searching look. + +“I have already had the honor of telling you I was,” said Morrel. + +The count looked around him. + +“Your pistols are beside your desk,” said Monte Cristo, pointing with +his finger to the pistols on the table. + +“I am on the point of starting on a journey,” replied Morrel +disdainfully. + +“My friend,” exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness. + +“Sir?” + +“My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I +entreat you.” + +“I make a hasty resolution?” said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; “is +there anything extraordinary in a journey?” + +50125m + + + +“Maximilian,” said the count, “let us both lay aside the mask we have +assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose +upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not, +that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have +intruded on the solitude of a friend—you can understand that, to have +done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather +by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!” + +“Indeed, count,” said Morrel, shuddering; “what has put this into your +head?” + +“I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,” continued the +count, “and here is proof of what I say;” and, approaching the desk, he +removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he +had begun, and took the latter in his hands. + +Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving +his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp. + +“You wish to destroy yourself,” said the count; “you have written it.” + +“Well,” said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of +violence—“well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself, +who shall prevent me—who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are +blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is +sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices +distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my +reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of +heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my +putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have +the courage to do so?” + +“Yes, Morrel,” said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted +strangely with the young man’s excitement; “yes, I would do so.” + +“You?” exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach—“you, who +have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with +vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen +her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the +hidden sources of knowledge,—and who enact the part of a guardian angel +upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison +administered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with +pity, were you not hateful in my eyes.” + +“Morrel——” + +“Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be +satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you—my +heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But +since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture +after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo +my pretended benefactor—then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal +guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;” +and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols. + +“And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide.” + +“Prevent me, then!” replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like +the first, failed in releasing him from the count’s iron grasp. + +“I will prevent you.” + +50127m + + + +“And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right +over free and rational beings?” + +“Who am I?” repeated Monte Cristo. “Listen; I am the only man in the +world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall +not die today;’” and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and +sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who, +involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a +step. + +“Why do you mention my father?” stammered he; “why do you mingle a +recollection of him with the affairs of today?” + +“Because I am he who saved your father’s life when he wished to destroy +himself, as you do today—because I am the man who sent the purse to +your young sister, and the _Pharaon_ to old Morrel—because I am the +Edmond Dantès who nursed you, a child, on my knees.” + +Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then +all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte +Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden +revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs, +exclaiming energetically, “Julie, Julie—Emmanuel, Emmanuel!” + +Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died +rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed +upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in +alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands, +and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs: + +“On your knees—on your knees—he is our benefactor—the saviour of our +father! He is——” + +He would have added “Edmond Dantès,” but the count seized his arm and +prevented him. + +Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him +as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the +ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart +swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his +eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the +room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful +hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep +emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor, +ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal +globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allées de +Meilhan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count: + +“Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown +benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his +memory,—how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to +us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and—dare I say it?—to you also.” + +“Listen, my friends,” said the count—“I may call you so since we have +really been friends for the last eleven years—the discovery of this +secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know. +I wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your +brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now, +I am sure.” + +Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had +thrown himself into an armchair, he added in a low voice, pressing +Emmanuel’s hand significantly, “Watch over him.” + +“Why so?” asked the young man, surprised. + +“I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.” Emmanuel looked around +the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the +weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel +went towards the pistols. + +“Leave them,” said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took +his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a +profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands, +while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose. + +“Here is the relic,” she said; “do not think it will be less dear to us +now we are acquainted with our benefactor!” + +“My child,” said Monte Cristo, coloring, “allow me to take back that +purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone +through the affection I hope you will grant me. + +“Oh,” said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, “no, no, I beseech +you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you +not?” + +“You have guessed rightly, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling; “in +a week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit +the vengeance of Heaven lived happily, while my father perished of +hunger and grief.” + +While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and +remarked that the words, “I shall have left this country,” had failed +to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another +struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of +Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the +mild authority of a father: + +“My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian.” + +Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which +Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door. “Let us +leave them,” she said. + +The count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue. + +“Come,” said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger, “are +you a man again, Maximilian?” + +“Yes; for I begin to suffer again.” + +The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation. + +“Maximilian, Maximilian,” he said, “the ideas you yield to are unworthy +of a Christian.” + +“Oh, do not fear, my friend,” said Morrel, raising his head, and +smiling with a sweet expression on the count; “I shall no longer +attempt my life.” + +“Then we are to have no more pistols—no more despair?” + +“No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or +a knife.” + +“Poor fellow, what is it?” + +“My grief will kill me of itself.” + +“My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal +to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours, +since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one +day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If +anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to +his head—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the +food I had not tasted for three days—if anyone had said to either of us +then, ‘Live—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless +life!’—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with +the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,—and yet how many +times has your father blessed life while embracing you—how often have I +myself——” + +“Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your +liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost +Valentine.” + +“Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes +made him so eloquent and persuasive—“look at me. There are no tears in +my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer—you, +Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you +that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to +beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the +conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your +life.” + +“Oh, heavens,” said the young man, “oh, heavens—what are you saying, +count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!” + +“Child!” replied the count. + +“I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I +attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for +none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the appellation of +love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved +her, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all +the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would +have been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too +divine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without +Valentine the earth is desolate.” + +“I have told you to hope,” said the count. + +“Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you +succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again +behold Valentine.” + +The count smiled. + +“My friend, my father,” said Morrel with excitement, “have a care, I +again repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your +words before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and +my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in +supernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth +the dead or walk upon the water.” + +“Hope, my friend,” repeated the count. + +“Ah,” said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss +of despair—“ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather +selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because +their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do +not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it +so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my +friend, adieu!” + +“On the contrary,” said the count, “after this time you must live with +me—you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France +behind us.” + +“And you still bid me hope?” + +“I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you.” + +“Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think +the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you +would cure it by an ordinary remedy—change of scene.” And Morrel +dropped his head with disdainful incredulity. + +“What can I say more?” asked Monte Cristo. “I have confidence in the +remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its +efficacy.” + +“Count, you prolong my agony.” + +“Then,” said the count, “your feeble spirit will not even grant me the +trial I request? Come—do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is +capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his +control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the +miracle I hope to accomplish, or——” + +“Or?” repeated Morrel. + +“Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful.” + +“Have pity on me, count!” + +“I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that—listen to me +attentively—if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very +hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you, +and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison—a poison more sure and prompt +than that which has killed Valentine.” + +“Will you promise me?” + +“Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also +contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have +longed for the delights of an eternal sleep.” + +“But you are sure you will promise me this?” said Morrel, intoxicated. + +“I not only promise, but swear it!” said Monte Cristo extending his +hand. + +“In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let me +take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not +call me ungrateful?” + +“In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date is a sacred one, +Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of +September; it is ten years today since I saved your father’s life, who +wished to die.” + +Morrel seized the count’s hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to +pay the homage he felt due to him. + +“In a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then +sitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand, +you must promise me not to attempt your life before that time.” + +“Oh, I also swear it!” + +Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some +time to his heart. “And now,” he said, “after today, you will come and +live with me; you can occupy Haydée’s apartment, and my daughter will +at least be replaced by my son.” + +“Haydée?” said Morrel, “what has become of her?” + +“She departed last night.” + +“To leave you?” + +“To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the +Champs-Élysées, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my +departure.” + +Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence. + + + + Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds + +The apartment on the first floor of the house in the Rue +Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home for +his mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man whose +face the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter his chin +was buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen’s +coachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always +blowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to custom, +this gentleman had not been watched, for as the report ran that he was +a person of high rank, and one who would allow no impertinent +interference, his _incognito_ was strictly respected. + +His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared a +little before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and +winter, he took possession of his apartment about four o’clock, though +he never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the +fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence +of the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the +table at the same hour. At four o’clock, as we have already stated, the +mysterious personage arrived. + +Twenty minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady +alighted in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly veiled; she +passed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran upstairs without a +sound escaping under the touch of her light foot. No one ever asked her +where she was going. Her face, therefore, like that of the gentleman, +was perfectly unknown to the two concierges, who were perhaps +unequalled throughout the capital for discretion. We need not say she +stopped at the first floor. Then she tapped in a peculiar manner at a +door, which after being opened to admit her was again fastened, and +curiosity penetrated no farther. They used the same precautions in +leaving as in entering the house. The lady always left first, and as +soon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away, sometimes +towards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about twenty +minutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his cravat +or concealed by his handkerchief. + +The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious +lodger entered at ten o’clock in the morning instead of four in the +afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of +time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily upstairs. The door +opened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed: + +“Oh, Lucien—oh, my friend!” + +The concierge therefore heard for the first time that the lodger’s name +was Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he +made up his mind not to tell his wife. + +“Well, what is the matter, my dear?” asked the gentleman whose name the +lady’s agitation revealed; “tell me what is the matter.” + +“Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?” + +“Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter? Your +note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This +precipitation—this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or +else frighten me at once.” + +“Lucien, a great event has happened!” said the lady, glancing +inquiringly at Lucien,—“M. Danglars left last night!” + +“Left?—M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?” + +“I do not know.” + +“What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?” + +“Undoubtedly;—at ten o’clock at night his horses took him to the +barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him—he +entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to +Fontainebleau.” + +“Then what did you mean——” + +“Stay—he left a letter for me.” + +“A letter?” + +“Yes; read it.” + +And the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she gave to +Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying to guess +its contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act, whatever +it might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few minutes, +for he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness in the +heart of the baroness, and which ran as follows: + +“‘Madame and most faithful wife.’” + +Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face +became covered with blushes. + +“Read,” she said. + +Debray continued: + +“‘When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you +need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your +daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or +forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my +conduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I +will give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions +which I paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the +same sum was presented to me; I put this creditor off till tomorrow and +I intend leaving today, to escape that tomorrow, which would be rather +too unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my +most precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as +conversant with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them +better, since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable +portion of my fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame, +that you know perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they +can even explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have +invented; but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more +than that one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the +rapidity of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden +fusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us +hope you have found some gold among the ashes. With this consoling +idea, I leave you, madame, and most prudent wife, without any +conscientious reproach for abandoning you; you have friends left, and +the ashes I have already mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten +to restore to you. And here, madame, I must add another word of +explanation. So long as I hoped you were working for the good of our +house and for the fortune of our daughter, I philosophically closed my +eyes; but as you have transformed that house into a vast ruin I will +not be the foundation of another man’s fortune. You were rich when I +married you, but little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very +candidly, but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why +I should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and it has +continued to increase during the last fifteen years, till extraordinary +and unexpected catastrophes have suddenly overturned it,—without any +fault of mine, I can honestly declare. You, madame, have only sought to +increase your own, and I am convinced that you have succeeded. I leave +you, therefore, as I took you,—rich, but little respected. Adieu! I +also intend from this time to work on my own account. Accept my +acknowledgments for the example you have set me, and which I intend +following. + +“‘Your very devoted husband, + +“‘Baron Danglars.’” + +The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful +letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color +once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and +resumed his pensive attitude. + +“Well?” asked Madame Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be understood. + +“Well, madame?” unhesitatingly repeated Debray. + +“With what ideas does that letter inspire you?” + +“Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M. +Danglars has left suspiciously.” + +“Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?” + +“I do not understand you,” said Debray with freezing coldness. + +“He is gone! Gone, never to return!” + +“Oh, madame, do not think that!” + +“I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is +inflexible in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could +have made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me +in Paris, as our separation will conduce to his benefit;—therefore he +has gone, and I am free forever,” added Madame Danglars, in the same +supplicating tone. + +Debray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude of +nervous inquiry. + +“Well?” she said at length, “do you not answer me?” + +“I have but one question to ask you,—what do you intend to do?” + +“I was going to ask you,” replied the baroness with a beating heart. + +“Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?” + +“Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,” said Madame Danglars with anxious +expectation. + +“Then if you wish to take my advice,” said the young man coldly, “I +would recommend you to travel.” + +“To travel!” she murmured. + +“Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In +my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the +double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars’ broken contract and M. +Danglars’ disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor, +for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up +an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a +fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the +details of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread +the report. Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and +giving up your jointure, and everyone’s mouth will be filled with +praises of your disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and +think you also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and +am quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner.” + +The dread with which the pale and motionless baroness listened to this, +was equalled by the calm indifference with which Debray had spoken. + +“Deserted?” she repeated; “ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are +right, sir, and no one can doubt my position.” + +These were the only words that this proud and violently enamoured woman +could utter in response to Debray. + +50137m + + + +“But then you are rich,—very rich, indeed,” continued Debray, taking +out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table. +Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the +beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to +gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not +entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the +fall of a single tear. + +“Madame,” said Debray, “it is nearly six months since we have been +associated. You furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our +partnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced +operations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In +June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000 +francs,—it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we +lost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we +made up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the +first day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed a +capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now, +madame,” said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical +manner of a stockbroker, “there are still 80,000 francs, the interest +of this money, in my hands.” + +“But,” said the baroness, “I thought you never put the money out to +interest.” + +“Excuse me, madame,” said Debray coldly, “I had your permission to do +so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your +share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in +all 1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the +precaution of drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is +not long ago, you see, and I was in continual expectation of being +called on to deliver up my accounts. There is your money,—half in +bank-notes, the other half in checks payable to bearer. I say _there_, +for as I did not consider my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently +discreet, and as landed property carries evidence with it, and moreover +since you have no right to possess anything independent of your +husband, I have kept this sum, now your whole fortune, in a chest +concealed under that closet, and for greater security I myself +concealed it there. + +“Now, madame,” continued Debray, first opening the closet, then the +chest;—“now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000 francs each, +resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a +certificate in the funds of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash, +making I think about 110,000 francs, here is a check upon my banker, +who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest +assured.” + +Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the heap of +bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on the +table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast heaving +with concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put the +certificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale and +mute, awaited one kind word of consolation. + +But she waited in vain. + +“Now, madame,” said Debray, “you have a splendid fortune, an income of +about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot +keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able to +indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income +insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of +mine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan.” + +“Thank you, sir—thank you,” replied the baroness; “you forget that what +you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who +intends for some time, at least, to retire from the world.” + +Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering +himself, he bowed with an air which seemed to say, “As you please, +madame.” + +Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when +she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was +accompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her +head, and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran +downstairs, disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus +part from her. + +“Bah,” said Debray, when she had left, “these are fine projects! She +will remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she can +no longer do so on the Bourse.” + +Then taking up his account book, he cancelled with the greatest care +all the entries of the amounts he had just paid away. + +“I have 1,060,000 francs remaining,” he said. “What a pity Mademoiselle +de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect, and I would have +married her.” + +And he calmly waited until the twenty minutes had elapsed after Madame +Danglars’ departure before he left the house. During this time he +occupied himself in making figures, with his watch by his side. + +Asmodeus—that diabolical personage, who would have been created by +every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in +his great masterpiece—would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if he +had lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue +Saint-Germain-des-Prés, while Debray was casting up his figures. + +Above the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a +half with Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have +played too prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their +appearance not to create some interest. + +Mercédès and Albert were in that room. + +Mercédès was much changed within the last few days; not that even in +her days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display +which makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in +a plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state +of depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no, +the change in Mercédès was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips no +longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words +which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit. + +It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want of +courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercédès, although +deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere +she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly +lighted into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her +palace to a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither +become reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to +place upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her +bed. + +The beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud +glance and charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around +her; the walls were hung with one of the gray papers which economical +landlords choose as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was +uncarpeted; the furniture attracted the attention to the poor attempt +at luxury; indeed, everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement +and elegance. + +Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the +continual silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert +continually watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings, +she constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone, +which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually +shone from her eyes, seemed like “moonlight on a statue,”—yielding +light without warmth. + +Albert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from +sinking into his actual position. If he wished to go out without +gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to walk through the +town, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these two noble and +intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal and +filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one another, and +economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell his mother +without extorting a change of countenance: + +“Mother, we have no more money.” + +50141m + + + +Mercédès had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of +poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there +is a wide difference. + +Amongst the Catalans, Mercédès wished for a thousand things, but still +she never really wanted any. So long as the nets were good, they caught +fish; and so long as they sold their fish, they were able to buy twine +for new nets. And then, shut out from friendship, having but one +affection, which could not be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she +thought of herself—of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned +she lived as well as she could; now there were two to be supported, and +nothing to live upon. + +Winter approached. Mercédès had no fire in that cold and naked +room—she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from the +hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower—she whose +apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her +son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them. +Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the +things of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt +themselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having +exhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual. + +“Mother,” exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the +stairs, “let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to +build my plans upon.” + +“Capital—nothing!” replied Mercédès with a mournful smile. + +“No, mother,—capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a +delightful life upon this 3,000 francs.” + +“Child!” sighed Mercédès. + +“Alas, dear mother,” said the young man, “I have unhappily spent too +much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs are +enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous +certainty for the future.” + +“You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these +3,000 francs?” said Mercédès, coloring. + +“I think so,” answered Albert in a firm tone. “We will accept them the +more readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in +the garden of the little house in the Allées de Meilhan, at Marseilles. +With 200 francs we can reach Marseilles.” + +“With 200 francs?—are you sure, Albert?” + +“Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and +steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in +the _coupé_ to Châlons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for +thirty-five francs.” + +Albert then took a pen, and wrote: + + + Frs. _Coupé_, + thirty-five + francs........ + .............. + ........ 35. + From Châlons + to Lyons you + will go on by + the + steamboat.. + 6. From Lyons + to Avignon + (still by + steamboat).... + ......... 16. + From Avignon + to Marseilles, + seven + francs........ + ....... 7. + Expenses on + the road, + about fifty + francs........ + ....... 50. + Total......... + .............. + .............. + ............ + 114 frs. + +“Let us put down 120,” added Albert, smiling. “You see I am generous, +am I not, mother?” + +“But you, my poor child?” + +“I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man +does not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is.” + +“With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?” + +“Any way, mother.” + +“Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?” + +“Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my watch for 100 +francs, and the guard and seals for 300. How fortunate that the +ornaments were worth more than the watch. Still the same story of +superfluities! Now I think we are rich, since instead of the 114 francs +we require for the journey we find ourselves in possession of 250.” + +“But we owe something in this house?” + +“Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs,—that is +understood,—and as I require only eighty francs for my journey, you see +I am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is not all. What do you say to +this, mother?” + +And Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden clasps, a +remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender souvenir from one of +the mysterious and veiled ladies who used to knock at his little +door,—Albert took out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000 francs. + +“What is this?” asked Mercédès. + +“A thousand francs.” + +“But whence have you obtained them?” + +“Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation.” And +Albert, rising, kissed his mother on both cheeks, then stood looking at +her. “You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think you!” said the +young man, impressed with a profound feeling of filial love. “You are, +indeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw!” + +“Dear child!” said Mercédès, endeavoring in vain to restrain a tear +which glistened in the corner of her eye. “Indeed, you only wanted +misfortune to change my love for you to admiration. I am not unhappy +while I possess my son!” + +“Ah, just so,” said Albert; “here begins the trial. Do you know the +decision we have come to, mother?” + +“Have we come to any?” + +“Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and that I am +to leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself the right to use the +name I now bear, instead of the one I have thrown aside.” Mercédès +sighed. “Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the +Spahis,”25 added the young man, lowering his eyes with a certain +feeling of shame, for even he was unconscious of the sublimity of his +self-abasement. “I thought my body was my own, and that I might sell +it. I yesterday took the place of another. I sold myself for more than +I thought I was worth,” he added, attempting to smile; “I fetched 2,000 +francs.” + +“Then these 1,000 francs——” said Mercédès, shuddering. + +“Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a year.” + +Mercédès raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it would be +impossible to describe, and tears, which had hitherto been restrained, +now yielded to her emotion, and ran down her cheeks. + +“The price of his blood!” she murmured. + +“Yes, if I am killed,” said Albert, laughing. “But I assure you, +mother, I have a strong intention of defending my person, and I never +felt half so strong an inclination to live as I do now.” + +“Merciful Heavens!” + +“Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to be +killed? Has Lamoricière, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has +Changarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we +know, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me return +with an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look magnificent in +it, and chose that regiment only from vanity.” + +Mercédès sighed while endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt +that she ought not to allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to fall +upon her son. + +“Well, now you understand, mother!” continued Albert; “here are more +than 4,000 francs settled on you; upon these you can live at least two +years.” + +“Do you think so?” said Mercédès. + +These words were uttered in so mournful a tone that their real meaning +did not escape Albert; he felt his heart beat, and taking his mother’s +hand within his own he said, tenderly: + +“Yes, you will live!” + +“I shall live!—then you will not leave me, Albert?” + +“Mother, I must go,” said Albert in a firm, calm voice; “you love me +too well to wish me to remain useless and idle with you; besides, I +have signed.” + +50145m + + + +“You will obey your own wish and the will of Heaven!” + +“Not my own wish, mother, but reason—necessity. Are we not two +despairing creatures? What is life to you?—Nothing. What is life to +me?—Very little without you, mother; for believe me, but for you I +should have ceased to live on the day I doubted my father and renounced +his name. Well, I will live, if you promise me still to hope; and if +you grant me the care of your future prospects, you will redouble my +strength. Then I will go to the governor of Algeria; he has a royal +heart, and is essentially a soldier; I will tell him my gloomy story. I +will beg him to turn his eyes now and then towards me, and if he keep +his word and interest himself for me, in six months I shall be an +officer, or dead. If I am an officer, your fortune is certain, for I +shall have money enough for both, and, moreover, a name we shall both +be proud of, since it will be our own. If I am killed—well then mother, +you can also die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes.” + +“It is well,” replied Mercédès, with her eloquent glance; “you are +right, my love; let us prove to those who are watching our actions that +we are worthy of compassion.” + +“But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions,” said the young man; “I +assure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You are a woman +at once full of spirit and resignation; I have become simple in my +tastes, and am without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be +rich—once in M. Dantès’ house, you will be at rest. Let us strive, I +beseech you,—let us strive to be cheerful.” + +“Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy, Albert.” + +“And so our division is made, mother,” said the young man, affecting +ease of mind. “We can now part; come, I shall engage your passage.” + +“And you, my dear boy?” + +“I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom ourselves to +parting. I want recommendations and some information relative to +Africa. I will join you again at Marseilles.” + +“Well, be it so—let us part,” said Mercédès, folding around her +shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which accidentally +happened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered up his papers +hastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty francs he owed to the +landlord, and offering his arm to his mother, they descended the +stairs. + +Someone was walking down before them, and this person, hearing the +rustling of a silk dress, turned around. “Debray!” muttered Albert. + +“You, Morcerf?” replied the secretary, resting on the stairs. Curiosity +had vanquished the desire of preserving his _incognito_, and he was +recognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot to find the +young man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris. + +“Morcerf!” repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the still +youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf: + +“Pardon me,” he added with a smile, ��I leave you, Albert.” Albert +understood his thoughts. + +“Mother,” he said, turning towards Mercédès, “this is M. Debray, +secretary of the Minister for the Interior, once a friend of mine.” + +“How once?” stammered Debray; “what do you mean?” + +“I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought not to +have any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir.” Debray stepped +forward, and cordially pressed the hand of his interlocutor. + +“Believe me, dear Albert,” he said, with all the emotion he was capable +of feeling,—“believe me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in +any way I can serve you, I am yours.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Albert, smiling. “In the midst of our +misfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance from +anyone. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid, we shall +have 5,000 francs left.” + +The blood mounted to the temples of Debray, who held a million in his +pocket-book, and unimaginative as he was he could not help reflecting +that the same house had contained two women, one of whom, justly +dishonored, had left it poor with 1,500,000 francs under her cloak, +while the other, unjustly stricken, but sublime in her misfortune, was +yet rich with a few deniers. This parallel disturbed his usual +politeness, the philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered a few +words of general civility and ran downstairs. + +That day the minister’s clerks and the subordinates had a great deal to +put up with from his ill-humor. But that same night, he found himself +the possessor of a fine house, situated on the Boulevard de la +Madeleine, and an income of 50,000 livres. + +The next day, just as Debray was signing the deed, that is about five +o’clock in the afternoon, Madame de Morcerf, after having +affectionately embraced her son, entered the _coupé_ of the diligence, +which closed upon her. + +A man was hidden in Lafitte’s banking-house, behind one of the little +arched windows which are placed above each desk; he saw Mercédès enter +the diligence, and he also saw Albert withdraw. Then he passed his hand +across his forehead, which was clouded with doubt. + +“Alas,” he exclaimed, “how can I restore the happiness I have taken +away from these poor innocent creatures? God help me!” + + + + Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den + +One division of La Force, in which the most dangerous and desperate +prisoners are confined, is called the court of Saint-Bernard. The +prisoners, in their expressive language, have named it the “Lions’ +Den,” probably because the captives possess teeth which frequently gnaw +the bars, and sometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a +prison; the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratings +are every day carefully examined by jailers, whose herculean +proportions and cold pitiless expression prove them to have been chosen +to reign over their subjects for their superior activity and +intelligence. + +The courtyard of this quarter is enclosed by enormous walls, over which +the sun glances obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf +of moral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to be +seen,—pacing to and fro from morning till night, pale, careworn, and +haggard, like so many shadows,—the men whom justice holds beneath the +steel she is sharpening. There, crouched against the side of the wall +which attracts and retains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes +talking to one another, but more frequently alone, watching the door, +which sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomy assemblage, or +to throw in another outcast from society. + +The court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartment for the +reception of guests; it is a long rectangle, divided by two upright +gratings placed at a distance of three feet from one another to prevent +a visitor from shaking hands with or passing anything to the prisoners. +It is a wretched, damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when +we consider the agonizing conferences which have taken place between +those iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is +looked upon as a kind of paradise by the men whose days are numbered; +it is so rare for them to leave the Lions’ Den for any other place than +the barrier Saint-Jacques, the galleys! or solitary confinement. + +In the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp +vapor was rising, a young man with his hands in his pockets, who had +excited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the “Den,” might be +seen walking. The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an +elegant man, if those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they +did not show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the careful +hands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were +still perfect, for the wearer tried his best to make it assume the +appearance of a new coat. He bestowed the same attention upon the +cambric front of a shirt, which had considerably changed in color since +his entrance into the prison, and he polished his varnished boots with +the corner of a handkerchief embroidered with initials surmounted by a +coronet. + +Some of the inmates of the “Lions’ Den” were watching the operations of +the prisoner’s toilet with considerable interest. + +“See, the prince is pluming himself,” said one of the thieves. + +“He’s a fine looking fellow,” said another; “if he had only a comb and +hair-grease, he’d take the shine off the gentlemen in white kids.” + +“His coat looks nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant +to have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved +shamefully. What jealousy; to tear such clothes!” + +“He looks like a big-bug,” said another; “dresses in fine style. And, +then, to be here so young! Oh, what larks!” + +Meanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approached the wicket, +against which one of the keepers was leaning. + +“Come, sir,” he said, “lend me twenty francs; you will soon be paid; +you run no risks with me. Remember, I have relations who possess more +millions than you have deniers. Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty +francs, so that I may buy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to +be in a coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of the +Cavalcanti!” + +The keeper turned his back, and shrugged his shoulders; he did not even +laugh at what would have caused anyone else to do so; he had heard so +many utter the same things,—indeed, he heard nothing else. + +“Come,” said Andrea, “you are a man void of compassion; I’ll have you +turned out.” + +This made the keeper turn around, and he burst into a loud laugh. The +prisoners then approached and formed a circle. + +“I tell you that with that wretched sum,” continued Andrea, “I could +obtain a coat, and a room in which to receive the illustrious visitor I +am daily expecting.” + +“Of course—of course,” said the prisoners;—“anyone can see he’s a +gentleman!” + +“Well, then, lend him the twenty francs,” said the keeper, leaning on +the other shoulder; “surely you will not refuse a comrade!” + +50151m + + + +“I am no comrade of these people,” said the young man, proudly, “you +have no right to insult me thus.” + +The thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a storm +gathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner, raised less by his +own words than by the manner of the keeper. The latter, sure of +quelling the tempest when the waves became too violent, allowed them to +rise to a certain pitch that he might be revenged on the importunate +Andrea, and besides it would afford him some recreation during the long +day. + +The thieves had already approached Andrea, some screaming, _“La +savate—La savate!”_26 a cruel operation, which consists in cuffing a +comrade who may have fallen into disgrace, not with an old shoe, but +with an iron-heeled one. Others proposed the _anguille_, another kind +of recreation, in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles, +and two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches beat like +a flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer. + +“Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!” said others. + +But Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolled his tongue +around his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner equivalent to a +hundred words among the bandits when forced to be silent. It was a +Masonic sign Caderousse had taught him. He was immediately recognized +as one of them; the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled +shoe replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged. + +Some voices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; that he +intended to be civil, in his way, and that they would set the example +of liberty of conscience,—and the mob retired. The keeper was so +stupefied at this scene that he took Andrea by the hands and began +examining his person, attributing the sudden submission of the inmates +of the Lions’ Den to something more substantial than mere fascination. + +Andrea made no resistance, although he protested against it. Suddenly a +voice was heard at the wicket. + +“Benedetto!” exclaimed an inspector. The keeper relaxed his hold. + +“I am called,” said Andrea. + +“To the visitors’ room!” said the same voice. + +“You see someone pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether +a Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person!” + +And Andrea, gliding through the court like a black shadow, rushed out +through the wicket, leaving his comrades, and even the keeper, lost in +wonder. Certainly a call to the visitors’ room had scarcely astonished +Andrea less than themselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use +of his privilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La Force, +had maintained a rigid silence. + +50153m + + + +��Everything,” he said, “proves me to be under the protection of some +powerful person,—this sudden fortune, the facility with which I have +overcome all obstacles, an unexpected family and an illustrious name +awarded to me, gold showered down upon me, and the most splendid +alliances about to be entered into. An unhappy lapse of fortune and the +absence of my protector have cast me down, certainly, but not forever. +The hand which has retreated for a while will be again stretched forth +to save me at the very moment when I shall think myself sinking into +the abyss. Why should I risk an imprudent step? It might alienate my +protector. He has two means of extricating me from this dilemma,—the +one by a mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other by +buying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing until I am +convinced that he has quite abandoned me, and then——” + +Andrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The unfortunate +youth was intrepid in the attack, and rude in the defence. He had borne +with the public prison, and with privations of all sorts; still, by +degrees nature, or rather custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from +being naked, dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort +that the inspector’s voice called him to the visiting-room. Andrea felt +his heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a visit from the examining +magistrate, and too late for one from the director of the prison, or +the doctor; it must, then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the +grating of the room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his +eyes dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M. +Bertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon the iron +bars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which moved behind the other +grating. + +“Ah,” said Andrea, deeply affected. + +“Good morning, Benedetto,” said Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice. + +“You—you?” said the young man, looking fearfully around him. + +“Do you not recognize me, unhappy child?” + +“Silence,—be silent!” said Andrea, who knew the delicate sense of +hearing possessed by the walls; “for Heaven’s sake, do not speak so +loud!” + +“You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?” said Bertuccio. + +“Oh, yes.” + +“That is well.” + +And Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom he saw +through the window of the wicket. + +“Read?” he said. + +“What is that?” asked Andrea. + +“An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there to talk to +me.” + +“Oh,” cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally added,—“Still my +unknown protector! I am not forgotten. They wish for secrecy, since we +are to converse in a private room. I understand, Bertuccio has been +sent by my protector.” + +The keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then opened the iron +gates and conducted Andrea to a room on the first floor. The room was +whitewashed, as is the custom in prisons, but it looked quite brilliant +to a prisoner, though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the +whole of its sumptuous furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the chair, +Andrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired. + +“Now,” said the steward, “what have you to tell me?” + +“And you?” said Andrea. + +“You speak first.” + +“Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, since you have come to seek +me.” + +50155m + + + +“Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany; you have +robbed—you have assassinated.” + +“Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private room only to tell +me this, you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know all these +things. But there are some with which, on the contrary, I am not +acquainted. Let us talk of those, if you please. Who sent you?” + +“Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto!” + +“Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends +you?” + +“No one.” + +“How did you know I was in prison?” + +“I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so +gracefully mounted his horse in the Champs-Élysées.” + +“Oh, the Champs-Élysées? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of +pincette. The Champs-Élysées? Come, let us talk a little about my +father.” + +“Who, then, am I?” + +“You, sir?—you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume, +who placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five +months; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my +father; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me +invited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at +this moment, in company with the most distinguished people in +Paris—amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I +did very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to +me just now;—it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two +millions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place. +Come, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak!” + +“What do you wish me to say?” + +“I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs-Élysées just now, +worthy foster-father.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, in the Champs-Élysées there resides a very rich gentleman.” + +“At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not?” + +“I believe I did.” + +“The Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“’Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I to rush +into his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying, ‘My father, my +father!’ like Monsieur Pixérécourt.”27 + +“Do not let us jest,” gravely replied Bertuccio, “and dare not to utter +that name again as you have pronounced it.” + +“Bah,” said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio’s +manner, “why not?” + +“Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by Heaven to be +the father of such a wretch as you.” + +“Oh, these are fine words.” + +“And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care.” + +“Menaces—I do not fear them. I will say——” + +“Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?” said +Bertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that Andrea +was moved to the very soul. “Do you think you have to do with +galley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into +terrible hands; they are ready to open for you—make use of them. Do not +play with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which +they can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their +movements.” + +50157m + + + +“My father—I will know who my father is,” said the obstinate youth; “I +will perish if I must, but I _will_ know it. What does scandal signify +to me? What possessions, what reputation, what ‘pull,’ as Beauchamp +says,—have I? You great people always lose something by scandal, +notwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father?” + +“I came to tell you.” + +“Ah,” cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door +opened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said: + +“Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the +prisoner.” + +“And so closes our interview,” said Andrea to the worthy steward; “I +wish the troublesome fellow were at the devil!” + +“I will return tomorrow,” said Bertuccio. + +“Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns +for me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of!” + +“It shall be done,” replied Bertuccio. + +Andrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and +merely jingled a few pieces of money. + +“That’s what I mean,” said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome +by the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio. + +“Can I be deceived?” he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and +grated vehicle which they call “the salad basket.” + +“Never mind, we shall see! Tomorrow, then!” he added, turning towards +Bertuccio. + +“Tomorrow!” replied the steward. + + + + Chapter 108. The Judge + +We remember that the Abbé Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in the +chamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the sole +guardians of the young girl’s body. Perhaps it was the Christian +exhortations of the abbé, perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his +persuasive words, which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for ever +since he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had yielded +to a calm resignation which surprised all who knew his excessive +affection for Valentine. + +M. de Villefort had not seen his father since the morning of the death. +The whole establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged for +himself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame de +Villefort’s service,—in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and +coachmen, new faces were presented to the different masters of the +house, thus widening the division which had always existed between the +members of the same family. The assizes, also, were about to begin, and +Villefort, shut up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety +in drawing up the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair, +like all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered, +caused a great sensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not +convincing, since they rested upon a few words written by an escaped +galley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by +hatred or revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the +procureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was guilty, and +he hoped by his skill in conducting this aggravated case to flatter his +self-love, which was about the only vulnerable point left in his frozen +heart. + +The case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of +Villefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming +assizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to +evade the enormous number of applications presented to him for the +purpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of +trial. And then so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor +Valentine, and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent, +that no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional +duties, which were the only means he had of dissipating his grief. + +Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon +which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter +was to learn his father’s name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued, +had descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar +to that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began +knocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the +rose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of +the brilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season. + +More than once he had reached that part of the garden where the famous +boarded gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returning +by the same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with +the same gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the +house, whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from +school to spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother. + +While doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of the open windows, +where the old man had been placed that he might enjoy the last rays of +the sun which yet yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dying +flowers and red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony. + +The eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort could +scarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, and +savage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had been +pursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed. + +Then he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly +divested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her +hand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon her +son, or to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw from +the drawing-room into the garden. + +Villefort became pale; he understood the old man’s meaning. + +Noirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his glance +was transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort himself had +to submit to the searching investigation of eyes, which, while changing +their direction and even their language, had lost none of their +menacing expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions +that exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held her son’s +ball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward +begged for a long while, the maternal kiss probably not offering +sufficient recompense for the trouble he must take to obtain it; +however at length he decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster +of heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead +streaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead, +pressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand +and some bonbons in the other. + +Villefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird +to the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it, +Noirtier’s gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery +brightness that Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart. +In that earnest look might be read a deep reproach, as well as a +terrible menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to +remind his son of a forgotten oath. + +“It is well, sir,” replied Villefort from below,—“it is well; have +patience but one day longer; what I have said I will do.” + +Noirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with +indifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his +greatcoat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand +across his forehead, entered his study. + +The night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest but +Villefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o’clock in the +morning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by +the examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses, +and putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was +one of the most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet +delivered. + +The next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morning +dawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine upon +the lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a +short time while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its +flickerings awoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as +though they had been dipped in blood. + +He opened the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and +seemed to divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief +on the horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark +was mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song. +The damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed his +memory. + +“Today,” he said with an effort,—“today the man who holds the blade of +justice must strike wherever there is guilt.” + +Involuntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier’s room, +where he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and +yet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressed +the closed window as though it had been open, and as if through the +opening he had beheld the menacing old man. + +“Yes,” he murmured,—“yes, be satisfied.” + +His head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced his +study; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less to +sleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degrees +everyone awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noises +which accompany the life of a house,—the opening and shutting of doors, +the ringing of Madame de Villefort’s bell, to summon the waiting-maid, +mingled with the first shouts of the child, who rose full of the +enjoyment of his age. Villefort also rang; his new valet brought him +the papers, and with them a cup of chocolate. + +“What are you bringing me?” said he. + +“A cup of chocolate.” + +“I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention?” + +“My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal in the +murder case, and that you should take something to keep up your +strength;” and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest to the +sofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers. + +The valet then left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with a +gloomy expression, then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion, +he swallowed its contents at one draught. It might have been thought +that he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that he sought for +death to deliver him from a duty which he would rather die than fulfil. +He then rose, and paced his room with a smile it would have been +terrible to witness. The chocolate was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort +felt no effects. + +The breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. The +valet re-entered. + +“Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir,” he said, “that eleven +o’clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at twelve.” + +“Well,” said Villefort, “what then?” + +“Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes to know +if she is to accompany you, sir?” + +“Where to?” + +“To the Palais.” + +“What to do?” + +“My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial.” + +“Ah,” said Villefort, with a startling accent; “does she wish that?” + +The servant drew back and said, “If you wish to go alone, sir, I will +go and tell my mistress.” + +Villefort remained silent for a moment, and dented his pale cheeks with +his nails. + +“Tell your mistress,” he at length answered, “that I wish to speak to +her, and I beg she will wait for me in her own room.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Then come to dress and shave me.” + +“Directly, sir.” + +The valet re-appeared almost instantly, and, having shaved his master, +assisted him to dress entirely in black. When he had finished, he said: + +“My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you had +finished dressing.” + +“I am going to her.” + +And Villefort, with his papers under his arm and hat in hand, directed +his steps toward the apartment of his wife. + +At the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. He then +entered the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman and +impatiently turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets +which young Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to pieces +before his mother could finish reading them. She was dressed to go out, +her bonnet was placed beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on her +hands. + +“Ah, here you are, monsieur,” she said in her naturally calm voice; +“but how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why did you not +come down to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or shall I take +Edward?” + +Madame de Villefort had multiplied her questions in order to gain one +answer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and cold +as a statue. + +“Edward,” said Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on the child, “go +and play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma.” + +Madame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold countenance, +that resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries. Edward +raised his head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that she did +not confirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden +soldiers. + +“Edward,” cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child started up +from the floor, “do you hear me?—Go!” + +The child, unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling; +it would be difficult to say whether his emotion were caused by fear or +passion. His father went up to him, took him in his arms, and kissed +his forehead. + +“Go,” he said: “go, my child.” Edward ran out. + +M. de Villefort went to the door, which he closed behind the child, and +bolted. + +“Dear me!” said the young woman, endeavoring to read her husband’s +inmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her countenance which froze +the impassibility of Villefort; “what is the matter?” + +“Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?” said the +magistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between his wife +and the door. + +Madame de Villefort must have experienced something of the sensation of +a bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap closing over its +head. + +A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from +her, while she became deadly pale. + +“Monsieur,” she said, “I—I do not understand you.” + +And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from the +sofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell down +again on the cushions. + +“I asked you,” continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone, “where +you conceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my +father-in-law, M. de Saint-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de +Saint-Méran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine.” + +“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands, “what do +you say?” + +“It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer.” + +“Is it to the judge or to the husband?” stammered Madame de Villefort. + +“To the judge—to the judge, madame!” It was terrible to behold the +frightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the trembling +of her whole frame. + +“Ah, sir,” she muttered, “ah, sir,” and this was all. + +“You do not answer, madame!” exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Then +he added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger, “It is true, +then; you do not deny it!” She moved forward. “And you cannot deny it!” +added Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her +in the name of justice. “You have accomplished these different crimes +with impudent address, but which could only deceive those whose +affections for you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de +Saint-Méran, I have known that a poisoner lived in my house. M. +d’Avrigny warned me of it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions +were directed towards an angel,—those suspicions which, even when there +is no crime, are always alive in my heart; but after the death of +Valentine, there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in +mine, but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two persons, +suspected by many, will soon become public, and, as I told you just +now, you no longer speak to the husband, but to the judge.” + +50165m + + + +The young woman hid her face in her hands. + +“Oh, sir,” she stammered, “I beseech you, do not believe appearances.” + +“Are you, then, a coward?” cried Villefort, in a contemptuous voice. +“But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can you be a +coward, you, who have had the courage to witness the death of two old +men and a young girl murdered by you?” + +“Sir! sir!” + +“Can you be a coward?” continued Villefort, with increasing excitement, +“you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four death agonies? +_You_, who have arranged your infernal plans, and removed the beverages +with a talent and precision almost miraculous? Have you, then, who have +calculated everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate +one thing—I mean where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to? +Oh, it is impossible—you must have saved some surer, more subtle and +deadly poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment that +you deserve. You have done this—I hope so, at least.” + +Madame de Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees. + +“I understand,” he said, “you confess; but a confession made to the +judges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the crime +cannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on the +guilty!” + +“The punishment?” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, “the punishment, +monsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word!” + +“Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four times +guilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you are +the wife of him who pronounces it?—No, madame, no; the scaffold awaits +the poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner +has taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her +deadliest poison.” + +Madame de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous and +uncontrollable terror spread over her distorted features. + +“Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame,” said the magistrate; “I will +not dishonor you, since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you +have heard me distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die +on the scaffold.” + +“No, I do not understand; what do you mean?” stammered the unhappy +woman, completely overwhelmed. + +“I mean that the wife of the first magistrate in the capital shall not, +by her infamy, soil an unblemished name; that she shall not, with one +blow, dishonor her husband and her child.” + +“No, no—oh, no!” + +“Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I will +thank you for it!” + +“You will thank me—for what?” + +“For what you have just said.” + +“What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand anything. +Oh, my God, my God!” + +And she rose, with her hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming. + +“Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the +room?—where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame?” + +Madame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively struck +one hand against the other. + +“No, no,” she vociferated, “no, you cannot wish that!” + +50169m + + + +“What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold. +Do you understand?” asked Villefort. + +“Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur!” + +“What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish, +madame,” he added, with a flaming glance; “any other woman, were it the +queen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to you I shall be +merciful. To you I will say, ‘Have you not, madame, put aside some of +the surest, deadliest, most speedy poison?’” + +50170m + + + +“Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live!” + +“She is cowardly,” said Villefort. + +“Reflect that I am your wife!” + +“You are a poisoner.” + +“In the name of Heaven!” + +“No!” + +“In the name of the love you once bore me!” + +“No, no!” + +“In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live!” + +50167m + + + +“No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you will +perhaps kill him, as you have the others!” + +“I?—I kill my boy?” cried the distracted mother, rushing toward +Villefort; “I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!” and a frightful, demoniac laugh +finished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle. + +Madame de Villefort fell at her husband’s feet. He approached her. + +“Think of it, madame,” he said; “if, on my return, justice has not been +satisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with +my own hands!” + +She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and +glared horribly. + +“Do you understand me?” he said. “I am going down there to pronounce +the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my +return, you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie.” + +Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the +carpet. The king’s attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity; +he looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly: + +“Farewell, madame, farewell!” + +That farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the executioner’s knife. +She fainted. The procureur went out, after having double-locked the +door. + + + + Chapter 109. The Assizes + +The Benedetto affair, as it was called at the Palais, and by people in +general, had produced a tremendous sensation. Frequenting the Café de +Paris, the Boulevard de Gand, and the Bois de Boulogne, during his +brief career of splendor, the false Cavalcanti had formed a host of +acquaintances. The papers had related his various adventures, both as +the man of fashion and the galley-slave; and as everyone who had been +personally acquainted with Prince Andrea Cavalcanti experienced a +lively curiosity in his fate, they all determined to spare no trouble +in endeavoring to witness the trial of M. Benedetto for the murder of +his comrade in chains. + +In the eyes of many, Benedetto appeared, if not a victim to, at least +an instance of, the fallibility of the law. M. Cavalcanti, his father, +had been seen in Paris, and it was expected that he would re-appear to +claim the illustrious outcast. Many, also, who were not aware of the +circumstances attending his withdrawal from Paris, were struck with the +worthy appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, and the knowledge of the +world displayed by the old patrician, who certainly played the nobleman +very well, so long as he said nothing, and made no arithmetical +calculations. + +As for the accused himself, many remembered him as being so amiable, so +handsome, and so liberal, that they chose to think him the victim of +some conspiracy, since in this world large fortunes frequently excite +the malevolence and jealousy of some unknown enemy. + +Everyone, therefore, ran to the court; some to witness the sight, +others to comment upon it. From seven o’clock in the morning a crowd +was stationed at the iron gates, and an hour before the trial commenced +the hall was full of the privileged. Before the entrance of the +magistrates, and indeed frequently afterwards, a court of justice, on +days when some especial trial is to take place, resembles a +drawing-room where many persons recognize each other and converse if +they can do so without losing their seats; or, if they are separated by +too great a number of lawyers, communicate by signs. + +It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short +summer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had perceived at sunrise had +all disappeared as if by magic, and one of the softest and most +brilliant days of September shone forth in all its splendor. + +Beauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore claiming the +right of a throne everywhere, was eying everybody through his monocle. +He perceived Château-Renaud and Debray, who had just gained the good +graces of a sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded the latter to let +them stand before, instead of behind him, as they ought to have done. +The worthy sergeant had recognized the minister’s secretary and the +millionnaire, and, by way of paying extra attention to his noble +neighbors, promised to keep their places while they paid a visit to +Beauchamp. + +“Well,” said Beauchamp, “we shall see our friend!” + +“Yes, indeed!” replied Debray. “That worthy prince. Deuce take those +Italian princes!” + +“A man, too, who could boast of Dante for a genealogist, and could +reckon back to the _Divina Comedia_.” + +“A nobility of the rope!” said Château-Renaud phlegmatically. + +“He will be condemned, will he not?” asked Debray of Beauchamp. + +“My dear fellow, I think we should ask you that question; you know such +news much better than we do. Did you see the president at the +minister’s last night?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did he say?” + +“Something which will surprise you.” + +“Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is a long time since that has +happened.” + +“Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is considered a serpent of +subtlety and a giant of cunning, is really but a very commonplace, +silly rascal, and altogether unworthy of the experiments that will be +made on his phrenological organs after his death.” + +“Bah,” said Beauchamp, “he played the prince very well.” + +“Yes, for you who detest those unhappy princes, Beauchamp, and are +always delighted to find fault with them; but not for me, who discover +a gentleman by instinct, and who scent out an aristocratic family like +a very bloodhound of heraldry.” + +“Then you never believed in the principality?” + +“Yes.—in the principality, but not in the prince.” + +“Not so bad,” said Beauchamp; “still, I assure you, he passed very well +with many people; I saw him at the ministers’ houses.” + +“Ah, yes,” said Château-Renaud. “The idea of thinking ministers +understand anything about princes!” + +“There is something in what you have just said,” said Beauchamp, +laughing. + +“But,” said Debray to Beauchamp, “if I spoke to the president, _you_ +must have been with the procureur.” + +“It was an impossibility; for the last week M. de Villefort has +secluded himself. It is natural enough; this strange chain of domestic +afflictions, followed by the no less strange death of his daughter——” + +“Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp?” + +“Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this has been unobserved at the +minister’s?” said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in his eye, where he +tried to make it remain. + +“My dear sir,” said Château-Renaud, “allow me to tell you that you do +not understand that manœuvre with the eye-glass half so well as Debray. +Give him a lesson, Debray.” + +“Stay,” said Beauchamp, “surely I am not deceived.” + +“What is it?” + +“It is she!” + +“Whom do you mean?” + +“They said she had left.” + +“Mademoiselle Eugénie?” said Château-Renaud; “has she returned?” + +“No, but her mother.” + +“Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!” said Château-Renaud; “only ten +days after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the +bankruptcy of her husband?” + +Debray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the direction of +Beauchamp’s glance. + +“Come,” he said, “it is only a veiled lady, some foreign princess, +perhaps the mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking on a very +interesting topic, Beauchamp.” + +“I?” + +“Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of Valentine.” + +“Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort is not +here?” + +“Poor, dear woman,” said Debray, “she is no doubt occupied in +distilling balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics for herself +or friends. Do you know she spends two or three thousand crowns a year +in this amusement? But I wonder she is not here. I should have been +pleased to see her, for I like her very much.” + +“And I hate her,” said Château-Renaud. + +“Why?” + +“I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest her, from +antipathy.” + +“Or, rather, by instinct.” + +“Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying, Beauchamp.” + +“Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de +Villefort’s?” + +“‘Multitudinously’ is good,” said Château-Renaud. + +“My good fellow, you’ll find the word in Saint-Simon.” + +“But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort’s; but let’s get back to +the subject.” + +“Talking of that,” said Debray, “Madame was making inquiries about that +house, which for the last three months has been hung with black.” + +“Who is Madame?” asked Château-Renaud. + +“The minister’s wife, _pardieu!_” + +“Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to the +princes.” + +“Really, you were only before sparkling, but now you are brilliant; +take compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will wither us up.” + +“I will not speak again,” said Château-Renaud; “pray have compassion +upon me, and do not take up every word I say.” + +“Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story, Beauchamp; I +told you that yesterday Madame made inquiries of me upon the subject; +enlighten me, and I will then communicate my information to her.” + +“Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously (I like the +word) at M. de Villefort’s is that there is an assassin in the house!” + +The two young men shuddered, for the same idea had more than once +occurred to them. + +“And who is the assassin;” they asked together. + +“Young Edward!” A burst of laughter from the auditors did not in the +least disconcert the speaker, who continued,—“Yes, gentlemen; Edward, +the infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing.” + +“You are jesting.” + +“Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M. de +Villefort—I intend sending him away tomorrow, for he eats so +enormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in +that house. Well, now listen.” + +“We are listening.” + +“It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a bottle +containing some drug, which he every now and then uses against those +who have displeased him. First, M. and Madame de Saint-Méran incurred +his displeasure, so he poured out three drops of his elixir—three drops +were sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier, +who sometimes rebuffed this little wretch—he therefore received the +same quantity of the elixir; the same happened to Valentine, of whom he +was jealous; he gave her the same dose as the others, and all was over +for her as well as the rest.” + +“Why, what nonsense are you telling us?” said Château-Renaud. + +“Yes, it is an extraordinary story,” said Beauchamp; “is it not?” + +“It is absurd,” said Debray. + +“Ah,” said Beauchamp, “you doubt me? Well, you can ask my servant, or +rather him who will no longer be my servant tomorrow, it was the talk +of the house.” + +“And this elixir, where is it? what is it?” + +“The child conceals it.” + +“But where did he find it?” + +“In his mother’s laboratory.” + +“Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory?” + +“How can I tell? You are questioning me like a king’s attorney. I only +repeat what I have been told, and like my informant I can do no more. +The poor devil would eat nothing, from fear.” + +“It is incredible!” + +“No, my dear fellow, it is not at all incredible. You saw the child +pass through the Rue Richelieu last year, who amused himself with +killing his brothers and sisters by sticking pins in their ears while +they slept. The generation who follow us are very precocious.” + +“Come, Beauchamp,” said Château-Renaud, “I will bet anything you do not +believe a word of all you have been telling us. But I do not see the +Count of Monte Cristo here.” + +“He is worn out,” said Debray; “besides, he could not well appear in +public, since he has been the dupe of the Cavalcanti, who, it appears, +presented themselves to him with false letters of credit, and cheated +him out of 100,000 francs upon the hypothesis of this principality.” + +“By the way, M. de Château-Renaud,” asked Beauchamp, “how is Morrel?” + +“_Ma foi_, I have called three times without once seeing him. Still, +his sister did not seem uneasy, and told me that though she had not +seen him for two or three days, she was sure he was well.” + +“Ah, now I think of it, the Count of Monte Cristo cannot appear in the +hall,” said Beauchamp. + +“Why not?” + +“Because he is an actor in the drama.” + +“Has he assassinated anyone, then?” + +“No, on the contrary, they wished to assassinate him. You know that it +was in leaving his house that M. de Caderousse was murdered by his +friend Benedetto. You know that the famous waistcoat was found in his +house, containing the letter which stopped the signature of the +marriage-contract. Do you see the waistcoat? There it is, all +blood-stained, on the desk, as a testimony of the crime.” + +“Ah, very good.” + +“Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our places.” + +A noise was heard in the hall; the sergeant called his two patrons with +an energetic “hem!” and the door-keeper appearing, called out with that +shrill voice peculiar to his order, ever since the days of +Beaumarchais: + +“The court, gentlemen!” + + + + Chapter 110. The Indictment + +The judges took their places in the midst of the most profound silence; +the jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, the object of unusual +attention, and we had almost said of general admiration, sat in the +armchair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Everyone looked with +astonishment on that grave and severe face, whose calm expression +personal griefs had been unable to disturb, and the aspect of a man who +was a stranger to all human emotions excited something very like +terror. + +“Gendarmes,” said the president, “lead in the accused.” + +At these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyes +were turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to enter. The +door soon opened and the accused appeared. + +The same impression was experienced by all present, and no one was +deceived by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no +sign of that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and +blanches the cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the +other in the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous; +his eye was calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall +when he glanced at the whole body of magistrates and assistants; his +eye rested longer on the president, and still more so on the king’s +attorney. + +By the side of Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct his +defence, and who had been appointed by the court, for Andrea disdained +to pay any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach +no importance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair whose face +expressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized +the prisoner. + +50181m + + + +The president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by the +clever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of this, +which was long, the public attention was continually drawn towards +Andrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had +never been so concise and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the most +vivid colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, a +review of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all +the talent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like +that of the procureur. Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public +opinion before the sentence of the law could be pronounced. + +Andrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were brought +against him. M. de Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no +doubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was +accustomed to use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes, +notwithstanding the depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the +reading of the indictment was ended. + +“Accused,” said the president, “your name and surname?” + +Andrea arose. + +“Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, in a clear voice, “but I see you +are going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow +you. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by, of making an +exception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if you +please, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all.” + +The astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn looked at +Villefort. The whole assembly manifested great surprise, but Andrea +appeared quite unmoved. + +“Your age?” said the president; “will you answer that question?” + +“I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr. President, but +in its turn.” + +“Your age?” repeated the president. + +“I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days, as I +was born the night of the 27th of September, 1817.” + +M. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head +at the mention of this date. + +“Where were you born?” continued the president. + +“At Auteuil, near Paris.” + +M. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto as +if he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for +Benedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric +pocket-handkerchief. + +“Your profession?” + +“First I was a forger,” answered Andrea, as calmly as possible; “then I +became a thief, and lately have become an assassin.” + +A murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the +assembly. The judges themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the jury +manifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected in a man of +fashion. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at +first pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly arose and +looked around as though he had lost his senses—he wanted air. + +50183m + + + +“Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?” asked Benedetto, with +his most ingratiating smile. + +M. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself down +again upon his chair. + +“And now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name?” said the +president. “The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated and +classified your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the +court, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due to +humanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it may be +for this reason, that you have delayed acknowledging your name. You +wished it to be preceded by all these titles.” + +“It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have read my +thoughts,” said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most polite manner. +“This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of the +questions.” + +The public astonishment had reached its height. There was no longer any +deceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience felt that +a startling revelation was to follow this ominous prelude. + +“Well,” said the president; “your name?” + +“I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know my +father’s, and can tell it to you.” + +A painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat +fell from his face upon the papers which he held in his convulsed hand. + +“Repeat your father’s name,” said the president. + +Not a whisper, not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly; everyone +waited anxiously. + +“My father is king’s attorney,” replied Andrea calmly. + +50179m + + + +“King’s attorney?” said the president, stupefied, and without noticing +the agitation which spread over the face of M. de Villefort; “king’s +attorney?” + +“Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it,—he is named +Villefort.” + +The explosion, which had been so long restrained from a feeling of +respect to the court of justice, now burst forth like thunder from the +breasts of all present; the court itself did not seek to restrain the +feelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults addressed to +Benedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned, the energetic gestures, +the movement of the gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the crowd +always sure to rise to the surface in case of any disturbance—all this +lasted five minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were able +to restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice of +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 has +never been equalled?” + +Several persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half bowed over +in his chair, offering him consolation, encouragement, and +protestations of zeal and sympathy. Order was re-established in the +hall, except that a few people still moved about and whispered to one +another. A lady, it was said, had just fainted; they had supplied her +with a smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During the scene of +tumult, Andrea had turned his smiling face towards the assembly; then, +leaning with one hand on the oaken rail of the dock, in the most +graceful attitude possible, he said: + +“Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea of insulting the court, or of +making a useless disturbance in the presence of this honorable +assembly. They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I +answer. They ask my name, I cannot give it, since my parents abandoned +me. But though I cannot give my own name, not possessing one, I can +tell them my father’s. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de +Villefort, and I am ready to prove it.” + +There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner of the +young man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned for a moment +towards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though a thunderbolt +had changed him into a corpse. + +“Gentlemen,” said Andrea, commanding silence by his voice and manner; +“I owe you the proofs and explanations of what I have said.” + +“But,” said the irritated president, “you called yourself Benedetto, +declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your country.” + +“I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration I have +just made should not be withheld, which otherwise would certainly have +been the case. I now repeat that I was born at Auteuil on the night of +the 27th of September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M. +de Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will give them. I +was born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask; +my father took me in his arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me +in a napkin marked with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden, +where he buried me alive.” + +A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the confidence of +the prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of M. de Villefort. + +“But how have you become acquainted with all these details?” asked the +president. + +“I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance against +my father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill him, had +introduced himself that night into the garden in which my father buried +me. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something in +the ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might contain +some treasure he turned up the ground, and found me still living. The +man carried me to the foundling asylum, where I was registered under +the number 37. Three months afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano +to Paris to fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me +away. Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in +Corsica.” + +There was a moment’s silence, during which one could have fancied the +hall empty, so profound was the stillness. + +“Proceed,” said the president. + +“Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good people, who +adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over the virtues which +my adopted mother endeavored to instil into my heart. I increased in +wickedness till I committed crime. One day when I cursed Providence for +making me so wicked, and ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted father +said to me, ‘Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the crime is that of your +father, not yours,—of your father, who consigned you to hell if you +died, and to misery if a miracle preserved you alive.’ After that I +ceased to blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have uttered +the words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this whole +assembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime, punish +me, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my birth my fate +has been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity me.” + +“But your mother?” asked the president. + +“My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even wish to +know her name, nor do I know it.” + +Just then a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the +crowd, who encircled the lady who had before fainted, and who now fell +into a violent fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, the +thick veil which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars +was recognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing +sensation in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain, +Villefort rose as he perceived her. + +“The proofs, the proofs!” said the president; “remember this tissue of +horrors must be supported by the clearest proofs.” + +“The proofs?” said Benedetto, laughing; “do you want proofs?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for proofs.” + +Everyone turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the +universal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into the +midst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face indented +with the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of +astonishment. + +“Father,” said Benedetto, “I am asked for proofs, do you wish me to +give them?” + +“No, no, it is useless,” stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse voice; +“no, it is useless!” + +“How useless?” cried the president, “what do you mean?” + +“I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this deadly +weight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands of an +avenging God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this young man +is true.” + +A dull, gloomy silence, like that which precedes some awful phenomenon +of nature, pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay. + +“What, M. de Villefort,” cried the president, “do you yield to an +hallucination? What, are you no longer in possession of your senses? +This strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your +reason. Come, recover.” + +The procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those of a man +under a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly pale. + +“I am in possession of all my senses, sir,” he said; “my body alone +suffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of all the +young man has brought against me, and from this hour hold myself under +the authority of the procureur who will succeed me.” + +And as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered +towards the door, which was mechanically opened by a door-keeper. The +whole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the revelation and +confession which had produced a catastrophe so different from that +which had been expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian +world. + +“Well,” said Beauchamp, “let them now say that drama is unnatural!” + +“_Ma foi!_” said Château-Renaud, “I would rather end my career like M. +de Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared with this +catastrophe.” + +“And moreover, it kills,” said Beauchamp. + +“And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter,” said +Debray. “She did well to die, poor girl!” + +“The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen,” said the president; “fresh +inquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session by +another magistrate.” + +As for Andrea, who was calm and more interesting than ever, he left the +hall, escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention. + +“Well, what do you think of this, my fine fellow?” asked Debray of the +sergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand. + +“There will be extenuating circumstances,” he replied. + + + + Chapter 111. Expiation + +Notwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open +before him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great afflictions +that even in the worst times the first emotion of a crowd has generally +been to sympathize with the sufferer in a great catastrophe. Many +people have been assassinated in a tumult, but even criminals have +rarely been insulted during trial. Thus Villefort passed through the +mass of spectators and officers of the Palais, and withdrew. Though he +had acknowledged his guilt, he was protected by his grief. There are +some situations which men understand by instinct, but which reason is +powerless to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives +utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those +who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an +entire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in +regarding his outburst as sublime. + +It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which +Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, +every nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his +body seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his +agony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through +force of habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of +deference to etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a +veritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far +as the Rue Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping +coachman by opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions, +and pointed towards the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; the carriage drove on. + +All the weight of his fallen fortune seemed suddenly to crush him; he +could not foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future +with the indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a +contingency already familiar. + + + +God was still in his heart. “God,” he murmured, not knowing what he +said,—“God—God!” Behind the event that had overwhelmed him he saw the +hand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while +turning restlessly on the cushions, felt something press against him. +He put out his hand to remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de +Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection +which darted through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife. + +50189m + + + +“Oh!” he exclaimed, as though a red-hot iron were piercing his heart. + +During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his +mind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself. +His wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had +condemned her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with +terror, covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of _his_ +irreproachable virtue,—she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the +power of defending herself against his absolute and supreme will,—she +might at that very moment, perhaps, be preparing to die! + +An hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at that moment, doubtless, +she was recalling all her crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon +for her sins; perhaps she was even writing a letter imploring +forgiveness from her virtuous husband—a forgiveness she was purchasing +with her death! Villefort again groaned with anguish and despair. + +“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that woman became criminal only from associating +with me! I carried the infection of crime with me, and she has caught +it as she would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I +have punished her—I have dared to tell her—_I_ have—‘Repent and die!’ +But no, she must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee +from Paris and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the +scaffold; oh, Heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I +pronounce that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her,—I +will tell her daily that I also have committed a crime!—Oh, what an +alliance—the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am! She +_must_ live that my infamy may diminish hers.” + +And Villefort dashed open the window in front of the carriage. + +“Faster, faster!” he cried, in a tone which electrified the coachman. +The horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house. + +“Yes, yes,” repeated Villefort, as he approached his home—“yes, that +woman must live; she must repent, and educate my son, the sole +survivor, with the exception of the indestructible old man, of the +wreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake she has committed +these crimes. We ought never to despair of softening the heart of a +mother who loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know that +she has been guilty. The events which have taken place in my house, +though they now occupy the public mind, will be forgotten in time, or +if, indeed, a few enemies should persist in remembering them, why then +I will add them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two, +or three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this gulf, +carrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be happy, since +her child, in whom all her love is centred, will be with her. I shall +have performed a good action, and my heart will be lighter.” + +And the procureur breathed more freely than he had done for some time. + +50191m + + + +The carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out of +the carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at his early +return; he could read no other expression on their features. Neither of +them spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as +usual, nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier’s room, he perceived +two figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity +to know who was visiting his father; anxiety carried him on further. + +“Come,” he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife’s room, +“nothing is changed here.” + +He then closed the door of the landing. + +“No one must disturb us,” he said; “I must speak freely to her, accuse +myself, and say”—he approached the door, touched the crystal handle, +which yielded to his hand. “Not locked,” he cried; “that is well.” + +And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the +child went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to +be separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort’s eye +ran through the room. + +“Not here,” he said; “doubtless she is in her bedroom.” He rushed +towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering. + +“Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of +furniture being removed. + +“Héloïse!” he repeated. + +“Who is there?” answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that +voice more feeble than usual. + +“Open the door!” cried Villefort. “Open; it is I.” + +But notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish +in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it +open with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her +boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features +contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly. + +“Héloïse, Héloïse!” he said, “what is the matter? Speak!” The young +woman extended her stiff white hands towards him. + +“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to +tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on +the floor. + +Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a +crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead. +Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshhold of the +door, fixing his eyes on the corpse. + +“My son!” he exclaimed suddenly, “where is my son?—Edward, Edward!” and +he rushed out of the room, still crying, “Edward, Edward!” The name was +pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up. + +“Where is my son?” asked Villefort; “let him be removed from the house, +that he may not see——” + +“Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,” replied the valet. + +“Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.” + +50193m + + + +“No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went +into her room, and has not been downstairs since.” + +A cold perspiration burst out on Villefort’s brow; his legs trembled, +and his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a +disordered watch. + +“In Madame de Villefort’s room?” he murmured and slowly returned, with +one hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself +against the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his +unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room +which now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the +silence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth. + +“Edward!” he stammered—“Edward!” + +The child did not answer. Where, then, could he be, if he had entered +his mother’s room and not since returned? He stepped forward. The +corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched across the doorway leading +to the room in which Edward must be; those glaring eyes seemed to watch +over the threshold, and the lips bore the stamp of a terrible and +mysterious irony. Through the open door was visible a portion of the +boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch. Villefort +stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his child lying—no doubt +asleep—on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an exclamation of joy; a +ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair and darkness. He +had only to step over the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the child in +his arms, and flee far, far away. + +Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto +death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities, +but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning +brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called +him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the +cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; +he pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,—the child +was dead. + +A folded paper fell from Edward’s breast. Villefort, thunderstruck, +fell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on the +floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper, and, +recognizing his wife’s writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its contents; +it ran as follows: + +“You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son’s sake I +became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her son.” + +Villefort could not believe his eyes,—he could not believe his reason; +he dragged himself towards the child’s body, and examined it as a +lioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his +breast, and he cried, + +“Still the hand of God.” + +The presence of the two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude +shared only by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage, +by his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which led the +Titans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He now arose, +his head bowed beneath the weight of grief, and, shaking his damp, +dishevelled hair, he who had never felt compassion for anyone +determined to seek his father, that he might have someone to whom he +could relate his misfortunes,—someone by whose side he might weep. + +50195m + + + +He descended the little staircase with which we are acquainted, and +entered Noirtier’s room. The old man appeared to be listening +attentively and as affectionately as his infirmities would allow to the +Abbé Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving +the abbé, passed his hand across his brow. The past came to him like +one of those waves whose wrath foams fiercer than the others. + +He recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at +Auteuil, and then the visit the abbé had himself paid to his house on +the day of Valentine’s death. + +“You here, sir!” he exclaimed; “do you, then, never appear but to act +as an escort to death?” + +Busoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on the +magistrate’s face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood that +the revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this he was +ignorant. + +“I came to pray over the body of your daughter.” + +“And now why are you here?” + +“I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and +that from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I do.” + +“Good heavens!” exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully, “surely +that is not the voice of the Abbé Busoni!” + +“No!” The abbé threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair, no +longer confined, fell in black masses around his manly face. + +“It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!” exclaimed the procureur, +with a haggard expression. + +“You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther back.” + +“That voice, that voice!—where did I first hear it?” + +“You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago, +the day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran. Refer to +your papers.” + +“You are not Busoni?—you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens! you are, +then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged +you in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!” + +“Yes; you are now on the right path,” said the count, crossing his arms +over his broad chest; “search—search!” + +“But what have I done to you?” exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was +balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a +dream nor reality; “what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!” + +“You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father; +you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.” + +“Who are you, then? Who are you?” + +“I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château +d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when +he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds, +and led him to you!” + +“Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney; +“you are——” + +“I am Edmond Dantès!” + +“You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the +wrist; “then come here!” + +And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had +happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new +catastrophe. + +“There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and +child, “see, are you well avenged?” + +Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had +passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, +“God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish +he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt +its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he +double-locked the door. + +“My child,” cried Villefort, “he carries away the body of my child! Oh, +curses, woe, death to you!” + +He tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was +transfixed to the spot,—his eyes glared as though they were starting +through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails +were stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as +though they would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain +with living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful +overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed +by a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs. + +A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened, +and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all +the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were +overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had +been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it +reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast. +Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he +asked: + +“Where is M. de Villefort?” + +The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo +ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld +Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and +digging the earth with fury. + +“It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!” + +50197m + + + +And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig. + +Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an +expression almost humble: + +“Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——” + +Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard. + +“Oh, I _will_ find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but +I _will_ find him, though I dig forever!” + +Monte Cristo drew back in horror. + +“Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of +the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street, +for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had +done. “Oh, enough of this,—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the +last.” On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a +ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb. + +“Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said with a smile; “we leave Paris +tomorrow.” + +“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel. + +“No,” replied Monte Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much +already.” + +The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haydée +had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier. + + + + Chapter 112. The Departure + +The recent events formed the theme of conversation throughout all +Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in +their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, +sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and +Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their +conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed +state of apathy. + +“Indeed,” said Julie, “might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those +people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their +prosperity that an evil genius—like the wicked fairies in Perrault’s +stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism—hovered +over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal +neglect?” + +“What a dire misfortune!” said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and +Danglars. + +“What dreadful sufferings!” said Julie, remembering Valentine, but +whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her +brother. + +“If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow,” said Emmanuel, “it +must be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the past +lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment.” + +“Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?” said Julie. “When my +father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing +suicide, had anyone then said, ‘This man deserves his misery,’ would +not that person have been deceived?” + +“Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned +to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him.” + +Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell +was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had +arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count +of Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a +cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again +immediately. + +50201m + + + +“Maximilian,” said the count, without appearing to notice the different +impressions which his presence produced on the little circle, “I come +to seek you.” + +“To seek me?” repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream. + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “has it not been agreed that I should take +you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for +departure?” + +“I am ready,” said Maximilian; “I came expressly to wish them +farewell.” + +“Whither are you going, count?” asked Julie. + +“In the first instance to Marseilles, madame.” + +“To Marseilles!” exclaimed the young couple. + +“Yes, and I take your brother with me.” + +“Oh, count.” said Julie, “will you restore him to us cured of his +melancholy?” Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his +countenance. + +“You perceive, then, that he is not happy?” said the count. + +“Yes,” replied the young woman; “and fear much that he finds our home +but a dull one.” + +“I will undertake to divert him,” replied the count. + +“I am ready to accompany you, sir,” said Maximilian. “Adieu, my kind +friends! Emmanuel—Julie—farewell!” + +“How farewell?” exclaimed Julie; “do you leave us thus, so suddenly, +without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?” + +“Needless delays but increase the grief of parting,” said Monte Cristo, +“and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything +requisite; at least, I advised him to do so.” + +“I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed,” said Morrel in +his tranquil but mournful manner. + +“Good,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “in these prompt arrangements we +recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier.” + +“And you leave us,” said Julie, “at a moment’s warning? you do not give +us a day—no, not even an hour before your departure?” + +“My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five +days.” + +“But does Maximilian go to Rome?” exclaimed Emmanuel. + +“I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,” said Morrel, +with a smile full of grief; “I am under his orders for the next month.” + +“Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!” said Julie. + +“Maximilian goes with _me_,” said the count, in his kindest and most +persuasive manner; “therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your +brother’s account.” + +“Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!” Morrel repeated. + +“His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,” said Julie. +“Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something +from us.” + +“Pshaw!” said Monte Cristo, “you will see him return to you gay, +smiling, and joyful.” + +Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count. + +“We must leave you,” said Monte Cristo. + +50203m + + + +“Before you quit us, count,” said Julie, “will you permit us to express +to you all that the other day——” + +“Madame,” interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, “all that +you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; +the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like +benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you +again, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I +am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances +of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so +far as to say, ‘Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you +will never see me again.’” + +“Never see you again?” exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled +down Julie’s cheeks, “never behold you again? It is not a man, then, +but some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of +returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good.” + +“Say not so,” quickly returned Monte Cristo—“say not so, my friends; +angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate +is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, +overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as +unmerited as your words are sacrilegious.” + +And pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms, +he extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this +abode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who +followed him passively, with the indifference which had been +perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned +him. + +“Restore my brother to peace and happiness,” whispered Julie to Monte +Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done eleven +years before on the staircase leading to Morrel’s study. + +“You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?” asked he, smiling. + +“Oh, yes,” was the ready answer. + +“Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord.” + +As we have before said, the post-chaise was waiting; four powerful +horses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali, +apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of +the steps, his face bathed in perspiration. + +“Well,” asked the count in Arabic, “have you been to see the old man?” +Ali made a sign in the affirmative. + +“And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?” + +The slave respectfully signalized that he had. + +“And what did he say, or rather do?” Ali placed himself in the light, +so that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his +intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, +as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying “Yes.” + +“Good; he accepts,” said Monte Cristo. “Now let us go.” + +50205m + + + +These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way, +and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement. +Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half +an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had +just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali’s +finger. The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. +It was a lovely starlight night—they had just reached the top of the +hill Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its +millions of phosphoric waves into light—waves indeed more noisy, more +passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of +the tempestuous ocean,—waves which never rest as those of the sea +sometimes do,—waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what +falls within their grasp. + +The count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went +on for a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon +the great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern +Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation of the religious +enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,— + +“Great city,” murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as +if in prayer, “less than six months have elapsed since first I entered +thy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and +that he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my +presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had +the power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee +without pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows +that the power confided to me has never been made subservient to my +personal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy +palpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient +miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence. +Now my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst +neither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!” + +His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the +night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the +door was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the +other side of the hill in a whirlwind of dust and noise. + +Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel was +dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer. + +“Morrel,” said the count to him at length, “do you repent having +followed me?” + +“No, count; but to leave Paris——” + +“If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have +left you there.” + +“Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is +like losing her a second time.” + +“Maximilian,” said the count, “the friends that we have lost do not +repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, +and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by +them. I have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one +who gave me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and +intelligence on me. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when +doubtful, and if I ever do any good, it is due to their beneficent +counsels. Listen to the voice of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether +you ought to preserve this melancholy exterior towards me.” + +“My friend,” said Maximilian, “the voice of my heart is very sorrowful, +and promises me nothing but misfortune.” + +“It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black +cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and +consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.” + +“That may possibly be true,” said Maximilian, and he again subsided +into his thoughtful mood. + +The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the +unlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like +shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn +seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as +rapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived at +Châlons, where the count’s steamboat waited for them. Without the loss +of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers +embarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two +paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like +a bird. + +Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is +generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind +which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the +point of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there. + +As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost +superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been +taken for an exile about to revisit his native land. + +Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view,—Marseilles, white, +fervid, full of life and energy,—Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre +and Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of the +Mediterranean,—Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful memories +were stirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort +Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,28 the port with its +brick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it was with +one accord that they stopped on the Canebière. + +A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle +usually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their +relations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful +leave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the +whole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who +witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the +current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian +from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay. + +“Here,” said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,—“here is +the spot where my father stopped, when the _Pharaon_ entered the port; +it was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and +dishonor, threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my +face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our +meeting wept also.” + +Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,—“I was there;” at the same time +pointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the very +direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard, +and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel +about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must +have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel. + +“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Morrel, “I do not deceive myself—that young +man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, +is Albert de Morcerf!” + +“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I recognized him.” + +“How so?—you were looking the other way.” + +50209m + + + +The count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want +to make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who +soon disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend: + +“Dear Maximilian,” said the count, “have you nothing to do in this +land?” + +“I have to weep over the grave of my father,” replied Morrel in a +broken voice. + +“Well, then, go,—wait for me there, and I will soon join you.” + +“You leave me, then?” + +“Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.” + +Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to +him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he +quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte +Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he +then walked slowly towards the Allées de Meilhan to seek out a small +house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of +this story. + +It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which +forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles, +covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened +branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the +south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to +the door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been +painted or varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry +season to close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its +crumbling antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and +picturesque, and was the same that old Dantès formerly inhabited—the +only difference being that the old man occupied merely the garret, +while the whole house was now placed at the command of Mercédès by the +count. + +The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret +entered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when +Monte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and +lost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old +acquaintances of his; he knew better than anyone else how to open that +weather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise +the latch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any other +intimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master of +the place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a little +garden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this +garden Mercédès had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum +of money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as having +been placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden +were easily seen from the steps of the street-door. + +Monte Cristo, on stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost +a deep sob; he looked in the direction whence it came, and there under +an arbor of Virginia jessamine,29 with its thick foliage and beautiful +long purple flowers, he saw Mercédès seated, with her head bowed, and +weeping bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by +her hands was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been +so long restrained by the presence of her son. + +Monte Cristo advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel. +Mercédès raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a +man before her. + +50211m + + + +“Madame,” said the count, “it is no longer in my power to restore you +to happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it +as coming from a friend?” + +“I am, indeed, most wretched,” replied Mercédès. “Alone in the world, I +had but my son, and he has left me!” + +“He possesses a noble heart, madame,” replied the count, “and he has +acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country; +some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote +their blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he +remained with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor +would he have participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength +and honor by struggling with adversity, which he will convert into +prosperity. Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to +say you will confide it to safe hands.” + +“Oh,” replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head, “the +prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart, +I pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup +of adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that +the grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing +me back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to +meet death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own.” + +“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “your words sear and embitter my heart, the +more so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of +all your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You +render me still more unhappy——” + +“Hate you, blame you—_you_, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has +spared my son’s life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary +intention to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh, +look at me closely, and discover, if you can, even the semblance of a +reproach in me.” + +The count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercédès, who arose partly +from her seat and extended both her hands towards him. + +“Oh, look at me,” continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy, +“my eyes no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long +fled since I used to smile on Edmond Dantès, who anxiously looked out +for me from the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old +father. Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and the +present. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no, +Edmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable +creature that I am!” cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her +eyes to heaven. “I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three +ingredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am I?” + +Monte Cristo approached her, and silently took her hand. + +“No,” said she, withdrawing it gently—“no, my friend, touch me not. You +have spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance I +was the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice, and by +self-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted against my +judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am +sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me, +reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See” (and she +exposed her face completely to view)—“see, misfortune has silvered my +hair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rim +of purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary,—you +are still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith; +because you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and +God has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have +denied God and he has abandoned me.” + +50213m + + + +Mercédès burst into tears; her woman’s heart was breaking under its +load of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a kiss on +it; but she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth than +he would have bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint. + +“It often happens,” continued she, “that a first fault destroys the +prospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you? +What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secret +recesses of my heart?—only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like a +woman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to do +so—why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have +rescued the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he +were? Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not +accessory to his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for +him, not remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my +sake he had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by +accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to +depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base, +cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like all +renegades I am of evil omen to those who surround me!” + +“No, Mercédès,” said Monte Cristo, “no; you judge yourself with too +much severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief that +disarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible and +offended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I was +destined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I have +prostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would have +sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that were +indissolubly linked with it. But—and I say it with some pride, +Mercédès—God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present, +and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a +divine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful +sufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution +of those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; when +suddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light and +liberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, so +unbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be +conscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own great +designs. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something +confided to me for a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a +life which you once, Mercédès, had the power to render blissful; not +one hour of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an +exterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some +enterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my +weapons, I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my +body to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I +taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and +my mouth to smile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured, +confiding, and forgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning, +and wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the +path that was opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached the +goal; but woe to those who stood in my pathway!” + +50215m + + + +“Enough,” said Mercédès; “enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who +alone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had +she crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still, +Edmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and +the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of +mankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you +and other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is +nothing in the world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must +say farewell, Edmond, and let us part.” + +“Before I leave you, Mercédès, have you no request to make?” said the +count. + +“I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,—the happiness of my +son.” + +“Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to +promote his happiness.” + +“Thank you, Edmond.” + +“But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercédès?” + +“For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One +is that of Edmond Dantès, lost to me long, long since. He had my love! +That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my +heart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains. +The other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of +Edmond Dantès. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead.” + +“Your son shall be happy, Mercédès,” repeated the count. + +“Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly +confer.” + +“But what are your intentions?” + +Mercédès smiled sadly. + +“To say that I shall live here, like the Mercédès of other times, +gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me. +I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days in +prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum +of money buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned, +will be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy +respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living—that will signify +but little, that concerns God, you, and myself.” + +“Mercédès,” said the count, “I do not say it to blame you, but you made +an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortune +amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you, +in virtue of your vigilance and economy.” + +“I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot +accept it, Edmond—my son would not permit it.” + +“Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de +Morcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will +submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you +oppose them?” + +“You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I +have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so +overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am +become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the +talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. +If succor be sent to me, I will accept it.” + +“Ah, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “you should not talk thus! It is not +so we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the +contrary, we are all free agents.” + +“Alas!” exclaimed Mercédès, “if it were so, if I possessed free-will, +but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive +me to despair.” + +Monte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence of her +grief. + +“Will you not even say you will see me again?” he asked. + +“On the contrary, we shall meet again,” said Mercédès, pointing to +heaven with solemnity. “I tell you so to prove to you that I still +hope.” + +And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count, +Mercédès rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left +the house and turned towards the quay. But Mercédès did not witness his +departure, although she was seated at the little window of the room +which had been occupied by old Dantès. Her eyes were straining to see +the ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her +voice involuntarily murmured softly: + +“Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!” + + + + Chapter 113. The Past + +The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left +Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little +Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached +the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an +abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation +which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so +many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat +with them. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in +that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys +superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his +calculations if he now found cause to blame himself. + +“I cannot have deceived myself,” he said; “I must look upon the past in +a false light. What!” he continued, “can I have been following a false +path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have +sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded +all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I +cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why +I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the +past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes +indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded +in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he +received it. + +“Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou +awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible +millionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation and +wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted, +and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and +splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks +to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy +splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living +body for a corpse!” + +As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie. +It was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been +conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smiling +and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed. + +“And yet they were the same,” murmured Monte Cristo, “only now it is +broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the +place, and makes it appear so cheerful.” + +He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to +the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat +with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who +immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for +a good fare. + +The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red +and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The +sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of +fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in +another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be +seen the fishermen’s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the +merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain. + +But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and +the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of +Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible +voyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. +The solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the +Château d’If, which told him whither they were leading him; the +struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; +his despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when +the muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead—all these were brought +before him in vivid and frightful reality. + +Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which +after the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did +the count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which +formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting +boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with +black, and the gigantic structure of the Château d’If seemed like the +phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count +instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was +obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice: + +“Sir, we are at the landing.” + +Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he +had been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the +slope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long +to Dantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the +oar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the +flying spray of the sea. + +50219m + + + +There had been no prisoners confined in the Château d’If since the +revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for +the prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit +to visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. + +The count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there; +but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other +employment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since +1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly +endeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the +spot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed +the new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had +been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log +of wood. + +“Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one +relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?” asked the count; “are there any +traditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult to +believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?” + +“Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this +very dungeon.” + +Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost +forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled +his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing +the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still +seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the +corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge. + +“Would you like to hear the story, sir?” + +“Yes; relate it,” said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to +still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history. + +“This dungeon,” said the concierge, “was, it appears, some time ago +occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of +industry. Another person was confined in the Château at the same time, +but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.” + +“Ah, indeed?—mad!” repeated Monte Cristo; “and what was his mania?” + +“He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.” + +Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there +was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there +had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria +offered the treasures. + +“Could the prisoners see each other?” he asked. + +“Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance +of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other.” + +“And which of them made this passage?” + +“Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and +industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was +too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea.” + +“Blind fools!” murmured the count. + +“However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by +what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet +remaining of his work. Do you see it?” and the man held the torch to +the wall. + +50223m + + + +“Ah, yes; I see,” said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion. + +“The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how +long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. +Now guess what the young one did?” + +“Tell me.” + +“He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its +face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the +entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. +Did you ever hear of such an idea?” + +Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the +sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold +dews of death, had touched his face. + +The jailer continued: + +“Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the +Château d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the +grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his +shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Château +frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely +attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the +sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of +the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth +was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what +they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse +was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost +immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.” + +The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his +forehead, and his heart was full of anguish. + +“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement of +forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts +for vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever +heard of afterwards?” + +“Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must +have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow, +from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he +must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to +the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!” + +“Then you pity him?” said the count. + +“_Ma foi_, yes; though he was in his own element.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined +for plotting with the Bonapartists.” + +“Great is truth,” muttered the count, “fire cannot burn, nor water +drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who +narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the +chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit +through the air to be swallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added +aloud, “Was his name ever known?” + +“Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.” + +“Oh, Villefort, Villefort,” murmured the count, “this scene must often +have haunted thy sleepless hours!” + +“Do you wish to see anything more, sir?” said the concierge. + +“Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé’s room.” + +“Ah! No. 27.” + +“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the +abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his +name. + +“Come, sir.” + +“Wait,” said Monte Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around this +room.” + +“This is fortunate,” said the guide; “I have forgotten the other key.” + +“Go and fetch it.” + +“I will leave you the torch, sir.” + +“No, take it away; I can see in the dark.” + +“Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness +that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon.” + +“He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,” muttered the count. + +The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly. +Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly +as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his +dungeon. + +“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is +the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of +my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those +figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the +age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still +living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free. +After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not +reckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped the +count. + +He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès. +On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white +letters of which were still visible on the green wall: + +“‘_Oh, God!_’” he read, “‘_preserve my memory!_’” + +“Oh, yes,” he cried, “that was my only prayer at last; I no longer +begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. +Oh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!” + +At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the +guide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him. + +“Follow me, sir;” and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted +him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte +Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that +met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which +he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the +poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the +anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with +a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes. + +“This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young +man entered;” and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained +unclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learned +gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated +together for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary +years.” + +Dantès took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who +had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them +merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch +revealed their true worth. + +“Sir,” he said, “you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.” + +“I know it.” + +The concierge looked upon the count with surprise. + +“Sir,” he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune—“sir, I +cannot understand your generosity!” + +“Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your +story touched me more than it would others.” + +“Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.” + +50227m + + + +“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank +you!” + +“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.” + +“Really? What is it?” + +“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left +in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to +sound the wall.” + +“Ah,” cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé’s two hiding-places. + +“After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the +head of the bed, and at the hearth.” + +“Yes,” said the count, “yes.” + +“I raised the stones, and found——” + +“A rope-ladder and some tools?” + +“How do you know that?” asked the guide in astonishment. + +“I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally +found in prisoners’ cells.” + +“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.” + +“And have you them yet?” + +“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great +curiosities; but I have still something left.” + +“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently. + +“A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.” + +“Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do +well.” + +“I will run for it, sir;” and the guide went out. + +Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had +converted into an altar. + +“Oh, second father,” he exclaimed, “thou who hast given me liberty, +knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to +ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the +depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can +respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the +soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then, +noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love +thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me +some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, +if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed +his head, and clasped his hands together. + +“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him. + +Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of +cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The +manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of +Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the +epigraph, and he read: + +“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions +under foot, saith the Lord.” + +“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” And +feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which +contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs. + +“Here,” he said, “take this pocket-book.” + +“Do you give it to me?” + +“Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;” +and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was +more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the +corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, “To Marseilles!” + +Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison. + +“Woe,” he cried, “to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and +woe to those who forgot that I was there!” + +50229m + + + +As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his +head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was +complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in +a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée. + +On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure +of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a +tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions, +had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from +hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had +fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old +wood in the churchyard. + +The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his +children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had +preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on +which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a +little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel +was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the +graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious. + +50231m + + + +“Maximilian,” said the count, “you should not look on the graves, but +there;” and he pointed upwards. + +“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me +so as we left Paris?” + +“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allow +you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?” + +“I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less +painfully here than anywhere else.” + +“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with +me, do I not?” + +“Ah, count, I shall forget it.” + +“No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel, +because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.” + +“Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.” + +“I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.” + +“Impossible!” + +“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “it is the infirmity of our nature always to +believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!” + +“What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and +desired in the world?” + +“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I +knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a +woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed +bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the +caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of +Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by +proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those +caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had +dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the +present), and cast him into a dungeon.” + +“Ah,” said Morrel, “one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.” + +“He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,” said the count, placing his +hand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered. + +“Fourteen years!” he muttered. + +“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had many +moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the +unhappiest of men.” + +“Well?” asked Morrel. + +“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human +means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of +the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he +miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first +cry was for his father; but that father was dead.” + +“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel. + +“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and +full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of +Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his +tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father +you so well loved.’” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel. + +“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not +even find his father’s grave.” + +“But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?” + +“You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——” + +“She was dead?” + +“Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the +persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more +unhappy lover than you.” + +“And has he found consolation?” + +“He has at least found peace.” + +“And does he ever expect to be happy?” + +“He hopes so, Maximilian.” + +The young man’s head fell on his breast. + +“You have my promise,” he said, after a minute’s pause, extending his +hand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——” + +“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of +Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of +Bastia, it will be called the _Eurus_. You will give your name to the +captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?” + +“But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——” + +“Child,” replied the count, “not to know the value of a man’s word! I +have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will +assist you. Morrel, farewell!” + +“Do you leave me?” + +“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with +misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear +aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not +a fable, but an allegory.” + +“When do you leave?” + +“Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from +you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?” + +50233m + + + +“I am entirely yours, count.” + +Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was +ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer +soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was +scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night. + + + + Chapter 114. Peppino + +At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a +man travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed +the little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover +a great deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed +in a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey, +but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and +brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might +be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with +which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman. + +Another proof that he was a native of the universal country was +apparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the +terms used in music, and which like the “goddam” of Figaro, served all +possible linguistic requirements. “_Allegro!_” he called out to the +postilions at every ascent. “_Moderato!_” he cried as they descended. +And heaven knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by +the way of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom +they were addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome +is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic +curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to +catch sight of the dome of Saint Peter’s, which may be seen long before +any other object is distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook +from his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after +having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said: + +“Good! I have it still!” + +50235m + + + +The carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, and +stopped at the Hôtel d’Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance, +received the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller +alighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house +of Thomson & French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one +of the most celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, +near St. Peter’s. + +In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event. +Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at +elbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully +curved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and +the horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the +Papal States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high +water from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of +Rome, more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language, +more especially the French, they heard the traveller order an +apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of +Thomson & French. + +The result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the +_cicerone_, a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and +without having been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no +attention from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a +Parisian police agent would have used. + +The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson & +French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left +word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him +at the bankers’ door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The +Frenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately +entered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers +who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses, +churches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had +followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and +entered the first room; his shadow did the same. + +“Messrs. Thomson & French?” inquired the stranger. + +An attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first +desk. + +“Whom shall I announce?” said the attendant. + +“Baron Danglars.” + +“Follow me,” said the man. + +A door opened, through which the attendant and the baron disappeared. +The man who had followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk +continued to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved +profound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the pen of +the clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and +appearing to be perfectly sure of privacy: + +“Ah, ha,” he said, “here you are, Peppino!” + +“Yes,” was the laconic reply. “You have found out that there is +something worth having about this large gentleman?” + +“There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it.” + +“You know his business here, then.” + +“_Pardieu_, he has come to draw, but I don’t know how much!” + +“You will know presently, my friend.” + +“Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other +day.” + +“What do you mean?—of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who +carried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day?” + +50237m + + + +“No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian +prince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000.” + +“You must have searched badly.” + +“Luigi Vampa himself searched.” + +“In that case he must either have paid his debts——” + +“A Russian do that?” + +“Or spent the money?” + +“Possibly, after all.” + +“Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman +will transact his business without my knowing the sum.” + +Peppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a +few prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by which +Danglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten +minutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance. + +“Well?” asked Peppino of his friend. + +“Joy, joy—the sum is large!” + +“Five or six millions, is it not?” + +“Yes, you know the amount.” + +“On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo?” + +“Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this?” + +“I told you we were informed beforehand.” + +“Then why do you apply to me?” + +“That I may be sure I have the right man.” + +“Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions—a pretty sum, eh, Peppino?” + +“Hush—here is our man!” The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his +beads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened. +Danglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the +door. Peppino followed Danglars. + +According to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door. +The guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn +their hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young +man of twenty. The _cicerone_ reclosed the door, and sprang up by the +side of the coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind. + +“Will your excellency visit Saint Peter’s?” asked the _cicerone_. + +“I did not come to Rome to see,” said Danglars aloud; then he added +softly, with an avaricious smile, “I came to touch!” and he rapped his +pocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter. + +“Then your excellency is going——” + +“To the hotel.” + +“Casa Pastrini!” said the _cicerone_ to the coachman, and the carriage +drove rapidly on. + +50239m + + + +Ten minutes afterwards the baron entered his apartment, and Peppino +stationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, after +having whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants of +Marius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter, +who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullest +speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing +his pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he +had a game of _morra_ with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to +console himself drank a bottle of Orvieto. + +The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; +he had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at +all. He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the +beauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars +had not reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of +the posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o’clock, and the +_cicerone_ did not bring the passport till three. + +All these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the door +of Signor Pastrini’s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were +also not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, who +for the sake of gain styled him “your excellency.” As Danglars had +hitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather +flattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen silver +coins among the beggars, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him +“your highness.” + +“Which road?” asked the postilion in Italian. + +“The Ancona road,” replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the +question and answer, and the horses galloped off. + +Danglars intended travelling to Venice, where he would receive one part +of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he would find the +rest, he meant to take up his residence in the latter town, which he +had been told was a city of pleasure. + +He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began +to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would +have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long it +would be before they reached the next town. “_Non capisco_” (do not +understand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to +imply, “Very well.” The carriage again moved on. + +“I will stop at the first posting-house,” said Danglars to himself. + +He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the +previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night��s rest. He +was luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double +springs; he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the +relay to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation +could present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt? + +Danglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten +minutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d’Armilly; the +same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which he +intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for +contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt +more violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt +that he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same +country, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like +granite giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold, +dull, and rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to +remain in the warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to +make inquiries of a postilion whose only answer was “_Non capisco_.” + +50241m + + + +Danglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would +be sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars +fancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his +eyes and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the +midst of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what +seemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows. + +Danglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand +payment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage +of the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but +the horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without +anyone claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened +the door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled +on. The baron was completely roused. + +“Eh?” he said to the postilion, “eh, _mio caro?_” + +This was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from +hearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But _mio caro_ +did not reply. Danglars then opened the window. + +“Come, my friend,” he said, thrusting his hand through the opening, +“where are we going?” + +“_Dentro la testa!_” answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied +by a menacing gesture. + +Danglars thought _dentro la testa_ meant, “Put in your head!” He was +making rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without some +uneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead of +being as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with +ideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially +one in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality +which in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see +distinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed. +Before we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see +double; and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble. +Danglars observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the +carriage. + +“Some gendarme!” he exclaimed. “Can I have been intercepted by French +telegrams to the pontifical authorities?” + +He resolved to end his anxiety. “Where are you taking me?” he asked. + +“_Dentro la testa_,” replied the same voice, with the same menacing +accent. + +Danglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping on +that side. + +“Decidedly,” said Danglars, with the perspiration on his forehead, “I +must be under arrest.” And he threw himself back in the calash, not +this time to sleep, but to think. + +Directly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts, +those stone phantoms which he had before remarked, only then they were +on the right hand, now they were on the left. He understood that they +had described a circle, and were bringing him back to Rome. + +“Oh, unfortunate!” he cried, “they must have obtained my arrest.” + +The carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed. An hour of +terror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed that they were on the +road back. At length he saw a dark mass, against which it seemed as if +the carriage was about to dash; but the vehicle turned to one side, +leaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw that it was one of the +ramparts encircling Rome. + +50243m + + + +“_Mon dieu!_” cried Danglars, “we are not returning to Rome; then it is +not justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea +presents itself—what if they should be——” + +His hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so +little believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the +adventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that +he should marry Mademoiselle Eugénie. “They are robbers, perhaps,” he +muttered. + +Just then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel road. +Danglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived +monuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details +Morcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he felt +sure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of +valley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla’s circus. +On a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it +stopped. At the same time the door was opened. “_Scendi!_” exclaimed a +commanding voice. + +Danglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak Italian, he +understood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked around him. +Four men surrounded him, besides the postilion. + +“_Di quà_,” said one of the men, descending a little path leading out +of the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and +had no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were +following him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal +distances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten +minutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his +guide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds; +three men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the +centre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move. + +“_Avanti!_” said the same sharp and imperative voice. + +This time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word and +gesture had not explained the speaker’s meaning, it was clearly +expressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that +he struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who +dashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but +lizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road. + +Peppino stopped before a rock overhung by thick hedges; the rock, half +open, afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the +evil spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who +followed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer any +doubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars +acquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions, +and who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach, +certainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he +slid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he +touched the ground, he opened his eyes. + +50245m + + + +The path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared little for being +recognized now that he was in his own territories, struck a light and +lit a torch. Two other men descended after Danglars forming the +rearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he happened to stop, they came +by a gentle declivity to the intersection of two corridors. The walls +were hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemed +in contrast with the white stones to open their large dark eyes, like +those which we see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the +rings of his carbine against his left hand. + +“Who comes there?” he cried. + +“A friend, a friend!” said Peppino; “but where is the captain?” + +“There,” said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious +crypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the +passage through the large arched openings. + +“Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!” said Peppino in Italian, and taking +Danglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an opening +resembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which the +captain appeared to have made his dwelling-place. + +“Is this the man?” asked the captain, who was attentively reading +Plutarch’s _Life of Alexander_. + +“Himself, captain—himself.” + +“Very well, show him to me.” + +At this rather impertinent order, Peppino raised his torch to the face +of Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes +burnt. His agitated features presented the appearance of pale and +hideous terror. + +“The man is tired,” said the captain, “conduct him to his bed.” + +“Oh,” murmured Danglars, “that bed is probably one of the coffins +hollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from +one of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness.” + +From their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the +chamber now arose the companions of the man who had been found by +Albert de Morcerf reading _Cæsar’s Commentaries_, and by Danglars +studying the _Life of Alexander_. The banker uttered a groan and +followed his guide; he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer +possessed strength, will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led +him. At length he found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he +mechanically lifted his foot five or six times. Then a low door was +opened before him, and bending his head to avoid striking his forehead +he entered a small room cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though +empty, and dry, though situated at an immeasurable distance under the +earth. A bed of dried grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one +corner. Danglars brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave +some promise of safety. + +“Oh, God be praised,” he said; “it is a real bed!” + +This was the second time within the hour that he had invoked the name +of God. He had not done so for ten years before. + +“_Ecco!_” said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closed +the door upon him. + +A bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there had been no bolt, +it would have been impossible for him to pass through the midst of the +garrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round a +master whom our readers must have recognized as the famous Luigi Vampa. + +Danglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose existence he would not +believe when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in Paris; and not only did +he recognize him, but the cell in which Albert had been confined, and +which was probably kept for the accommodation of strangers. These +recollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure by Danglars, and +restored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the bandits had not +despatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill him at all. +They had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he had only a +few louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed. + +He remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as he +considered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed his +own price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000 +livres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum +he could manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably +secure in being able to extricate himself from his position, provided +he were not rated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he +stretched himself on his bed, and after turning over two or three +times, fell asleep with the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi +Vampa was studying. + + + + Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare + +We awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke. +To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet +drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which +diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of +the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like +the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation a +single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty. + +“Yes, yes,” he murmured, “I am in the hands of the brigands of whom +Albert de Morcerf spoke.” His first idea was to breathe, that he might +know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from _Don Quixote_, the +only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered. + +“No,” he cried, “they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed +me!” and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the +hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were +in his trousers pocket, and in that of his greatcoat he found the +little note-case containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs. + +“Singular bandits!” he exclaimed; “they have left me my purse and +pocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed. +Hello, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is.” + +Danglars’ watch, one of Breguet’s repeaters, which he had carefully +wound up on the previous night, struck half past five. Without this, +Danglars would have been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did +not reach his cell. Should he demand an explanation from the bandits, +or should he wait patiently for them to propose it? The last +alternative seemed the most prudent, so he waited until twelve o’clock. +During all this time a sentinel, who had been relieved at eight +o’clock, had been watching his door. + +50249m + + + +Danglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the person who kept +watch over him. He had noticed that a few rays, not of daylight, but +from a lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined planks of the door; he +approached just as the brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful +of brandy, which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent +forth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars. “Faugh!” he +exclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of his cell. + +At twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and Danglars, +wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached the door again. + +He was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a +flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around +his shoulders. + +“Ah, ha,” cried Danglars, “this fellow is more like an ogre than +anything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good +eating!” + +We see that Danglars was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as +though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black +bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring +voraciously. + +“May I be hanged,” said Danglars, glancing at the bandit’s dinner +through the crevices of the door,—“may I be hanged if I can understand +how people can eat such filth!” and he withdrew to seat himself upon +his goat-skin, which reminded him of the smell of the brandy. + +But the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are certain +invitations contained in even the coarsest food which appeal very +irresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his own not to be very +well supplied just then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the +bread less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful +vulgar onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and side-dishes, +which his cook prepared in a very superior manner whenever he said, +“Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee today.” He got +up and knocked on the door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew +that he was heard, so he redoubled his blows. + +“_Che cosa?_” asked the bandit. + +“Come, come,” said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door, “I +think it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat!” + +But whether he did not understand him, or whether he had received no +orders respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without +answering, went on with his dinner. Danglars’ feelings were hurt, and +not wishing to put himself under obligations to the brute, the banker +threw himself down again on his goat-skin and did not breathe another +word. + +Four hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another bandit. +Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the +stomach, arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door, +and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was, +indeed, Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as +possible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between +his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-peas stewed with bacon. Near +the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of Villetri grapes and a +flask of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched +these preparations and his mouth watered. + +“Come,” he said to himself, “let me try if he will be more tractable +than the other;” and he tapped gently at the door. + +“_On y va_,” (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting the house +of Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its idioms. + +Danglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in +such a furious manner, “Put in your head!” But this was not the time +for recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said +with a gracious smile: + +“Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner?” + +“Does your excellency happen to be hungry?” + +“Happen to be hungry,—that’s pretty good, when I haven’t eaten for +twenty-four hours!” muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud, “Yes, sir, +I am hungry—very hungry.” + +“And your excellency wants something to eat?” + +“At once, if possible” + +“Nothing easier,” said Peppino. “Here you can get anything you want; by +paying for it, of course, as among honest folk.” + +“Of course!” cried Danglars. “Although, in justice, the people who +arrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you.” + +“That is not the custom, excellency,” said Peppino. + +“A bad reason,” replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his +keeper; “but I am content. Let me have some dinner!” + +“At once! What would your excellency like?” + +And Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so that the steam rose +directly under the nostrils of Danglars. “Give your orders.” + +“Have you kitchens here?” + +“Kitchens?—of course—complete ones.” + +“And cooks?” + +“Excellent!” + +“Well, a fowl, fish, game,—it signifies little, so that I eat.” + +“As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think?” + +“Yes, a fowl.” + +Peppino, turning around, shouted, “A fowl for his excellency!” His +voice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome, graceful, and +half-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his +head, without the assistance of his hands. + +“I could almost believe myself at the Café de Paris,” murmured +Danglars. + +“Here, your excellency,” said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young +bandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool and +the goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars +asked for a knife and fork. + +“Here, excellency,” said Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and +a boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the +other, and was about to cut up the fowl. + +“Pardon me, excellency,” said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker’s +shoulder; “people pay here before they eat. They might not be +satisfied, and——” + +“Ah, ha,” thought Danglars, “this is not so much like Paris, except +that I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I’ll fix that all right. +I have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a +fowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome.—There,” he said, throwing a +louis down. + +Peppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve the +fowl. + +“Stay a moment, your excellency,” said Peppino, rising; “you still owe +me something.” + +“I said they would skin me,” thought Danglars; but resolving to resist +the extortion, he said, “Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl?” + +“Your excellency has given me a louis on account.” + +“A louis on account for a fowl?” + +“Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis.” + +Danglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke. + +“Very droll,” he muttered, “very droll indeed,” and he again began to +carve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron’s right hand with his +left, and held out his other hand. + +“Come, now,” he said. + +“Is it not a joke?” said Danglars. + +“We never joke,” replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker. + +“What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl!” + +“Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in +these horrible caves!” + +“Come, come, this is very droll—very amusing—I allow; but, as I am very +hungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you.” + +“Then that will make only 4,998 louis more,” said Peppino with the same +indifference. “I shall get them all in time.” + +“Oh, as for that,” said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the +jest,—“as for that you won’t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do +not know with whom you have to deal!” + +50253m + + + +Peppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars +threw himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door, +again began eating his peas and bacon. Though Danglars could not see +Peppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation. +He was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man. +“Brute!” said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him, and without +even turning his head continued to eat slowly. Danglars’ stomach felt +so empty, that it seemed as if it would be impossible ever to fill it +again; still he had patience for another half-hour, which appeared to +him like a century. He again arose and went to the door. + +“Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what +they want.” + +“Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give +your orders, and we will execute them.” + +“Then open the door directly.” Peppino obeyed. “Now look here, I want +something to eat! To eat—do you hear?” + +“Are you hungry?” + +“Come, you understand me.” + +“What would your excellency like to eat?” + +“A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this +accursed place.” + +“Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!” he called. The youth +brought a small loaf. “How much?” asked Danglars. + +“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You +have paid two louis in advance.” + +50255m + + + +“What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?” + +“One hundred thousand francs,” repeated Peppino. + +“But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!” + +“We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing +whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it is +always the same price.” + +“What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is +perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you +intend starving me to death.” + +“Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide. +Pay and eat.” + +“And what am I to pay with, brute?” said Danglars, enraged. “Do you +suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?” + +“Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be +fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000.” + +Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood +the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just +before. + +“Come,” he said, “if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be +satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?” + +“Certainly,” said Peppino. + +“But how can I pay them?” + +“Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson & +French, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these +gentlemen, and our banker shall take it.” + +Danglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took the +pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and signed +it. + +“Here,” he said, “here is a draft at sight.” + +“And here is your fowl.” + +Danglars sighed while he carved the fowl; it appeared very thin for the +price it had cost. As for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively, +put it into his pocket, and continued eating his peas. + + + + Chapter 116. The Pardon + +The next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that +dungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that he +would be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had +concealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of +his cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had +forgotten that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave +to the roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called +out. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it +would be better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he +sent for Peppino. + +“Here I am, your excellency,” said Peppino, with an eagerness which +Danglars thought favorable to him. “What do you want?” + +“Something to drink.” + +“Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near Rome.” + +“Then give me water,” cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry the blow. + +“Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency,—there has +been such a drought.” + +“Come,” thought Danglars, “it is the same old story.” And while he +smiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a joke, he felt his +temples get moist with perspiration. + +“Come, my friend,” said Danglars, seeing that he made no impression on +Peppino, “you will not refuse me a glass of wine?” + +“I have already told you that we do not sell at retail.” + +“Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive.” + +“They are all the same price.” + +“And what is that?” + +“Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle.” + +“Tell me,” cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness Harpagon30 alone +has been capable of revealing—“tell me that you wish to despoil me of +all; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal.” + +“It is possible such may be the master’s intention.” + +“The master?—who is he?” + +“The person to whom you were conducted yesterday.” + +“Where is he?” + +“Here.” + +“Let me see him.” + +“Certainly.” + +And the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before Danglars. + +“You sent for me?” he said to the prisoner. + +“Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here?” + +“Yes, your excellency. What then?” + +“How much do you require for my ransom?” + +“Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you.” Danglars felt a dreadful +spasm dart through his heart. + +“But this is all I have left in the world,” he said, “out of an immense +fortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also.” + +“We are forbidden to shed your blood.” + +“And by whom are you forbidden?” + +“By him we obey.” + +“You do, then, obey someone?” + +“Yes, a chief.” + +“I thought you said you were the chief?” + +“So I am of these men; but there is another over me.” + +“And did your superior order you to treat me in this way?” + +“Yes.” + +“But my purse will be exhausted.” + +“Probably.” + +“Come,” said Danglars, “will you take a million?” + +“No.” + +“Two millions?—three?—four? Come, four? I will give them to you on +condition that you let me go.” + +“Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000? This is a +kind of usury, banker, that I do not understand.” + +“Take all, then—take all, I tell you, and kill me!” + +“Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and that would +produce an appetite it would require a million a day to satisfy. Be +more economical.” + +“But when I have no more money left to pay you?” asked the infuriated +Danglars. + +“Then you must suffer hunger.” + +“Suffer hunger?” said Danglars, becoming pale. + +“Most likely,” replied Vampa coolly. + +“But you say you do not wish to kill me?” + +“No.” + +“And yet you will let me perish with hunger?” + +“Ah, that is a different thing.” + +“Well, then, wretches,” cried Danglars, “I will defy your infamous +calculations—I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill +me, but you shall not have my signature again!” + +“As your excellency pleases,” said Vampa, as he left the cell. + +Danglars, raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who could these men +be? Who was the invisible chief? What could be his intentions towards +him? And why, when everyone else was allowed to be ransomed, might he +not also be? Oh, yes; certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine +means of deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue +him with such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For the first +time in his life, Danglars contemplated death with a mixture of dread +and desire; the time had come when the implacable spectre, which exists +in the mind of every human creature, arrested his attention and called +out with every pulsation of his heart, “Thou shalt die!” + +Danglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase; first it flies, +then despairs, and at last, by the very force of desperation, sometimes +succeeds in eluding its pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the +walls were solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to +the cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns continually +passed. His resolution not to sign lasted two days, after which he +offered a million for some food. They sent him a magnificent supper, +and took his million. + +From this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer, but to have +everything he wanted. At the end of twelve days, after having made a +splendid dinner, he reckoned his accounts, and found that he had only +50,000 francs left. Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just +abandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he had left, +and sooner than give them up he resolved to enter again upon a life of +privation—he was deluded by the hopefulness that is a premonition of +madness. + +He, who for so long a time had forgotten God, began to think that +miracles were possible—that the accursed cavern might be discovered by +the officers of the Papal States, who would release him; that then he +would have 50,000 remaining, which would be sufficient to save him from +starvation; and finally he prayed that this sum might be preserved to +him, and as he prayed he wept. Three days passed thus, during which his +prayers were frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he was delirious, +and fancied he saw an old man stretched on a pallet; he, also, was +dying of hunger. + +On the fourth, he was no longer a man, but a living corpse. He had +picked up every crumb that had been left from his former meals, and was +beginning to eat the matting which covered the floor of his cell. Then +he entreated Peppino, as he would a guardian angel, to give him food; +he offered him 1,000 francs for a mouthful of bread. But Peppino did +not answer. On the fifth day he dragged himself to the door of the +cell. + +“Are you not a Christian?” he said, falling on his knees. “Do you wish +to assassinate a man who, in the eyes of Heaven, is a brother? Oh, my +former friends, my former friends!” he murmured, and fell with his face +to the ground. Then rising in despair, he exclaimed, “The chief, the +chief!” + +“Here I am,” said Vampa, instantly appearing; “what do you want?” + +“Take my last gold,” muttered Danglars, holding out his pocket-book, +“and let me live here; I ask no more for liberty—I only ask to live!” + +“Then you suffer a great deal?” + +“Oh, yes, yes, cruelly!” + +“Still, there have been men who suffered more than you.” + +“I do not think so.” + +“Yes; those who have died of hunger.” + +Danglars thought of the old man whom, in his hours of delirium, he had +seen groaning on his bed. He struck his forehead on the ground and +groaned. “Yes,” he said, “there have been some who have suffered more +than I have, but then they must have been martyrs at least.” + +“Do you repent?” asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars’ +hair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish +objects, and behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half +lost in the shadow of a stone column. + +“Of what must I repent?” stammered Danglars. + +“Of the evil you have done,” said the voice. + +“Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent.” And he struck his breast with +his emaciated fist. + +“Then I forgive you,” said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing +to the light. + +“The Count of Monte Cristo!” said Danglars, more pale from terror than +he had been just before from hunger and misery. + +“You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo.” + +“Then who are you?” + +50261m + + + +“I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you +prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise +yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of +hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet +forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantès!” + +Danglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate. + +“Rise,” said the count, “your life is safe; the same good fortune has +not happened to your accomplices—one is mad, the other dead. Keep the +50,000 francs you have left—I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole +from the hospitals has been restored to them by an unknown hand. And +now eat and drink; I will entertain you tonight. Vampa, when this man +is satisfied, let him be free.” + +Danglars remained prostrate while the count withdrew; when he raised +his head he saw disappearing down the passage nothing but a shadow, +before which the bandits bowed. + +According to the count’s directions, Danglars was waited on by Vampa, +who brought him the best wine and fruits of Italy; then, having +conducted him to the road, and pointed to the post-chaise, left him +leaning against a tree. He remained there all night, not knowing where +he was. When daylight dawned he saw that he was near a stream; he was +thirsty, and dragged himself towards it. As he stooped down to drink, +he saw that his hair had become entirely white. + + + + Chapter 117. The Fifth of October + +It was about six o’clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through +which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue +ocean. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze +arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the +burning siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts +of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume +of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea. + +A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the +first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to +the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan +with its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It +advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch +of foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but +as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen +mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, +as if the god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who +in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. + +The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be +sufficient wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl. +Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with +dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the +shape of a cone, which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of +a Catalan. + +“Is that Monte Cristo?” asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht +was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice. + +“Yes, your excellency,” said the captain, “we have reached it.” + +“We have reached it!” repeated the traveller in an accent of +indescribable sadness. + +Then he added, in a low tone, “Yes; that is the haven.” + +And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of +which was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by +tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was +extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms +reached the yacht. + +“Your excellency,” said the captain, “that was the land signal, will +you answer yourself?” + +“What signal?” + +The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a +volume of smoke, increasing as it rose. + +“Ah, yes,” he said, as if awaking from a dream. “Give it to me.” + +The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it, +and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled, +and they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor. +The gig was already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a +coxswain. The traveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the +stern of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his +accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their +oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings. + +50265m + + + +“Give way,” said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea +simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, +yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found +themselves in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat +grounded on the fine sand. + +“Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of +our men, they will carry you ashore?” The young man answered this +invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat; +the sea immediately rose to his waist. + +“Ah, your excellency,” murmured the pilot, “you should not have done +so; our master will scold us for it.” + +The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a +firm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man +stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for +someone to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, +a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder +exclaimed: + +“Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!” + +“Ah, is it you, count?” said the young man, in an almost joyful accent, +pressing Monte Cristo’s hand with both his own. + +“Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear +fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus. +Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon +forget fatigue and cold.” + +Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed, +Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left +without being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars +might be heard as they returned to the yacht. + +“Oh, yes,” said the count, “you are looking for the sailors.” + +“Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone.” + +“Never mind that, Maximilian,” said Monte Cristo, smiling. “I have made +an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free +of all charge. I have made a bargain.” + +Morrel looked at the count with surprise. “Count,” he said, “you are +not the same here as in Paris.” + +“How so?” + +“Here you laugh.” The count’s brow became clouded. + +“You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,” he said; “I was +delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all +happiness is fleeting.” + +“Oh, no, no, count,” cried Maximilian, seizing the count’s hands, “pray +laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is +endurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you +affect this gayety to inspire me with courage.” + +“You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy.” + +“Then you forget me, so much the better.” + +“How so?” + +“Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the +arena, ‘He who is about to die salutes you.’” + +“Then you are not consoled?” asked the count, surprised. + +“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, “do you +think it possible that I could be?” + +“Listen,” said the count. “Do you understand the meaning of my words? +You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a +vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak +to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel, +let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the +same feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded +lion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased +in the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the +living to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the +prostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss +of memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, +if this be the case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be +dead, if you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are +consoled—do not complain.” + +“Count,” said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, +“listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though +he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly, +there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her +husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last +moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not +bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, +and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than +mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you +not?” + +50267m + + + +“My friend,” said the count, “I have still one doubt,—are you weak +enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?” + +“No, indeed,—I am calm,” said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; “my +pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have +reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and +hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, +or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched +creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell,—something wonderful, an +absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled +with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait—yes, I did +hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking +together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every +word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, +I shall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death.” + +Morrel uttered these words with an energy which made the count shudder. + +“My friend,” continued Morrel, “you named the fifth of October as the +end of the period of waiting,—today is the fifth of October,” he took +out his watch, “it is now nine o’clock,—I have yet three hours to +live.” + +“Be it so,” said the count, “come.” Morrel mechanically followed the +count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt +a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a +brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he +dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew him +in gently. + +“Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life, +like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor +and heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided +into death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?” + +Morrel smiled. “As you please,” he said; “death is always death,—that +is forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from +grief.” + +He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were +in the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had +baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel +had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing. + +“Let us talk like men,” he said, looking at the count. + +“Go on!” + +“Count,” said Morrel, “you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and +you seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world +than ours.” + +“There is something true in what you say,” said the count, with that +smile which made him so handsome; “I have descended from a planet +called grief.” + +50269m + + + +“I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for +instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and +I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had +experienced death, ‘is it painful to die?’” + +Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” +he said, “yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the +outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger +into your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the +least shock disorders,—then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you +will repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a +price.” + +“Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as +well as in life; the only thing is to understand it.” + +“You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow +upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an +enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the +world is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the +destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of +humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the +secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous +as a slumber in the arms of your beloved.” + +“And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?” + +“Yes.” + +Morrel extended his hand. “Now I understand,” he said, “why you had me +brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this +subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It +was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet +means of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a +death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name +and pressing your hand.” + +“Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,” said the count, “that is what +I intended.” + +“Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to +my heart.” + +“Do you then regret nothing?” + +“No,” replied Morrel. + +“Not even me?” asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye +was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a +large tear rolled down his cheek. + +“What,” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and +yet die?” + +“Oh, I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speak +another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.” + +The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the +horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If. + +“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon +this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil +I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has +not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of +me who can only atone for evil by doing good?” + +50271m + + + +Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but +still you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly. + +“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.” + +“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have +accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, +I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all +the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I +possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a +fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is +open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad +ideas, be even criminal—but live.” + +“Count, I have your word,” said Morrel coldly; then taking out his +watch, he added, “It is half-past eleven.” + +“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?” + +“Then let me go,” said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love +me for my own sake, but for yours;” and he arose. + +“It is well,” said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these +words; “you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are +indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and +wait.” + +Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key +suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket, +beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four +bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols +of the angels aspiring to heaven. + +He placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little +golden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring. +This box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it was +impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the +polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box. +It was a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold. + +The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and +offered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was +then observable that the substance was greenish. + +“This is what you asked for,” he said, “and what I promised to give +you.” + +“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” said the young man, taking +the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon, +and again dipped it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, my +friend?” asked Morrel, arresting his hand. + +“Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life, +and since an opportunity presents itself——” + +“Stay!” said the young man. “You who love, and are beloved; you, who +have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it +would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go +and tell Valentine what you have done for me.” + +And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the +count’s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered +by Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive, +brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of +the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held +them, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated +opposite to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw +nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took +possession of the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects +in the room gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed +vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall. + +50273m + + + +“Friend,” he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!” + +He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside +him. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the +strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the +secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for +a child. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature, +his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against +the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the +attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in +the armchair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of +ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the +kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became +unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague +delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count’s +hand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a last +farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a +stone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes +closed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to +move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped. + +The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from +the next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room +in which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman +of marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the +two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy +conjuring the angel of vengeance. + +“Is it heaven that opens before me?” thought the dying man; “that angel +resembles the one I have lost.” + +Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced +towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips. + +“Valentine, Valentine!” he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no +sound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internal +emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him; +his lips again moved. + +“He is calling you,” said the count; “he to whom you have confided your +destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him. +Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never +again be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find +you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement +in the preservation of these two existences!” + +Valentine seized the count’s hand, and in her irresistible impulse of +joy carried it to her lips. + +50275m + + + +“Oh, thank me again!” said the count; “tell me till you are weary, that +I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require +this assurance.” + +“Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,” said Valentine; “and if +you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask my +beloved sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, has +caused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of +you.” + +“You then love Haydée?” asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain +endeavored to dissimulate. + +“Oh, yes, with all my soul.” + +“Well, then, listen, Valentine,” said the count; “I have a favor to ask +of you.” + +“Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?” + +“Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed, +Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me; +protect her, for” (the count’s voice was thick with emotion) +“henceforth she will be alone in the world.” + +“Alone in the world!” repeated a voice behind the count, “and why?” + +Monte Cristo turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless, +looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement. + +“Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your +proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to +overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and +name of your father.” + +Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, +exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?” + +“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and +be happy.” + +“It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I +will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to +retire. + +“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of +Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see +how she suffers?” + +Haydée answered with a heartrending expression, + +“Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am +his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.” + +The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost +recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he +could not bear their brilliancy. + +“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct? +Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?” + +“I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so +sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.” + +“You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——” + +“I should die; yes, my lord.” + +“Do you then love me?” + +“Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love +Maximilian.” + +The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and +Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them. + +“Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, +brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the +noblest of created beings!” + +50277m + + + +“Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my +struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let +me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has +pardoned me. Love me then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love will +make me forget all that I do not wish to remember.” + +“What do you mean, my lord?” + +“I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty +years of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through +you I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you +rejoice.” + +“Do you hear him, Valentine?” exclaimed Haydée; “he says that through +me he will suffer—through _me_, who would yield my life for his.” + +The count withdrew for a moment. “Have I discovered the truth?” he +said; “but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my +fate. Come, Haydée, come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s +waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared. + +50279m + + + +An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and +motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his +heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder, +announcing the return of life, passed through the young man’s frame. At +length his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and +expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief. + +“Oh,” he cried, in an accent of despair, “the count has deceived me; I +am yet living;” and extending his hand towards the table, he seized a +knife. + +“Dearest,” exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, “awake, and +look at me!” Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful, +dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees. + +The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking +arm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had +appeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and, +finally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate death. + +They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the +azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. + +Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently +awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine. + +“Ah, it is Jacopo,” she said, “the captain of the yacht;” and she +beckoned him towards them. + +“Do you wish to speak to us?” asked Morrel. + +“I have a letter to give you from the count.” + +“From the count!” murmured the two young people. + +“Yes; read it.” + +50281m + + + +Morrel opened the letter, and read: + +“My Dear Maximilian, + +“There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to +Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he +wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this +grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs-Élysées, and my château at +Tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son +of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them +with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune +reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who +died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over +your future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like +Satan, thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now +acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme +power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse +he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my +conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the +world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing +more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience +supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we +may appreciate the enjoyments of living. + +“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never +forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to +man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—‘_Wait and +hope_.’—Your friend, + +“Edmond Dantès, _Count of Monte Cristo_.” + +50282m + + + +During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the +first time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother, +she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not +the less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her +happiness cost her very dear. + +Morrel looked around uneasily. + +“But,” he said, “the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine +will be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? +Lead me to him.” + +Jacopo pointed towards the horizon. + +“What do you mean?” asked Valentine. “Where is the count?—where is +Haydée?” + +“Look!” said Jacopo. + +The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and +on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they +perceived a large white sail. + +“Gone,” said Morrel; “gone!—adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!” + +“Gone,” murmured Valentine; “adieu, my sweet Haydée—adieu, my sister!” + +“Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?” said Morrel with +tearful eyes. + +“Darling,” replied Valentine, “has not the count just told us that all +human wisdom is summed up in two words: + +“‘_Wait and hope_ (Fac et spera)!’” + + + + +FOOTNOTES: + + +[1] “The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the flood proved once +for all.” + +[2] $2,600,000 in 1894. + +[3] Knocked on the head. + +[4] Beheaded. + +[5] Scott, of course: “The son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of +a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks that cast of +inauspicious melancholy by which the physiognomists of that time +pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and +unhappy death.”—The Abbot, ch. xxii. + +[6] Guillotine. + +[7] Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from witnessing an +execution in Italy. + +[8] Brucea ferruginea. + +[9] ‘Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.’ + +[10] Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the famous +women of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known as “La Belle +Provençale.” She was the widow of the Marquis de Castellane when she +married de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of +her new brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and they +finished her off with pistol and dagger.—Ed. + +[11] Magistrate and orator of great eloquence—chancellor of France +under Louis XV. + +[12] Jacques-Louis David, a famous French painter (1748-1825). + +[13] Ali Pasha, “The Lion,” was born at Tepelini, an Albanian village +at the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By diplomacy and +success in arms he became almost supreme ruler of Albania, Epirus, and +adjacent territory. Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan, he was +proscribed and put to death by treachery in 1822, at the age of +eighty.—Ed. + +[14] Greek militiamen in the war for independence.—Ed. + +[15] A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of a province.—Ed. + +[16] The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete he was +supposed to be slain in winter with the decay of vegetation and to +revive in the spring. Haydée’s learned reference is to the behavior of +an actor in the Dionysian festivals.—Ed. + +[17] The Genoese conspirator. + +[18] Lake Maggiore. + +[19] In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of Atreus, were +doomed to punishment because of the abominable crime of their father. +The _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus is based on this legend. + +[20] The performance of the civil marriage. + +[21] In Molière’s comedy, _Le Misanthrope_. + +[22] Literally, “the basket,” because wedding gifts were originally +brought in such a receptacle. + +[23] Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598). His best +known work is “The Three Graces,” now in the Louvre. + +[24] Frédérick Lemaître—French actor (1800-1876). Robert Macaire is the +hero of two favorite melodramas—“Chien de Montargis” and “Chien +d’Aubry”—and the name is applied to bold criminals as a term of +derision. + +[25] The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in Africa. + +[26] _Savate_: an old shoe. + +[27] Guilbert de Pixérécourt, French dramatist (1773-1844). + +[28] Gaspard Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles in +1615. + +[29] The Carolina—not Virginia—jessamine, _gelsemium sempervirens_ +(properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has yellow blossoms. The +reference is no doubt to the _Wistaria frutescens_.—Ed. + +[30] The miser in Molière’s comedy of _L’Avare_.—Ed. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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